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."
"Then
go back to London and send someone else to make the case," she
said. "You are either sadly deluded or hopelessly idealistic if
you think people will deal with you as they deal with ordinary men,
even ordinary peers. My neighbors as well as my father left their
estate managers to meet with Lord Gordmor's
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."
"Then
go back to London and send someone else to make the case," she
said. "You are either sadly deluded or hopelessly idealistic if
you think people will deal with you as they deal with ordinary men,
even ordinary peers. My neighbors as well as my father left their
estate managers to meet with Lord Gordmor's
Similar Books
