Miss Wonderful

by Loretta Chase

  “Perfect,” he murmured against her mouth. “You’re perfect.”

  She leaned into his caressing hand, savoring the touch and seeking more. She wanted him to touch her everywhere. The neckline of the gown slid down her arms, to her waist, and she felt the cool air of the room on her naked torso. She hardly noticed the coolness. All her being was fixed on the warmth of his hands kneading her breasts. They ached and tautened, and her whole body seemed to ache, hungering for more, more, and still more.

  She was distantly aware of being led somehow, back, and back again. Something hard against her spine. Something to hold onto. She leaned against the bedpost, dizzy with the feeling swirling in and around her, and watched, as though from a long way away, her nightgown slide down, down, to the floor. She looked up, dazed and stupid. The firelight glinted in his eyes, so dark now.

  “Beautiful,” he said, his voice pitched so low it might have come from the floor, where her gown lay. He slid his hand from her throat, between her breasts, and down to the place between her legs where he’d pleasured her. “My beautiful girl.”

  But he was more beautiful than she. She reached again for the sash, and this time he let her. She untied it and pushed the garment down from his shoulders, down his long arms, and watched it slither into the folds of her discarded nightgown. She reached for his nightshirt, but too slowly. He yanked it off and let it fall among the rest.

  The flickering light glimmered gold in his thick brown hair and glowed in his eyes. It traced the sculpted contours of his face and played over the rippling muscles of his torso and limbs. She reached out and slid her hand down as he’d done to her, from his throat to his taut belly, but he pulled away before she could do anything bolder.

  Then he bent and made a tingling path of kisses down from her shoulder to her breast. He lingered there, his tongue playing lightly over her skin, then pausing to suckle. She moaned and pushed her fingers through his hair and held him there, though the pleasure—the ache—whatever it was he did to her, was nigh unbearable. And when he lifted his head, she nearly cried out, but he wasn’t done yet and tortured her a little longer.

  Then down again, his mouth, so wicked, between her legs. Sin, sin, sin. Her mind was black and hot. She wanted…She didn’t know what it was. He must tell her. She reached for him, dragged him up. “Yours,” she gasped. “Make me yours.”

  He made a choked sound, and caught her up in his arms, and lifted her onto the bed. He knelt at her feet and stroked upward from her ankles, and she opened her legs and would have dragged him up over her if she could have reached him. But he was just beyond her reach, and she sank back and let him turn her into hot liquid. She writhed under his touch, wanting more, still more. He kissed her knees and licked the beauty mark, and she wanted to scream.

  He shifted upward, sliding his hands up her legs as he went. And then she felt his thumb between her legs, in the place where he’d tortured her before, but this was beyond anything, pleasure beyond bearing. She was reduced to feeling, to hot, pounding need. And then it came, a splintering joy that made her shriek. His mouth covered hers while pleasure erupted from what seemed the very core of her, and spilled outward in cascading sensations.

  And in the midst of it, she felt him thrust into her. She stilled, conscious of a strange, uncomfortable pressure.

  “Sorry.” Two rough syllables against her mouth. “I meant—”

  “Oh,” she said breathlessly. “That’s you.” She squirmed, trying to get more comfortable.

  “Mirabel.”

  She squirmed the other way.

  “My love.”

  She felt his hand caressing her in the place where they were joined. By degrees, the pressure eased. Then it was all right, oh, very much so.

  She smiled stupidly up at him. “Oh,” she said drunkenly. “It feels good.”

  He made the strangled sound again. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it does.”

  “Can we do it again?” she said.

  “We’re not nearly done yet,” he said.

  Then he began to move inside her; and the world changed again, completely. She held on, letting him take her where he would. They went slowly at first, until the wild pleasure again took hold. Then she was moving with him, seeking something, some place in the hot darkness. The world went away and with it whatever remained of thought. Only feeling remained, for him, given by him, a happiness almost painful and a need she couldn’t satisfy. She thrust against him, instinctively seeking more, and her fingers dug into his back.

  “I love you.” His voice, low, reverberated through her. “I love you.”

  Her lips formed words, but she was beyond speech. Her body was caught on a powerful current, tearing along faster and faster, then flinging her onto a wild, stormy shore. A heartbeat later, a powerful tremor went through him and traveled through her, like lightning, and blasted the world into shimmering pieces.

  Eighteen

  FOR a time afterward, Alistair lay stunned. Then he drew her up against him, and they nestled like spoons.

  The perfect derrière snuggled against his groin. His hand clasped one perfect breast. Silken curls tickled his face. He pressed his mouth to her neck and inhaled her scent, and that was perfect, too.

  His life, at this moment, was absolutely right.

  She reached back and stroked the scar. When it wasn’t actively harassing him, the pain always hovered in the background. Yet it retreated under her gentle touch.

  She didn’t mind touching it or looking at it, though it was hideous, the gnarled, shiny lumpish skin.

  “Do you hate it?” she said, her voice still husky in the aftermath of passion.

  The huskiness confused him. “Hate what?”

  “Your injury.”

  He wanted to say he never gave it any thought, but that was a black lie. “It is an infernal nuisance,” he said. He hesitated, then added, “And it is ugly, and I can’t…” He dragged in air, let it out, and buried his face in her neck. “Must I tell you everything?” he murmured against her skin.

  She turned in his arms and brought her hand up to his cheek. He turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand. He loved her hands. He loved her touch. And she seemed very well pleased with his lovemaking. He had nothing more to wish for, except a speedy wedding.

  “What can’t you do?” she said.

  “I wish it did not make me walk so awkwardly,” he said, and winced inwardly. It sounded so childish, so ungrateful. He was lucky to be alive, and he whined about being lame.

  “I don’t doubt it seems more awkward to you than to others,” she said. “You will not believe me—you will say I’m blinded by love—but the way you walk has a strange effect. Perhaps it is me. Perhaps it is part of the derangement of my advanced age, but the small hitch in your walk awakens carnal feelings in me. I did not know what they were at first, only that they were both pleasant and disturbing.”

  The invisible club struck again. “Carnal feelings? You mean lust?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re roasting me,” he said.

  She laid her head on his chest. The unruly curls tickled his chin. “I would never tease you about such a thing. It is embarrassing enough to admit it—but then, I am past all shame now.”

  She thought his limp was erotic.

  Of all the notions that might have occurred to him, that was not even last. It was nowhere within the realm of possibilities he’d imagined. But then, she had not been within his realm of possibilities. He could not have imagined such a woman, and he’d only begun to discover her.

  She sighed. “Even if I am past all shame, I must conceal it and pretend to be good. How I wish I had thought to drug everybody in the inn before I came! But since it did not occur to me, I must return to my room. At least I have devised a plausible excuse for having left it.”

  He did not want her to leave, ever again. But he didn’t want her reputation sullied, either. He shifted up to a sitting position, taking her with him. “I long to hear your excus
e,” he said.

  “I had a bad dream and woke up disoriented, thinking I was in my own house,” she said. “After wandering about for a time in confusion, I gradually regained my wits and made my way back to my room.” She leaned toward him and kissed him lightly on the mouth.

  The perfect pink buds brushed his chest. Her mouth was so soft, the taste of her so sweet. Her scent swam in his head and wafted from the bedclothes.

  He told himself to be a man and endure it. He dragged himself from the bed. “I will let you go, and you may tell whatever fib you wish,” he said, “as long as you remember that we are to be wed, as soon as possible.”

  “Does that mean you will marry me, canal or no canal?” she said.

  He was aware of her watching him as he limped to the washstand. “It means I will solve the problem,” he said. “And don’t say, ‘What if you cannot solve it?’ because I shall. I have made up my mind.” He poured water into the washbowl, collected a towel, and carried them to her.

  She washed quickly, too quickly.

  He gathered up the frothy dressing gown and nightgown, allowed himself one last, lingering study of her sweetly shaped body, then helped her into her garments.

  As he tied the ribbons of the dressing gown, he said, “Does your aunt send you such fetching attire often?”

  “No,” Mirabel said, and blushed.

  She did not blush often or easily.

  “I thought not, else I’d wonder why you dress as you do. Why did she send it, then?”

  “She didn’t say. I must leave.”

  “Mirabel.”

  “I shall be staying with her in London. I shall ask her. I am glad you approve of her taste.” She spoke hurriedly. “She will take me shopping. I had been dreading that. It takes so much time, and I had so much to do, with my political machinations. But now I shall have plenty of time to shop.” She darted him a smile: “For my trousseau.”

  “No, no, no,” he said.

  Her startled gaze met his.

  “Yes, you will shop for a trousseau, but later, with me,” he said.

  “You don’t approve of my taste,” she said.

  “With the present exception, you have no taste to speak of,” he said. “That is not the problem. The problem is, you must not abandon your campaign.”

  “Mr. Carsington,” she began.

  “Alistair,” he said.

  “Alistair,” she said, and his Christian name had never sounded like this before. It was infinitely different when uttered in that whispery night voice. And he, he realized, was a different and better man, here, with her.

  She laid her hand on his chest. “Pray recall that the object of my campaign was to destroy your canal scheme,” she said. “This, it turns out, would ruin your best friend as well as your younger brothers. I cannot be responsible for so much carnage, certainly not on account of a narrow strip of waterway hardly twenty miles long.”

  “A better solution exists,” he said. “It is there, in the back of my mind somewhere. I will never get to it unless you keep challenging and provoking me.”

  He gently grasped her shoulders and gazed into the twilight of her eyes. “All my life, it has been too easy,” he said. “I always knew someone would be there to solve my problems. As a result, nothing was ever at stake. Nothing was important enough to make me exert myself. Nothing ever tested my intellect or ingenuity. Until now. Until you. You will not let anything be easy. You have made me reexamine everything. You have made me think, and plot and contrive. You must not surrender now. I have never been so plagued and beset with problems in all my life—and I know it is good for me. I have not felt so alive since—gad, I can’t remember when. Do you understand, my dear, troublesome girl? I need the aggravation.”

  She studied him in that direct way of hers, not hiding her attempt to puzzle him out. Then, “Oh,” she said. And, “Oh, yes, I quite understand.” She smiled, a great rising sun of a smile. “I am so relieved.”

  She kissed him, hard, upon the mouth, the way he’d kissed her good-bye that day at the mausoleum. Then she hurried from the room in a flutter of ruffles and lace.

  MIRABEL made it to her room without attracting attention and slipped under the bedclothes, though she knew she would not sleep a wink.

  The next she knew there was a stir about her, footsteps hurrying to and fro, muffled voices. She glanced at the window. The sky was still grey, the sun not yet risen. There was a tap at the door connecting her room with Mrs. Entwhistle’s. A moment later, the lady herself appeared in an amazing profusion of ribbons and ruffles. Her sleeping attire was, though it hardly seemed possible, even more frivolous than Mirabel’s seraglio costume.

  “My dear, I am so sorry to burst upon you like this,” she said. “But Jock has come with distressing news.”

  Papa. Something had happened.

  Heart hammering, Mirabel leapt up from bed, threw on her dressing gown, and hurried out to the hall, where a sopping-wet Jock stood.

  A bad sign, a very bad sign, if the groom had been sent to her in bad weather in the dead of night.

  He apologized for disturbing her, but Mr. Benton had said they must not lose a minute.

  “Master never come home to dinner, miss,” the groom said. He said more, though no more needed to be said.

  Not long afterward, she and Mrs. Entwhistle, their entourage and outriders, were all racing back to Oldridge Hall.

  THE clamor outside—of horses being put to harness and servants bustling between inn and carriage—woke Alistair, but only briefly. He glanced toward the window, saw it was still dark, and groggily assuming the noise he’d heard was the storm, returned to sleep. It was the soundest sleep he’d had since arriving in Derbyshire a month ago.

  He dreamt he was riding in a carriage towed by Mr. Trevithick’s locomotive steam engine, Catch-Me-Who-Can.

  Alistair was going round and round the circular track at Euston at the mad pace of twelve miles per hour. Gordy was shouting at him to get off—it was dangerous, bound to explode—and Alistair only laughed. He was young, and whole, and fearless—or at least believed he was. Waterloo lay years ahead, in a future his still-immature mind couldn’t possibly imagine.

  The carriage shook violently, and he could barely hear Gordy over the engine’s shrieking.

  “Sir, please. It is nearly nine o’clock.”

  Alistair opened his eyes. The room was only a degree less dark than before. Crewe was regarding him worriedly.

  “Nine o’clock?” Alistair repeated. He struggled up to a sitting position. “Why is it so confoundedly dark?”

  Though the storm had passed hours earlier, the sky remained thickly overcast, Crewe told him.

  Alistair remembered then that Mirabel’s party had taken over the better rooms, exiling him and Crewe to this dismal corner of the inn, where what feeble daylight there was could scarcely penetrate.

  He prayed the isolation had worked in her behalf. If anyone knew of her prolonged stay in this room…

  Surreptitiously he began to feel about the bed for stray hairpins. Then he remembered her entering, her glorious sunrise colored hair tumbling about her shoulders. She had worn only the nightgown and the dressing gown, both of which fastened with ribbons. And the silk slippers. She could not have left any stray bits of attire behind for nosy inn servants to find.

  His eyes widened. He had deflowered her! The sheets!

  He leapt from the bed and flung back the bedclothes.

  Nothing. Not a spot.

  Before he could consider the meaning of this lack of evidence, Crewe called his mind elsewhere.

  “Sir, I must beg your pardon,” the valet said. “I over-slept, else I should have wakened you long since.”

  “You were standing guard again, I collect,” Alistair said. “Far into the early morning hours.”

  “I knew you would not wish a certain lady’s visit to be misconstrued by malicious persons,” the valet said tactfully. “I am happy to assure you that the lady returned to her rooms w
ithout attracting any notice. The inn staff were busy below, in the public dining room, accommodating travelers the storm had waylaid. They hadn’t time to be spying upon other patrons.”

  “Remind me to nominate you for sainthood at the first opportunity,” Alistair said as he headed for the washstand.

  “Meanwhile, as soon as my business affairs permit, I shall double your wages.”

  “I wish I deserved it, sir,” said Crewe. “As it happens, I was asleep at my post and failed you.”

  Aware that Crewe’s standards of service were impossibly high, Alistair poured water into the bowl. “That I rather doubt,” he said. He began splashing water on his face.

  “Miss Oldridge and her party departed some hours ago,” Crewe said. “For home.”

  Alistair straightened, his face streaming water. “She’s turned back?” But she’d agreed to continue to London, and go on plaguing him.

  “Her father has gone missing, sir.”

  JACKSON would not go away.

  According to the plan, he was supposed to make sure Caleb had matters in hand and enough money for the trip to Northumberland. Then Jackson was to return to assist his master in London.

  But all because Caleb had encouraged Mr. Oldridge to swallow a few drops of Godfrey’s Cordial, Jackson decided to play nursemaid. When the storm came on Wednesday night, it was Jackson who made them stop at the mine foreman’s deserted cottage.

  It was no good Caleb telling him there was no harm in Godfrey’s Cordial. Doctors made their patients swill buckets of it, didn’t they? Jackson only looked sour and fussed over the old man like it was his own dear pa.

  Mr. O was no dear pa to Caleb. He was an aggravating old man, half-senile, and no good to anybody. Amiable, was he? Then how come he never put his little red-haired hussy daughter in her place? How come he let her stick her nose where it didn’t belong? How come he never had one good word to say for Caleb, after all those years serving him faithful? Instead, the old fool let her turn off Caleb without a character. It was as good as slandering him, to dismiss him without any explaining to anybody what she was about and refusing to write even ten words commending him to the next employer. Because of her, people wouldn’t talk to him. No one would take him on—him, who’d lived among them his whole life, and his parents before, and their parents before that. It was worse than if she’d blackened his character outright or had him put in the stocks.