Miss Wonderful

by Loretta Chase

  Someone tapped on the door.

  Crewe went across and opened it.

  He came back to Alistair bearing a small tray on which rested a note bearing Lord Sherfield’s seal.

  Heart pounding, Alistair opened and read it.

  Then he ran from the room.

  THE wedding was to take place at Hargate House at eleven o’clock.

  It was a quarter past ten, and the bride, at Sherfield House, had chased out her maid and locked herself in her room at a quarter to, saying the wedding must be called off.

  “I have tried to speak to her,” Mr. Oldridge told Alistair when he arrived. “My sister assured her—through the door—that it is only a last-minute attack of nerves, which happens to everybody. But neither Clothilde nor I, nor even Mrs. Entwhistle could obtain any sort of response. Lord Sherfield fears she is ill and wishes to break the door down. I confess I am anxious on that head, though Mirabel never takes ill. But she is never so unreasonable, either.”

  Oldridge frowned. “At least, I’d always supposed she was not given to irrational or temperamental behavior. But I had not paid close attention, as you know.”

  “She is not unreasonable or temperamental,” Alistair said. “Very likely she has qualms. Perfectly reasonable, in the circumstances.”

  He recalled what he’d told Crewe, about two men putting their oar in, when she was accustomed to being in command. Her life was about to change dramatically. She needed more time to get used to the idea. Alistair should not have rushed her. But he was worried that she was pregnant. And yes, he was in a fever to be wed and be rid of all the dratted chaperons. Selfish brute. He should have been reassuring her yesterday, instead of reassuring himself with Gordy.

  All this was passing through his mind as Mr. Oldridge led him to the staircase. Lord Sherfield was pacing at the foot of it. Lady Sherfield was talking to Mrs. Entwhistle. She broke off as Alistair approached.

  “I do not understand,” Lady Sherfield said. “She was so cheerful when I went up earlier. And Mirabel is not given to moodiness.”

  “I think she has retreated to the dressing room,” said Mrs. Entwhistle. “You will have to shout at the top of your voice to make her hear.”

  Alistair paused on the first step. “I am not going to shout at my bride on our wedding day,” he said.

  He considered. Then the idea came.

  THE dressing room door shut out the voices. It could not shut out everything, however.

  Mirabel sat well away from the dressing table on a footstool at the far end of the room, out of the window’s light. She did not need the voices to make her aware she was behaving badly. Abominably. But she could not go through with it. And she could not explain. They would not understand. They would tell her she was being silly, that it was merely a case of last-minute anxiety, which everyone experienced. They would assure her that nothing was wrong and gently remind her that she would embarrass Alistair’s family and inconvenience the guests. Alistair would be humiliated. She shut her eyes. She could not do that to him. She must go through with it.

  She rose, but her courage instantly failed, and she sank onto the footstool again, her head in her hands.

  A loud clattering, as of hailstones against the window, shot her upright again.

  Heart pumping, she went to the window and looked out. The sky was still blue, dotted with fluffy white clouds.

  Then she looked down.

  And blinked.

  And opened the window.

  From the bottom rung of a ladder, Alistair gazed up at her.

  “What are you doing?” she said.

  He put his index finger to his lip and swiftly ascended.

  “I’ve come to rescue you,” he said. “I shall carry you away on my snowy white charger, to wherever you wish. Or rather, behind a pair of greys, as I was obliged to borrow Rupert’s curricle again. I thought the carriage would be more comfortable for a longish flight.” While he spoke, he was climbing onto the ledge, then over it, into the room.

  “You’ve had second thoughts about marrying me,” he said.

  “I don’t blame you. I was insufferably arrogant. I told you to marry me. I never asked you properly.”

  “That is not the problem,” she said, backing away.

  “I am not the hero you imagine me to be,” he said. “I should have told you the real reason I refused to be amputated. The truth is, I was far more frightened of the surgeons than of the enemy.”

  “It was sensible to be alarmed,” she said. “You would not have survived an amputation. That is not the problem.”

  “I haven’t told you the worst,” he said. “I was frightened witless when I went down into that hole after your father.”

  “But you did it anyway,” she said. “That is true courage: to act in spite of fear. And it was a rational fear. I had never been so frightened in all my life as I was then. That is not the problem.”

  “I’ve kept things from you.” He walked to the looking glass, made a small adjustment to his neckcloth, then came back to her. “Your father and I have been plotting behind your back. I have a new scheme. Instead of a canal, Gordy and I will build a railway from the mines to our customers. Your father approves the idea, and Gordy is delighted. I should have told you first, but I wanted it to be a wedding gift. I imagined you would swoon with admiration of my brilliance.”

  A railway. She had searched and searched for a solution, but always she’d assumed they must have a canal. A railway had not even occurred to her.

  She pressed her fist to her bosom. “It is brilliant, and I should swoon if I knew how. Perhaps I learnt the art but it was long ago, and I’ve forgotten. It is merely one of a number of feminine skills I lack.” Her eyes itched. “You told me you would find a solution, and you did. It is a wonderful surprise. It is a perfect gift. It is certainly not a problem.”

  He came to her then and gently grasped her shoulders. He gazed at her in that way of his, making her look up, straight into his golden eyes, making it impossible to pretend anything.

  “It does not matter that I was not the first,” he said gently. “I have had a twinge of jealousy now and again, I admit. It is absurd, of course. It is not as though I have lived like a monk. But my nature is somewhat possessive, and I did not wish to share you with anyone, even if the sharing happened in the distant past, practically before I was born. But that is all—pride and possessiveness. It does not alter my feelings for you a whit.”

  “Not the first?” she said, bewildered. “Not the first what? To be jilted by me? But I am not jilting you. That is, not—”

  “I know I am not your first lover,” he said. “It does not matter. You were not obliged to tell me. It is ancient history, no more relevant than my own episodes. Merely because men are customarily allowed more latitude in these matters does not make it right or just.”

  Mirabel drew back, stunned. Had someone in London who knew her in the past whispered slander in his ear? William Poynton had been very popular. A great many ladies had been jealous of Mirabel. Some may have blamed her for his leaving England and never returning. Could they still be holding a grudge, after all this time?

  “I don’t know who told you this,” she began.

  “No one told me,” he said. “I saw the evidence. Or rather, the lack of evidence. After we made love, at the inn. The sheets. Not a spot.”

  “Not a spot,” she repeated. Then, finally, she realized what he was saying, and in spite of her misery, she smiled.

  “My love, I am one and thirty,” she said. “Did it not occur to you that my hymen might have shriveled up and died—of despair, most likely.”

  “Of course it didn’t occur to me,” he said. “To me you are a girl.” He let her go and stepped back, his expression perplexed. “My dear, I am at a complete loss now as to what troubles you. But I don’t need to know. All that matters is that you are in difficulties of some kind and want to call off the wedding. I shall not attempt to force—”

  “I can’t do it!
” she cried. “I cannot.” Her shoulders sagged. “Look at me.”

  “You look beautiful,” he said. The gown was a warm, oyster-shell white, trimmed with fine lace, rather like the fetching nightgown she’d worn that night at the inn.

  She stared at him. “What is wrong with you? Not my gown. That looks well enough. It is my hair. I cannot believe you didn’t notice. It is all wrong!”

  He blinked. “Your hair,” he said. “You want to call off the wedding because your hair is not right?”

  “Can’t you see? Aunt Clothilde’s maid did it, and it is too high on the forehead, and here are these untidy clusters dangling at my ears, and it took her forever, and I am stuck with a thousand pins, and there isn’t time to pull them all out and start over again, and I know you will not be able to concentrate on the service because you will be in agonies about it, and I will embarrass you in front of your family and friends.”

  There was a short silence.

  Then, “It is the latest fashion,” he said. His mouth twitched.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “It would not matter to me if it were the fashion of last century,” he said. “The only agony I shall suffer is impatience for the wedding night. It has been a very long time since I held you in my arms.”

  “Yes, it has been tedious and annoying,” she said. “A turn about the park in an open carriage—with half the world looking on and the other half interrupting to chat—is not very satisfying.”

  She drew near to him again and tipped her head back. “We are entitled to a kiss, I should think.”

  “To sustain us through the trial ahead,” he said. He bent his head.

  The instant his mouth touched hers, the world came right again. She reached up and curled her hands about his neck, and his hands came round her waist. She loved his hands, and the clean, masculine smell of his skin, mixed with starch and soap. She loved the way his mouth moved over hers, the light pressure coaxing her to part her lips, and the taste of him. She shivered and pressed closer, and his hold tightened.

  She’d felt so unsure, so cold and alone. Now she was warm again, and wanted. His hands moved over her back, and she sighed with pleasure. “I’ve dreamt of this,” she murmured against his mouth. “Your hands, your wonderful hands.”

  “I’ve dreamt of it, too.” He nuzzled her neck. “We have to stop.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He made a cascade of kisses from the tender place behind her ear to the neckline of her gown. With his finger, he drew the neckline down and trailed his finger inside, against her skin. He made another path of kisses from her shoulder to the very edge of the fabric, over the upper swell of her breasts. The tender caress of his mouth made her ache.

  She strained toward him, her hands sliding to the back of his waist. There was so much in the way. She dragged up the coat, and her hands slid over the silk waistcoat and down, over smooth wool and the taut curve of his buttocks.

  He tensed and growled something against her neck, and she pressed against him. Even through the layers of her gown and petticoats and his trousers, she felt his arousal. It would be hot there, and hard.

  She remembered that heat thrusting into her, and heat eddied through her to sink to the pit of her belly. Her mind sank, too, into a deep, dark place, while the world slid away.

  “Don’t make me stop,” she begged, her voice low and thick, the words dragged out between ragged breaths. “I want you inside me.” She drew her hand over the front of his trousers. “Now.”

  THE bold caress took his breath away and sapped his will. He lifted his head and looked at her. Her eyes were smoky blue, half-closed. With every inhalation he drew in the scent of her, and it clouded and thickened his mind.

  Yet some awareness remained. They couldn’t continue. The wedding. The waiting guests. He drew back and tried to catch his breath and regain his balance.

  She advanced, tugging at the bodice he’d disarranged. Her breasts swelled, pearl smooth, above the lace. She slid her hands over them, down over the dainty waist, and down further, over her hips. Her fingers tightened on the skirt, and she dragged it up. His gaze slid down to the soft kid slippers, and up: the white stockings…the pretty turn of her ankle…the perfect curve of her calves.

  He backed away another step, and she advanced, drawing the gown up higher still, nearly to her knees. A little more, and he’d see the misshapen, upside down heart, so like her, turning his mind and heart, his world, topsy-turvy.

  He shut his eyes. No. The wedding. The guests. Waiting.

  He backed away another step, and struck something, and stumbled backward. He came up against the wall, but his bad leg gave way, and down he slid, onto the carpet.

  And before he could think of rising, she was there, standing astride him, her skirts still gathered in her hands. She was looking down at the front of his trousers, and her mouth curved into a wicked smile.

  She reached up under her gown and untied her drawers, and down they fell onto his belly. His cock, hardly affected by the fall, stood at attention.

  Down she came, onto her knees, her femininity mere inches from his eager member.

  He slid his hands up her sweetly rounded thighs, over garters and the tops of her stockings, to the soft skin. He trailed his fingers over the curve of her belly, the smooth place just above the feathery curls. She uttered a low moan and moved against his hand. He let his thumb slip lower, where she wanted, and stroked her, though his hand trembled and his mind was a wild place, all need and animal instinct. She was so near, warm and ready, the tender place under his thumb so soft and dewy.

  He felt her tremble against him. She pushed his hand away, and rose a little, and grasped his rod, and eased herself onto him, slowly. “Oh,” she said, and it was halfmoan, half-sigh. She bent to him then, and he reached up and caught her, his fingers dragging through the thick, wild curls, and brought her down, brought her mouth to his.

  “You are in command,” he murmured.

  “Yes.”

  He felt her smile against his mouth. She lifted herself, and came down, and his mind went black. Nothing left but feeling, heat coursing through him as she rose and fell, as he rose and fell with her, slowly at first, then faster and faster…until she reared up, and let out a cry, and shuddered, again and again, as she took him to the pinnacle with her, to a burst of fiery brilliance. Then they fell together into a sweet, cool darkness, and her mouth found his again, and she breathed, “I love you.”

  “I love you,” he answered hoarsely. “My wonderful, wicked girl.”

  IN the drawing room of Hargate House, Captain Hughes took out his pocket watch and frowned.

  Mrs. Entwhistle, standing beside him, dug her elbow into his ribs. “This is not the Royal Navy,” she said in a low, disapproving voice. “Our lives are not run by the clock. Six bells for this. Three bells for that. Haste, haste, haste. Must not lose a minute.”

  He put away his watch and turned his frown upon her. “I had supposed that even a pair of civilians might contrive to be on time for their own wedding.”

  He most certainly would be on time for his, if he could ever persuade this lady to look kindly upon him. That, he calculated, given the present rate of progress, would take a few years. He hoped his teeth and hair would not fall out before then.

  “They are but a few minutes late,” she said. “There was a difficulty. But Mr. Carsington promised to sort it out and told us to go on ahead.”

  A moment later, the buzz of conversation dulled to a murmur. The groom strode to his place before the minister, his groomsman joined him, and the drawing room doors opened to reveal the glowing bride, leaning on her father’s arm.

  She was more than glowing, Captain Hughes observed. She was flushed, and her hair…

  His gaze went to the groom—the famous dandy who came down to breakfast dressed to the inch, whose idea of dishabille was a silk dressing gown instead of a coat worn over his usual silk waistcoat, a freshly pressed shirt, and a starched neckcloth tied in kno
ts so complicated that even the most experienced seaman must regard it with mystification and despair.

  This was the man who’d declined Oldridge’s hospitality on one of the worst nights of the winter and ridden two hours to Matlock Bath in an ice storm. All because he hadn’t brought a change of clothes with him.

  At present, Mr. Carsington’s hair appeared to have recently survived an Atlantic gale. His neckcloth was crooked, the knot so simple that a seven-year-old midshipman, half-blind, with one hand tied behind his back, could manage it.

  Captain Hughes smiled. He had no idea what the difficulty had been, but he could guess how the bridegroom had sorted it out.

  “What are you smirking at?” Mrs. Entwhistle whispered.

  “I am not smirking,” he whispered back. “I am smiling benignly upon the happy couple.

  “You are smirking. I can guess why. It is bad of you to notice.”

  “You were her governess,” he said. “I must wonder what you taught her.”

  To his delight, the widow’s cheeks turned pink. “Lionel, you are incorrigible,” she said.

  Lionel. Oho. Perhaps not so many years after all.

  “Dearly beloved,” the minister began, and they fell silent, turning their attention thither.

  LORD Hargate had waited what seemed an intolerable length of time for the ceremony to begin. He had heard of the bride’s balking even before the bridegroom did. Yet his lordship had chatted amiably with his guests, then taken his proper place in the drawing room at the scheduled time. He had stoically remained in that place while the minutes ticked by, while paternal instincts urged him with increasing shrillness to hasten to his third’s son rescue.

  Consequently, he drew a deep sigh of relief when it appeared that Alistair had handled the crisis on his own. Lord Hargate did not question the means of persuasion employed. He was a politician, after all.

  All the same, he did not breathe easy again until the ceremony ended.