protect
myself."
As
he returned to scraping his jaw, he tried to imagine the lady
subjecting him to amorous advances. Given her straightforward style,
he supposed she'd throw herself at him, literally. He saw her hair
tumbling down, and her face upraised to his, and her wide mouth
parted… and he nicked himself.
Crewe
went white. "Sir, I beg you will allow me to assist you."
He hurried forward and pressed a towel to the tiny speck of blood
near Alistair's ear. "Consider how much weighs upon your mind at
present. Is it not the wisest course to allow me to undertake a task
requiring one's fullest attention?"
Alistair
waved away valet and towel. "If, before Waterloo, the Duke of
Wellington could shave himself without fatal results," he said,
"I believe I can manage it before ambling along country pathways
with a levelheaded—or do I mean hardheaded?—countrywoman."
Crewe
subsided into gloomy silence, and Alistair completed his shaving
without interruption or injury.
Once
the razor was put away and the less hazardous business of dressing
commenced, Crewe grew talkative again. Last night, while the master
was out, he'd gone to a tavern the local servants frequented, and
continued gathering information. He had found out why Lord Gordmor's
agent had been turned away, and this news confirmed Alistair's own
impression of the situation on Longledge Hill.
About
the Oldridges, on the other hand, Crewe had learnt nothing new.
LORD
Hargate's heroic son was bored witless.
Mirabel
told herself she should have expected it. One hour into the riding
tour she was reproaching herself for agreeing to show him her world,
especially now, when the landscape was mainly brown, grey, and the
drabbest greens.
He
could never see it as she did.
Few
men could.
Even
in Longledge, few truly understood why she'd given more than a decade
of her life to this place. Few had any inkling how much she'd given
up: the prime of her young womanhood, along with those youthful hopes
and dreams. She'd given up as well her one chance at love, because
the man she loved was not ready to relinquish his hopes and dreams to
make a life with her here.
She
had never meant her life to turn out this way.
She'd
begun because she had no choice. She'd believed Papa would improve in
time, but it never happened. He let all those about him do as they
liked. As you'd expect, some took advantage of him. While she was in
London, his incompetent—and possibly dishonest—estate
manager had made chaos of estate affairs and in a few years nearly
destroyed what it had taken generations to build.
At
first, Mirabel had taken charge out of necessity. There was no one
else to do it. But as time passed, she developed a passion for the
land not altogether unlike her father's passion for plants. While he
pondered theories of botanical reproduction, she built an arcadia.
She
replaced outmoded and inefficient agricultural practices with modern
ones, increased farm production, rebuilt the estate village, and
began restoring the timber her father had allowed to be nearly
decimated.
But
to Mr. Carsington, her thriving plantation was only a stand of trees.
Her modern cottages were rustic dwellings. Her cultivation methods
had something tedious to do with turnips and corn. Her livestock were
a lot of boring animals.
Now,
as they halted to view the uncultivated slopes of Longledge Hill,
Mirabel knew he wouldn't drink in its beauty as she did, or take any
more note of it than he'd done any other sight she'd indicated. He'd
give it a careless glance, paste a politely indifferent expression on
his face, and wait for her to finish talking.
He
didn't even remark on how clean and fresh the air was. Why should he?
Inhaling the coal smoke-laden air of London for most of his life had
killed his sense of smell.
Living
there had deadened his other senses as well. He was deaf, dumb, and
blind to rural life's beauties and joys.
She'd
wasted her time. She'd been a fool to hope he'd understand
myself."
As
he returned to scraping his jaw, he tried to imagine the lady
subjecting him to amorous advances. Given her straightforward style,
he supposed she'd throw herself at him, literally. He saw her hair
tumbling down, and her face upraised to his, and her wide mouth
parted… and he nicked himself.
Crewe
went white. "Sir, I beg you will allow me to assist you."
He hurried forward and pressed a towel to the tiny speck of blood
near Alistair's ear. "Consider how much weighs upon your mind at
present. Is it not the wisest course to allow me to undertake a task
requiring one's fullest attention?"
Alistair
waved away valet and towel. "If, before Waterloo, the Duke of
Wellington could shave himself without fatal results," he said,
"I believe I can manage it before ambling along country pathways
with a levelheaded—or do I mean hardheaded?—countrywoman."
Crewe
subsided into gloomy silence, and Alistair completed his shaving
without interruption or injury.
Once
the razor was put away and the less hazardous business of dressing
commenced, Crewe grew talkative again. Last night, while the master
was out, he'd gone to a tavern the local servants frequented, and
continued gathering information. He had found out why Lord Gordmor's
agent had been turned away, and this news confirmed Alistair's own
impression of the situation on Longledge Hill.
About
the Oldridges, on the other hand, Crewe had learnt nothing new.
LORD
Hargate's heroic son was bored witless.
Mirabel
told herself she should have expected it. One hour into the riding
tour she was reproaching herself for agreeing to show him her world,
especially now, when the landscape was mainly brown, grey, and the
drabbest greens.
He
could never see it as she did.
Few
men could.
Even
in Longledge, few truly understood why she'd given more than a decade
of her life to this place. Few had any inkling how much she'd given
up: the prime of her young womanhood, along with those youthful hopes
and dreams. She'd given up as well her one chance at love, because
the man she loved was not ready to relinquish his hopes and dreams to
make a life with her here.
She
had never meant her life to turn out this way.
She'd
begun because she had no choice. She'd believed Papa would improve in
time, but it never happened. He let all those about him do as they
liked. As you'd expect, some took advantage of him. While she was in
London, his incompetent—and possibly dishonest—estate
manager had made chaos of estate affairs and in a few years nearly
destroyed what it had taken generations to build.
At
first, Mirabel had taken charge out of necessity. There was no one
else to do it. But as time passed, she developed a passion for the
land not altogether unlike her father's passion for plants. While he
pondered theories of botanical reproduction, she built an arcadia.
She
replaced outmoded and inefficient agricultural practices with modern
ones, increased farm production, rebuilt the estate village, and
began restoring the timber her father had allowed to be nearly
decimated.
But
to Mr. Carsington, her thriving plantation was only a stand of trees.
Her modern cottages were rustic dwellings. Her cultivation methods
had something tedious to do with turnips and corn. Her livestock were
a lot of boring animals.
Now,
as they halted to view the uncultivated slopes of Longledge Hill,
Mirabel knew he wouldn't drink in its beauty as she did, or take any
more note of it than he'd done any other sight she'd indicated. He'd
give it a careless glance, paste a politely indifferent expression on
his face, and wait for her to finish talking.
He
didn't even remark on how clean and fresh the air was. Why should he?
Inhaling the coal smoke-laden air of London for most of his life had
killed his sense of smell.
Living
there had deadened his other senses as well. He was deaf, dumb, and
blind to rural life's beauties and joys.
She'd
wasted her time. She'd been a fool to hope he'd understand
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