WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN?

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “I see. Well, we shall have to prepare her,” his father said. “The gossipmongers will pounce upon this situation like a pack of hounds on a trapped fox. Indeed, the gossip is already spreading, even amongst the servants.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Evans keeps me informed. I’m convinced there isn’t a butler in all of England who knows more than he. Would you care to hear the latest?”

  Philip suspected he didn’t want to know, but somehow he heard himself answering, “Of course.”

  “According to Evans, who, I might add, relayed the following with an enormous amount of hemming and hawing and throat-clearing, is that Lady Sarah cried off for two reasons: One, she did not want to die from your curse, and two, even without the curse she still would have jilted you, as she had no wish to become the bride of a man who is unable to... perform his husbandly duties.”

  Philip winced. “Ah. I see. Since it is impossible to conceive that any woman wouldn’t wish to marry the heir to an earldom unless for very compelling reasons, tongues are wagging with the notion that the compelling reason is I will not be able to consummate my marriage.”

  “I’m afraid so. Not the sort of conjecture a man likes to have to defend himself against.” He stirred a bit of sugar into his coffee. “Have you any news of Lady Sarah?”

  “Not yet, but I’ve sent ‘round a note advising her of my intention to call upon her later today.” He patted his mouth with his napkin, then set the square of linen on the polished cherrywood table next to his plate. “And toward that end, I shall depart for the warehouse to continue with the unpacking of the crates.” Rising, Philip strode toward the door.

  “What in God’s name are you wearing?” came his father’s outraged voice.

  Philip halted and looked down at his loose-fitting, drawstring-waisted trousers. “Comfortable clothing. I’m going to be working in a warehouse, Father, not attending a ball.” With that, he exited the breakfast room. As he approached the foyer, the brass knocker sounded, and Bakari opened the door. Philip caught the sound of a familiar, throaty female voice. Her voice. The dictatorial matchmaker. He noted with some annoyance that his footsteps quickened.

  “Will see if Lord Greybourne is available,” Bakari said, holding a calling card between his fingers.

  “I’m available, Bakari.” He stepped around the butler and met Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s startled expression. His gaze swept over her, the details of her ensemble clicking in his mind. Peacock-blue muslin gown with matching spencer. Bonnet that framed her piquant face in a way that reminded him of a stamen surrounded by soft petals. A frown pulled down his brows. No, that didn’t sound quite right. But damn it all, she did somehow remind him of flowers. Perhaps it was her fragrance? He inhaled and instantly discarded the notion. No, she did not smell like flowers. She smelled like—he leaned a bit closer to her and inhaled again—like freshly baked cake.

  No, it was her coloring, he suddenly realized, that brought flowers to mind. Her skin looked as soft as roses, her cheekbones blushed with peach, and her lips were colored with a delicate pinkish red, all colors he recalled from his mother’s formal country gardens at Ravensly Manor.

  Bakari harrumphed. “Might want to invite lady in,” came his dry whisper behind him, “not gawk at her in the doorway.”

  Annoyed at himself, Philip instantly stepped back. Damn. Clearly some brushing up on his manners was called for. “Please come in, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

  She inclined her head in a regal fashion and entered the foyer. “Thank you, Lord Greybourne. I apologize for calling so early, but I believe it is essential that we get a timely start. I am ready to depart whenever you are.” Her gaze flicked over his attire, and her eyes widened.

  “Depart? But you’ve just arrived.” Looking pert and fresh and smelling good enough to nibble upon.

  Bloody hell, where had that thought come from? Clearly it entered his head because he harbored a weakness for freshly baked cake. Yes, that’s all it was.

  “I’ve come to accompany you. To help you look through the crates to locate the other half of the stone.” Her clear, aqua gaze met his questioningly. “Where exactly are we going?”

  “The crates are stored in a warehouse near the docks. I cannot ask you to accompany me to such an area, or to help me with such a task, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. It is tedious, dirty, exhausting work.”

  She lifted her chin and somehow managed to appear to look down the slope of her pert nose at him—amazing, considering he stood a good six inches taller than she. “First, there is no need to ask me, my lord, as I have offered my assistance. Second, I am quite accustomed to work and do not tire easily. And as for the docks, you need not worry about protecting me, as I am armed. Third—”

  “Armed?”

  “Of course.” She held her reticule aloft. “Filled with stones. One cosh to the head will fell any brigand. A very practical device I learned long ago to carry with me at all times.”

  He stared at the innocent-looking beaded bag dangling from her wrist by a velvet drawstring. She’d learned this trick long ago? What sort of upbringing had the very proper Miss Chilton-Grizedale had that would warrant arming herself? “Are you normally in the habit of, er, delivering coshes to the head?”

  “Hardly ever.” He raised his gaze and met eyes flickering with mischief. “Unless, of course, a gentleman makes the error of trying to dissuade me from doing something I wish to do.”

  “I see. And in that case you—”

  “Cosh first, then ask questions later, I’m afraid.” She twirled the little bag around in a circle, then continued in a brisk tone, “And third, the time spent together will provide the dual purpose for me to reacquaint you with some of the rules of Society you have clearly forgotten. As for this expedition proving distressing to my clothing, I harbor no fear of my garments becoming dirty, as—brace yourself—they can be laundered. And last, I shall not find any task tedious that might result in the ending of this curse. Have you seen The Times?”

  “I’m afraid so, although how they gained the information about the curse, I do not know.”

  “Creepers, no doubt.” At his questioning look, she clarified, “Newspaper informers. They earn their living ferreting out information—most often information that the persons involved would prefer not to have offered up for public consumption.”

  “And how do they gather this information?”

  “They steal or intercept correspondence, eavesdrop, bribe servants, any number of devious ways. No doubt one of them overheard us talking in St. Paul’s yesterday.”

  Philip shook his head. “Incredible. The lengths that people will go... just incredible.”

  “Not at all. It’s quite common. Actually, I find you dunking such a practice to be incredible quite amazing. Forgive my bluntness, my lord, but you seem to hold a rather naive view of the world, for one who is so well traveled.”

  “Naive?” An incredulous laugh escaped him. “I have no illusions about people and their motives, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, and I did not have to leave England to form those opinions. If anything, my travels abroad renewed my faith in my fellow man. In one way, however, I suppose you are correct, although I would call myself ‘un-practiced’ as opposed to naive. While I have been exposed to dishonesty in many forms, my time and thoughts have, for many years, been focused on objects and people from the past. I fear I cannot claim any expertise in the area of modern human behavior. In fact, what I know of it leaves me largely unimpressed.”

  She regarded him through serious eyes. “Yet I believe that human behavior is most likely very much the same today as it was hundreds, even thousands, of years ago.”

  Her statement surprised him. And piqued his curiosity and interest. But before he could respond, Bakari interjected, “Invite lady to stay for breakfast? Or tea?”

  Another wave of annoyance washed over Philip. What on earth was the matter with him? He might have developed a few rough edges during his time away from polite Society, bu
t he did hold a few social graces. Unfortunately, something about Miss Chilton-Grizedale clearly did not bode well for him recalling any of his manners.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “May I interest you in something to eat? Or tea, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you.” Her gaze swept over his attire. “How long before you are ready to depart?”

  Depart? Oh, yes. The crates. The stone. The curse. His life with Lady Sarah. “I need a few moments to collect my journals.”

  “And to change into some proper attire.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. “I must say, I am growing weary of these repeated comments on my clothing. Nor do I particularly care to be on the receiving end of such a peremptory order.”

  She raised her brows. “Peremptory order? I prefer to call it a strong suggestion.”

  “Yes, I’m certain you do. And there is nothing wrong with what I am wearing.”

  “Perhaps if you were tramping about in the desert, or along the Nile. You just admitted that you lack knowledge of modern human behavior. I, however, am something of an expert on the subject. Pray believe me when I tell you that your present attire is unacceptable for going out-of-doors.” She pursed her lips into a prim line. “It is also unacceptable for receiving guests. All in all, it is simply unacceptable.”

  Philip turned to Bakari. “Do I look unacceptable?”

  Bakari merely harrumphed and strode from the foyer in an altogether unhelpful manner. Philip swiveled his attention back to Miss Chilton-Grizedale. “If you think I’m going to truss myself up like a goose in form-fitting, fussy, dandified clothes just to look ‘acceptable’ to strangers I care nothing about, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  “The members of Society, whether you are personally acquainted with them or not, are your peers, Lord Greybourne, not strangers. Such august company lends one respectability. How can you take that so lightly?”

  “And how can you take it so seriously?”

  Her chin lifted a notch. “Perhaps because, as a woman who must depend upon herself for her livelihood, my respectability is of the utmost importance to me—and is something I take very seriously. Lady Sarah is not a stranger. Nor is your sister, whom I’ve heard so much about. Are you saying that you care nothing for them?”

  “Catherine would not be so shallow as to condemn me because I’m not clad in the latest fashion.”

  Bright red stained her cheeks at his arch observation. “But like it or not, your behavior will reflect upon both your fiancée and your sister, not to mention your father. If you won’t think of your own reputation, think of theirs.” Her brows lifted. “Or is a world adventurer such as yourself too selfish to do so?”

  Annoyance flooded him at her words. Damn irritating woman. Even more so because he couldn’t deny she had a valid point. Now that he was back in the confining restraints of “civilization” his actions would reflect on others. For ten years he hadn’t had to think about anyone except himself. His departure from England had marked the first time in his life he’d been able to say and do anything he damn well felt like saying or doing, without the censure of Society’s—or Father’s—glare beating down upon him. It was a freedom he’d reveled in, and one he did not relish curtailing in any way. But he’d rather suffer a cobra bite than do anything to hurt Catherine.

  “I’ll change my clothing,” he said, unable to keep the snarl from his voice.

  She shot him a satisfied—no, a smug—smile that all but screamed, Of course you will, upping his irritation several notches. Muttering under his breath about autocratic females, he retired to his bedchamber, returning several minutes later, his concessions consisting of changing into a “proper” pair of breeches and yanking on a jacket over his loose-fitting shirt, purposely leaving his jacket unbuttoned.

  When she raised her brows and appeared about to comment, he said, “I am going to a warehouse. To work. Not to have my portrait painted. This is the best you’ll get from me. It’s this or I wear nothing at all.”

  She appeared startled, then narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He moved closer to her, surprising him when she stood her ground, but he was cheered by her sharp intake of breath. “Did you know that temperatures in Egypt, in Syria, can reach levels where you actually can see the heat radiating off the ground? I am quite accustomed to wearing a minimum of clothing. Or none at all. So daring me would not be wise, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

  A blush suffused her cheeks, and her lips compressed into a flat line of disapproval. “If you think to shock me with such words, Lord Greybourne, you are doomed to failure. If you wish to shame yourself, your fiancée, and your family, I cannot stop you. I can only hope you will act in a decorous manner.”

  He heaved out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose that means I shall not get to disrobe in the foyer. Pity.” Extending his elbow, he said, “Shall we?”

  He looked into her eyes, noting their extraordinary clear Aegean-blue color. They sparkled with determination and stubbornness, along with something else, not so easily defined. Unless he was mistaken, which he rarely was in such assessments, a hint of secrets simmered in Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s eyes as well, piquing his curiosity and interest.

  That, along with her penchant for loading her reticule with stones, was casting her in the light of an intriguing puzzle.

  And he harbored an incredible weakness for puzzles.

  Four

  Meredith sat upon the luxurious gray velvet squabs of Lord Greybourne’s coach, and studied her traveling companion. At first she’d done so covertly, from the corner of her eye as she’d feigned looking out the window at the shops and people lining Oxford Street. However, his attention was so wrapped up in studying the contents of the worn leather journal setting upon his lap, she soon abandoned the ruse and simply looked at him with frank curiosity.

  The man sitting across from her was the complete antithesis of the boy in the painting hanging in the drawing room at his father’s London townhouse. His skin was not pale, but a warm, golden brown that bespoke of time spent in the sun. Golden streaks highlighted his thick, wavy dark brown hair that was once again haphazardly coiffed, as if his fingers had tunneled through the strands. Indeed, even as the thought crossed her mind, he lifted one hand and raked it through his hair.

  Her gaze wandered slowly downward. Nothing about the adult Lord Greybourne could be described as soft or pudgy. He looked lean and hard and thoroughly masculine. His midnight-blue cutaway jacket, in spite of its numerous wrinkles, hugged his broad shoulders, and the fawn breeches he’d changed into emphasized his muscular legs in a way that, if she were the sort of woman to do so, might induce her to heave a purely feminine sigh.

  Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to heave feminine sighs.

  In further contrast to his youthful self, although his clothing was finely made of quality cloth, Lord Greybourne projected an undone appearance, no doubt the result of his askew cravat and those thick strands of hair falling over his forehead, in a fashion which, if she were the sort of woman to be tempted, might tempt her to reach out and brush those silky strands back into place.

  Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to be tempted.

  He looked up and their eyes met, his surrounded by round, wire-framed spectacles. In the painting, Lord Greybourne’s eyes had appeared to be a dull, flat brown. The artist had utterly failed to capture the intelligence and compelling intensity in those eyes. And there could be no denying that Lord Greybourne’s countenance was no longer that of a youth. All the softness had been replaced by lean angles, a firm, square jaw, and high cheekbones. His nose was the same—bold and blade-straight. And his mouth...

  Her gaze riveted on his lips. His mouth was lovely in a way that she had not noticed in the painting. It was full. And firm—yet somehow appeared fascinatingly soft at the same time. Just the sort of mouth that, if she were a different sort of woman, might entice her to want to taste.

  Fortunately, she was not at all th
e sort of woman to be enticed.

  “Are you all right, Miss Chilton-Grizedale? You look a bit flushed.”

  Damnation! She snapped her gaze up to his and arranged her features into her most prim expression. “I’m fine, thank you. It is merely warm in the carriage.” She resisted the urge to lift her hand to fan herself. Just as well, as, with her luck, she’d lift her hand and swing her stone-laden reticule around and cosh herself on the head with it. Instead she nodded toward the journal resting on his lap.

  “What are you reading?” she asked, refraining from pointing out his lack of manners in ignoring her. Clearly she would need to pick her battles with this man, and her inner voice cautioned that having him ignore her might be in her best interests.

  “I’m searching through a volume of my notes from my travels. I’m hopeful that I may have made a notation or sketch at some point that might provide a clue.”

  “Have you had any success?”

  “No. My notes fill over one hundred volumes, and although I examined them during my return voyage to England to no avail, I was hoping that perhaps I might find something I’d missed.” He closed the book, then tied a length of worn leather around it.

  “What do your notes contain?”

  “Sketches of artifacts and hieroglyphs, descriptions, folklore and stories told to me, personal observations. Things of that nature.”

  “You learned enough to fill more than one hundred volumes?” An incredulous laugh escaped her. “Heavens, I find it a chore to compose a single-page letter.”

  “In truth, I experienced more than I could ever have time to record in writing.” An expression that seemed to combine longing and passion entered his eyes. “Egypt, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Morocco... they are impossible to adequately describe, yet they’re so vivid in my memory, if I close my eyes, I feel as if I am still there.”

  “You loved those places.”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not want to leave.”