Miss Wonderful (11 page)

"A
dinner party," Alistair repeated expressionlessly.

"Friday.
Only three days hence. Deuced short notice, I know." Sir Roger
Tolbert spoke between mouthfuls of the heavy meal Wilkerson's cook
had provided.

The
two men sat in the dining parlor Miss Oldridge had vacated a short
time before.

"Nothing
so grand as you're used to, daresay," the baronet went on. "Told
my lady so. Told her you'd have more pressing engagements. But you
know how women are. Get their minds fixed on something."

Alistair
nodded sympathetically, while Miss Oldridge's prediction played in
his mind: Sir Roger Tolbert and Captain Hughes… will likely
call on you and invite you to dine with them.

At
the time, she had upset him, but after she'd gone, Alistair decided
the scenario she painted was most unlikely, given the chilly
reception with which Gordy's agent had met. Alistair had for this
reason written in advance only to Mr. Oldridge, and citing the
agent's experience, asked the gentleman not to mention the visit to
anybody.

Once
Alistair was here, the news was bound to spread quickly, he knew. But
he'd braced himself for a cool reception, if not outright hostility;
he was not prepared for a welcoming committee. Even after Miss
Oldridge had told him how important he was in the locals' eyes, he'd
wanted to believe she'd exaggerated.

He'd
expected difficulty and had come prepared to deal with it. He'd seen
himself winning over the landowners by dealing fairly with them,
listening with an open mind to their objections, and working with
them to devise acceptable solutions and compromises. His intentions
were good and his heart honest. He was cultivated, tactful, and his
manners were faultless—except toward Miss Oldridge. He'd
trusted these assets to see him through a difficult battle.

He
was not prepared for the entire opposition to surrender the instant
he arrived.

Sir
Roger had called about half an hour after Miss Oldridge left
Wilkerson's, and greeted Alistair like a long-lost son.

The
baronet, a man near his father's age, was plump about the middle and
bald about the head. At the moment he was laying waste to the spread
he'd ordered to sustain him until dinner: mutton, potatoes, a loaf of
bread, about a pound each of cheese and butter, and a tankard of ale.

Alistair
had a glass of wine. Even if he'd been hungry—unlikely at this
hour—he would have lost his appetite as soon as he realized
Miss Oldridge had not exaggerated. No one would wait for him to prove
his worth or the value of his project. He was Lord Hargate's son, the
papers had made a hero of him, and that was enough.

"It
is most kind of Lady Tolbert to think of me," Alistair said.
"However, as you may have heard, I am here on business."

"Important,
daresay."

"Yes,
rather." After a pause, while the baronet chewed his mutton,
Alistair added, "Lord Gordmor's canal."

Sir
Roger's eyebrows went up, but he finished chewing and swallowing
calmly enough. "Indeed."

"In
fact, I should like to talk to you about it. At a mutually convenient
time, that is."

Sir
Roger nodded. "Business. Pleasure. Keep separate. Understand."

"Or
I could talk to your bailiff, if you prefer," Alistair said.

"Bailiff?
Certainly not." The man went on eating.

"But
you see, Sir Roger, I should consider it the greatest favor if you—if
everyone—would regard me simply as Lord Gordmor's
representative. As one in his employ."

The
baronet mulled this over while he speared the last of the potatoes
onto his plate. "See your point," he said. "Scruples.
Do you credit."

"I
must make it clear that my father is in no way involved with this
project."

"Understand,"
said Sir Roger. "But my lady won't. All she understands is, your
father's Lord Hargate, and you're the famous Waterloo hero. Told her
you weren't the lion in the menagerie. Not here to entertain her and
the other females." He scowled. "Tears. Buckets of 'em.
Women."

Alistair
need only recall Judith Gilford's teary temper tantrums to understand
how miserable an unhappy woman could make a man. Alistair at least
had not been shackled to her and hadn't had to endure it the livelong
day and night. A married man must live with it or let himself be
driven from his own home.

Making
Sir Roger's wife unhappy was not the way to win his respect.

"I
had rather be stabbed, slashed, shot at, and trampled by the entire
Polish cavalry," Alistair said, "than cause your lady a
moment's distress. Please be so good as to tell Lady Tolbert that I
shall be honored to wait upon her on Friday."

Friday
20 February

THE
dinner party was essentially what Miss Oldridge had predicted.

You'll
be… invited to admire pets, livestock, and children,
especially their daughters.

Sir
Roger had talked about Alistair being a lion in the menagerie. As it
turned out, it was not Lord Hargate's hero son who was on display but
a bevy of maidens, all eager to entertain and entice him.

This
was a new experience.

When
Alistair had first entered Society, he hadn't worried about anyone's
setting marriage traps. He was a younger son, dependent on a father
who, while well-to-do, was far from the wealthiest member of the
peerage. Lord Hargate, moreover, had four other sons to support.

In
other words, Alistair Carsington was no great catch.

His
lack of income, however, didn't matter to Judith Gilford. She had
enough money for the two of them, with plenty to spare. She might
easily have supported a harem, in fact—and it was most
unfortunate that the law frowned on polyandry, because it would want
at least half a dozen husbands to give Judith all the attention and
slavish devotion she craved.

But
that was the London social scene, and this was a remote corner of the
provinces, where eligible men were about as plentiful as coconut
trees.

In
eligible young women, on the other hand, the place abounded.

Lady
Tolbert's "intimate, quite informal" dinner party comprised
more than two dozen guests. Ten of these were misses, all got up in
their finest gowns and most flattering coiffures, and all exerting
themselves to charm the Earl of Hargate's third son.

Miss
Oldridge would have made eleven, but she was hardly a young lady,
being on the wrong side of thirty, and she made no effort to charm
anybody.

All
the other misses wore delicate confections of white or pastel muslin.
These gowns, in defiance of the polar winds rattling the windows,
displayed considerable acreage in the way of bosom.

Miss
Oldridge wore a grey silk gown designed, apparently, by a strict
Presbyterian minister for his grandmother.

She
was, determined, it seemed, to drive Alistair insane.

In
spite of all his resolutions, she was succeeding.

He'd
resolved, since she'd refused to cooperate, to do without her.

He
would view her as a piece of furniture standing in his way. He would
not bump into or trip over her—figuratively speaking—this
night, as he'd done during their previous encounters. This night he
would make his way smoothly around her and deal with her neighbors
instead. If he won them over, her objections wouldn't matter.

So
had he reasoned.

But
how was a man to reason, faced with the apparition sitting directly
across from him?

No
candelabra or other large table decoration obstructed the view. The
young ladies clustered nearby were easily entertained. In any event,
it was impossible to look away from the horror Miss Oldridge had
perpetrated.

The
square neckline offered no more than a miserly glimpse of the hollow
of her throat. The sleeves ended at her wrists. If not for the high
waist underlining her bosom and the slim skirt skimming her hips, a
man would hardly know she had any figure at all.

The
gown was a shocking waste of exquisite silk and fine workmanship.

Then
there was her hair, which was, in a nutshell, unspeakable.

Her
maid had driven a rigid—and crooked—part through the
middle of the glorious red-gold crown of ringlets, flattened it—with
a hot iron, it seemed—yanked the lot back, and braided and
twisted it into a stiff coil behind. A coronet of braided
silver—dented on one side—adorned this outrage.

Only
as the meal neared its end did Alistair find a way to regain a degree
of tranquillity. He was mentally redesigning the neckline of the grey
gown and cutting the sleeves back to dainty puffs at the shoulders.
Much to his annoyance, he had to stop this promising work when Lady
Tolbert asked if he had been to Chatsworth.

Alistair
focused on his hostess—who, despite having a married daughter
Miss Oldridge's age, contrived to appear younger and nearly a la
mode—and admitted he had not yet visited the Duke of
Devonshire's place, which lay ten miles or so north of Matlock Bath.

"You
will wish to visit the Cascade, I am sure," said Lady Tolbert.
"A long set of shallow stone stairs runs down a hill. Over these
water cascades from reservoirs on the top of the hill above the wood.
It is most prettily done, and its effect on the nerves is wonderfully
soothing."

Lady
Tolbert's nerves, Alistair's valet had informed him, were famous, and
the bane of her husband's existence.

Miss
Curry, on Alistair's right, said the Cascade sounded ever so
romantic, and darted him a demure glance.

"It
is most agreeable to contemplate," Lady Tolbert said. "Since
you are interested in artificial waterways, Mr. Carsington, you might
wish to study it."

Captain
Hughes, who sat between Lady Tolbert and Miss Oldridge, observed that
the present design dated from the time of Queen Anne.

The
naval officer was a dark, dashing fellow in his forties, whom
peacetime had marooned on land. Unlike other half-pay captains, he
was comfortably settled upon a fair-sized property bordering the
Oldridge estate. He might entertain ideas of occupying larger
territory, for Alistair thought his manner to Miss Oldridge something
more than neighborly.

"I
visited the place in my boyhood," the captain said. "It was
a hot day, and I, even then, couldn't resist water. I sat down and
took off my shoes and stockings to go wading. I'd scarcely begun to
splash about when the adults discovered what I was up to and snatched
me out. It seems cruel to build such a thing, which little boys can't
possibly resist, then forbid them to play there."

"It
is good training for adulthood," Alistair said, "when we
encounter so much that is irresistible." He let his gaze drift
over the range of feminine pulchritude displayed in his vicinity.

His
hostess, who was slender and well-preserved, preened a little, and
the nearby maidens all blushed.

Except
for Miss Oldridge.

Engaged
in dissecting a tart, she spoke without looking up from her work. "I
understand grown men cannot resist swimming in the canals in full
view of canal boat passengers, not to mention the people on shore."

Alistair
wasn't at all shocked by Miss Oldridge's referring to naked men in a
mixed gathering. He'd already discovered that her speech could be
stunningly direct. As well, she was one and thirty, no ingenuous miss
like the pretty pea brains surrounding him. Furthermore, country folk
tended to be less delicate in their speech than their London
counterparts, probably because of all the animals about them,
endlessly breeding and birthing.

The
Tolberts, certainly, were unpretentious. They served dinner in the
traditional way, with all the dishes for each course set out at once.
Likewise, male and female guests were not in orderly, even numbers,
and sat wherever they liked—though all understood that the
places at the head of the table near the hostess were meant for the
more important guests.

Some
quiet maneuvering had ended in a great many maidens occupying the
chairs closest to the guest of honor at the upper half of the table.

Miss
Oldridge had not maneuvered. She and Captain Hughes had sat near
their hostess at Lady Tolbert's urging.