No Conventional Miss

The world turned dark, as though night had descended.

Dimly she saw a lake, ink black and spattered with raindrops. She was cold. So cold her fingers numbed and her grip loosened. She reached out, snatching a twig. She missed and, with a cry, fell through the sharp, splintering branches to the ground below.

She landed with a jarring jolt and gasped in shock and pain.

‘What—? Miss, are you all right?’ The voice came as from a distance.

She opened her eyes. Daylight reappeared.

A man bent over her, a man different than any she had met before. The straight dark brows, unyielding jaw and mouth gave her the confused impression of harsh strength. Briefly, his stark silhouette seemed mythical—Hades searching for Persephone.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked again. ‘Let me move the horse away.’

The prosaic words shattered the illusion.

‘I’m fine, I think.’ She sat up.

He crouched beside her, putting out his hand. ‘Can you stand? Let me help.’

His grasp was strong, his fingers long and firm. Her stomach tightened and she felt a pulse of something akin to fear, yet not. Their gazes met and she felt a narrowing of focus that made the horse, the tree and the solid brick outline of their house inconsequential.

She jerked back, scrambling to stand. ‘Who are you? Why are you here?’

‘Lord Wyburn. I came to visit Sir George Gibson.’ He stepped back, watching her closely. ‘You are Miss Gibson?’

Of course, Lady Wyburn had mentioned an overprotective stepson. But Rilla hadn’t imagined...

‘Sorry, I thought—’ She paused, inhaled, making a conscious effort to collect herself. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lord Wyburn.’

‘And you.’

Her stomach tightened again, likely a natural reaction. The last thing she needed was for Father to get riled up or on his high horse. He’d hated the idea of accepting charity and she still worried he might gamble in some last-ditch effort to secure funds.

‘Miss Gibson, are you still dazed from your fall?’

‘No, not at all.’ Rilla jerked her attention back to her visitor. ‘I will get Thomas for your horse.’

‘Your father is in?’

‘Um—yes,’ she said and whistled for Thomas.

The lad responded promptly, his eyes irritatingly wide at the sight of Wyburn and his mount. Bending, she picked up the remnants of her pulley and handed this also to the lad.

With the horse under Thomas’s care, Rilla smoothed her dress, which she belatedly realised was still partially tucked up, and nodded towards the house.

‘This way, my lord.’

* * *

Paul walked alongside Miss Gibson, covertly assessing her as they neared the residence. Her fall from the tree had dishevelled her gown and dirtied her face, yet she exhibited no embarrassment.

Indeed, had he been feeling charitable instead of irritated by his errand, he might have found her calm assurance impressive. She walked briskly, with confident strides. Everything about her tall physique spoke of energy and practicality of purpose which was good, he supposed. He had no tolerance for female moods. But he did not favour hoydens either.

The house proved a pleasant building of Tudor origin with brick walls half-hidden in wisteria and punctuated by mullioned windows. But the family’s poverty could not be missed. He saw it in the overgrown shrubbery, the peeling strips of paint dangling from window frames and the haphazard appearance of loosened slates.

The girl pushed open the door and Paul blinked as he stepped into the dimness of the hall after the brightness outside. No servant greeted them, nor did the girl seem to expect one. Instead, she took his hat and then removed her bonnet.

He watched, briefly fascinated as her red hair escaped in a wild cascade of colour. Paul didn’t know if it was beautiful or ugly and, strangely, it didn’t matter. It had such life, such vibrancy.

The goat girl all grown up.

‘I’ll announce you to my father,’ she said. ‘He’s in the study. May I bring refreshments? Tea, perhaps?’

He dragged his gaze from her hair. ‘Tea would be fine.’

‘I’ll go to Father.’

Paul nodded, looking about the entrance. Sun shone through an octagonal window, forming a patchwork of golden squares on a threadbare runner. Floor wax, flowers and dog hair scented the air in a not-unpleasant combination. Indeed, there was something cosy, almost comfortable about the place.

A load of codswallop! He would do better to concentrate on Lady Wyburn’s financial interests and not on the unlikely delights of floor wax.

Glancing up, he found Miss Gibson had not yet withdrawn, but studied him, her head to one side and eyebrows drawn together. She inhaled deeply. The bodice of her gown stretched tightly.

Her figure was not flat.

‘Miss Gibson, was there something else?’ He met her gaze. Her eyes, he noted, were an unusual grey-green and fringed with dark lashes in contrast to her fiery hair.

‘I...trust you will not upset my father.’ For the first time, she seemed uncertain.

‘It is not my intent. Is Sir George distressed by social calls?’

Perhaps he was an eccentric academic, comfortable only with dry texts. And card games.

‘No, but—’ She frowned, and then squared her shoulders. ‘You have come to discuss Lady Wyburn’s plans for my sister and myself, and I want to make sure you are under no misapprehension about us.’

‘I am not prone to misapprehensions and I believe my business is with your father.’

‘Lady Wyburn mentioned that you worry about her and I want you to know that you need not. We intend to pay back—’

‘Miss Gibson, this discussion is hardly proper.’

The girl needed a set-down or she’d not survive her own come-out.

Surprisingly, she laughed. ‘We left propriety when I fell out of the tree. It is only that I’d prefer you did not worry my father about such matters. I can answer any questions you might have.’

She spoke earnestly, the love and worry for her father evident in her gaze.

He was not unmoved. ‘I will keep that in mind.’