Miss Wonderful (9 page)

It
was draped in green fabric whose fine quality his connoisseur's eye
could not fail to discern, even while this same eye was assessing the
form beneath and calculating how many layers of cloth came between
the dress and skin.

All
this was the work of an instant, no more. But she must have heard his
footsteps pause. Or perhaps she heard him catch his breath—and
snatch his wits back from where they were wandering and remind
himself he'd better continue on his way: He could not afford to be
distracted by a female, no matter how perfect her derriere.

Whatever
the cause, she lifted a head capped with a disheveled mass of coppery
hair and turned a deep blue gaze over her shoulder at him… and
smiled.

It
was she.

"Miss
Oldridge," he said, his voice dropping so low that the two words
sounded like "grrrr."

"Mr.
Carsington." She straightened and turned fully toward him. "I
had not thought you would be up and about at this early hour."

Was
she being sarcastic? "It is nearly two o'clock," he said.

Her
eyes widened. "Good heavens. Have I been here all this time?"

"I
haven't the least idea now long you've been here," he said.

She
threw a frowning glance at the map. "Well, I never meant to stay
so long. That is, I meant to come back later, when you were awake."

"I
am awake."

"Yes,
and"—she eyed him up and down—"and looking very
neat and elegant."

Alistair
wished he could say the same for her. Someone had made a valiant
attempt to tame her hair with a braid coiled and pinned on the crown
of her head. But of course half the pins were on the floor and the
table, and the coil was listing to starboard. His hands itched to get
at it and put it right. He clenched them and forced himself to look
elsewhere.

Grimly
he regarded the expensive dress. This green was even more unbecoming
than the shade he'd first seen her wearing. The style—oh, it
had no style at all. It was plain and dull and about as flattering as
a flour sack.

He
turned his gaze to the maps.

"I
needed a new one," she said. "We had a very fine map of the
area, but my father drowned it in the Derwent River in November."

"I
see." He did, all too plainly. "What I don't understand is
why you or your father would need one. I was told that yours is one
of the older families hereabouts. I should think you'd know the land
quite well."

"My
own property, yes, but Longledge Hill gets its name from its length,
which is considerable," she said. "It actually comprises
several hills—far more territory than I or even my father could
know intimately." She turned back to the table and pointed to
the map. "We have Captain Hughes on one side of us, and Sir
Roger Tolbert on the other. Even though we visit frequently, I
certainly do not know every stick and stone of their land. I was
particularly curious about Lord Gordmor's property, which is actually
a good deal less, you see, than fifteen miles away."

"It
comes to nearly twice that for carts and packhorses traveling deeply
rutted and circuitous roads," Alistair said. "If we could
cut a canal in a straight line, it would extend not even ten miles.
However, since rocky hills lie along that line, and our route must go
round landowners' outbuildings, timber yards, and such—we
estimate fifteen miles of canal."

He
moved to stand beside her at the table. "Is this why you needed
a map? You wished to study our route more carefully? Is it possible
you are having second thoughts about your opposition to our plans?"

"No,
I'm having second thoughts about Lord Gord-mor," she said
without looking up.

The
fitful sunbeams from the dining room's single window made a fiery
froth of the wispy ringlets about her face. The braided coil sagged
further toward her ear, which, being small and perfectly
shell-shaped, made the imperfect hair arrangement—not to
mention every stitch on her persons—all the more aggravating.

"You
had perhaps pictured him as one of those rapacious villains of
industry who evict humble shepherds and cowherds from their huts and
erect immense, smoking factories on what used to be grazing land?"
Alistair said.

"No,
I had pictured him as being resourceful," she said. "When a
solution I devise proves unworkable, I look for another way to solve
the problem. But having failed to interest us in his canal, Lord
Gordmor has not, as I supposed he would do, exercised his
imagination. Instead, he has kept to his original solution. The
difference this time is, he's sent in heavy artillery to blast us
into submission."

Alistair
would have understood immediately what she was saying if his mind had
not been otherwise occupied.

The
braided coil not only continued to sag but was uncoiling as well.
Though he hadn't heard the pins drop, he was sure more were scattered
over the map-covered table than a moment ago. Any minute now, her
coiffure would tumble completely to pieces. He could barely keep his
hands still.

Thus
distracted, he said, "Heavy artillery? You cannot think we will
bring in our machinery and troops of canal cutters and bully our way
through. You are aware, I hope, that we cannot build a canal without
an Act of Parliament, and Parliament will not approve a canal
proposal the landowners unanimously oppose."

"You
are the heavy artillery," she said. "In this part of
Derbyshire, the Earl of Hargate is at least as important as the Duke
of Devonshire. Your family has been here quite as long, and your
father is held in exceptionally high esteem. Two of your brothers are
paragons, and you are a famous hero. Lord Gordmor chose his partner
very wisely, indeed—as well as a convenient time to contract
influenza."

Alistair
froze, almost literally. After a moment's incredulous outrage, he
settled into a cold fury. "Correct me if I have misapprehended,
Miss Oldridge," he said with bone-chilling politeness. "You
believe Lord Gordmor or I—or perhaps the pair of us—decided
to use my family's position and my own notoriety to mow down the
opposition? You think that is why I came? To what? Overawe the
yokels? Perhaps even touch their hearts with the evidence of my great
sacrifice on behalf of King and country?" At the reference to
his troublesome leg, a bitter note crept into his voice.

"Lord
Gordmor has not a fraction of your impact upon local opinion,"
she said. "He is not a Derbyshire man. His title is recent,
bestowed only in the last half century. And he is not famous."
Her chin went up. "I do not see why you take offense. I merely
state the simple facts of the case, which should be obvious to
everybody—though I suppose no one else will say it to your
face."

"You
know nothing about Lord Gordmor," Alistair said tightly. "If
you did, you would be aware he would never be so dishonorable as to
use me or my position to foist a wicked scheme upon anybody."

His
leg was twitching angrily. It hated standing too long in one
position. He stepped away from the table.

"I
said nothing about foisting wicked schemes," she said. "Really,
you seem to have a turn for the theatrical, Mr. Carsington." Her
brow wrinkled. "Or perhaps they're rhetorical flourishes.
'Overawe the yokels' is apt, but 'rapacious villains' and 'wicked
scheme' are off the mark. I do not think your canal is wicked. If a
suitor is rejected, it does not follow that he is wicked, merely that
he does not suit. Does your leg pain you?"

"Not
in the least," he said while a spasm shot through his hip.

She,
too, backed away from the table. "I know I'm supposed to take no
notice," she said. "But it is never proper to ignore
someone's discomfort. You move more stiffly than before. I collect
your leg pains you. Perhaps you wish to walk about. Or sit. Or
elevate it. I shouldn't keep you here arguing with me, at any rate.
I'm sure you have a great many important things to do."

Alistair
had many, many important things to do. But she had thrown everything
into a tumult, like her hair, and he was not ready to be dismissed.
"Miss Oldridge, you know perfectly well that you are the most
important thing I have to do," he said, and instantly regretted
it. Where were his vaunted powers of address? Good grief, where were
his manners?

He
paced to the window and back, and to the window again. His leg
treated him to several spasms. It was furious with him.

She
watched him, her expression troubled. "The long ride in the cold
rain last night cannot have been good for your injury. I did not
think of that until now. My great anxiety this morning was finding
your broken body in a ditch. I had resigned myself to picking up the
pieces. Why am I important?"

Listening
to her talk about searching for his broken corpse made Alistair
forget what he meant to say. He recalled how she'd left a warm,
luxurious house and ridden out in the darkness and freezing rain to
bring him back. He could not imagine any other woman—save,
perhaps, his mother—doing such a thing. But then, unlike most
other women, Miss Oldridge was the responsible member of the family,
the one in charge.

The
one upon whom his canal depended, he reminded himself.

He
should be making the most of this opportunity.

He
marshaled his ideas into order. "No one else will speak freely
to me," he said. "You said so a moment ago. I need to
understand what the objections are to the canal."

"What
difference does it make?" she said. "Now you are here, they
will melt away like snow under a hot sun."

"But
that isn't the way I want to do it!"

She
gave him a skeptical look. "Then you shouldn't have come."

Alistair
turned away and stared unseeingly out the win-dow while he counted to
ten. "Miss Oldridge, I must tell you plainly that you make me
want to tear my hair out."

"I
wondered what that was," she said.

Alistair
turned back sharply. "What what was?"

"Heavy
weather. It felt as though heavy weather were bearing down upon the
room. But it is only you. You have a remarkable force of personality,
Mr. Carsington. Why do I make you want to tear your hair out?"

Alistair
gazed at her in exasperation. The loosened coil had slid to within a
quarter inch of her ear.

He
straightened away from the window, marched to the table, swept up a
handful of pins, and advanced upon her. "You've lost most of
your hairpins," he said.

"Oh,
thank you." She put out her hand.

He
ignored the outstretched hand, took up the offending braid, coiled it
up, set it back where it belonged, and pinned it in place.

She
stood rigidly still, her blue gaze fixed on his neckcloth.

Her
wild hair was silken soft. His fingers itched to tangle in it.

He
quickly finished his work and stood back. "That's better,"
he said.

For
a moment she said nothing. Her gaze went from his face to his hands,
then back again. Otherwise, she did not move a muscle, only stood
regarding Alistair with the same intensity of expression his cousin
applied to Egyptian hieroglyphs.

He
said tightly, "It was… distracting. Your hair. Coming
down."

Her
expression did not change.

"One
can't… think," he added lamely.

But
it was no excuse. A gentleman never took such liberties, except with
a very near relative or a mistress. He could not believe he'd done
it. Yet he did not see how he could help it.

He
set his mind—what was left of it—to composing a suitable
apology.

She
spoke before he could assemble the words.

"So
that was what upset you so much," she said. "Well, I should
not be surprised. A man who will set out in the dead of night in an
ice storm—because he lacks a change of clothes—lives by
sartorial standards too lofty for lesser mortals to comprehend."
She turned away and began to fold up the maps.

He
quickly gathered the shreds of his reason.

"I
also have principles, Miss Oldridge," he said, "whether you
wish to believe it or not. I should like to persuade the landowners
of the merits of Lord Gordmor's canal. I wish to find a way to remove
the objectionable elements of the plan, or, if this is impossible,
arrive at an acceptable compromise."