So desirable that the hero is struck dumb at the very sight of her. Blue eyes, yellow hair, dainty everything.
Lace coming into fashion? Lace-maker. Research how lace is made. Bobbins?
First sight, hero on his knees. In the rain.
Mud.
Definitely mud.
“Your Grace, a Miss Carrington is requesting to speak to you.”
For a moment Vander had no idea who she was. Then he realized it had to be Mia, the hapless poet. His complete avoidance of polite society in favor of the stables meant that he hadn’t seen her in years.
“Did she give any indication of the reason for her visit?”
“No, Your Grace. She is in the morning room, should you wish to speak to her, or I can inform her that you are busy at this time. I might add that she is unaccompanied. Furthermore, your solicitor is in the library. He has been waiting some time and is becoming impatient.”
The last time he could remember having seen Mia was that bloody embarrassing thing that happened when they were fifteen.
What in the hell was she thinking, calling on him early in the morning, without a chaperone? Why call on him at all?
“I’ll go to Miss Carrington,” he decided, heading from his bedchamber. He owed the poet an audience, if only because he should have handled that situation better. The very memory made him shudder a little. He had been stupid and young, but even so, he’d behaved like an ass.
Vander strode down the stairs adjusting his cuffs. Mia’s name must have been as besmirched as his by their parents’ deaths a year ago. There was no covering up the fact that the Duchess of Pindar had died in bed with Lord Carrington. All of England knew about the damaged stove flue that had led to their deaths: that flare of scandal had eclipsed the deaths of eight other unfortunates sleeping in the same inn—a list that had included Mia’s brother and sister-in-law, if he remembered correctly. It must have been a terrible year for her.
Just as he reached the final step, his solicitor, Grieg, erupted from the library and accosted him. Vander almost groaned aloud as he listened. Apparently, Sir Cuthbert had made a rash promise to finance an archaeological expedition to the Andes Mountains.
Insofar as his uncle’s sole source of income was the allowance Vander gave him, which Chuffy promptly spent on velvet coats and bottles of sack, he wasn’t in a position to make good on the promise. It seemed that Chuffy had got around that little problem by scrawling a note promising that the Duke of Pindar would back the expedition.
He would have to tell Chuffy that his funds were tied up in his stables and he could not finance an expedition to the Andes at this time. Or, for that matter, ever.
The primary thing he remembered about Mia Carrington was that she had a chubby face and magnificent breasts.
All these years later, her face was thinner. Presumably her breasts were still there, but she was wearing a drab gown of homespun that concealed everything below her chin. She looked like a missionary. Perhaps she’d become one?
He felt a flash of sympathy. Her religious leanings, if she had them, were likely a response to their parents’ blatant disregard for the sanctity of marriage. Though if she had come to try to proselytize—
“Your Grace,” she said, dropping a curtsy. “How very wonderful to see you again.”
Was that a drop of sarcasm in her voice? Surely not. After all, she was the one who had come, uninvited, to his house, not the other way around.
He bowed. When he straightened, he found that she was observing him, gloved hands folded, with the air of someone watching a play.
Peculiar.
“Miss Carrington, what can I do for you?” he inquired.
“I have come to request a favor.”