WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN?

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  He studied her before replying. “You are correct. England is the place of my birth, yet it no longer feels like... home.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward.

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand what I mean. Indeed, I barely do myself.”

  “‘Tis true that I do not know what places such as Egypt and Greece look like, but I know about the importance, the necessity, of being in a place that feels like home. And how out of sorts one can feel when they are not there.”

  He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. “Yes, that is exactly how I feel. Out of sorts.”

  Something in his tone, in the way he was looking at her, with all that focused attention, stalled her breath. And rendered her most definitely out of sorts. In a way that irritated and confused her. What on earth was it about this man that robbed her of her usual aplomb?

  In an effort to break the spell between them, she averted her gaze and said, “A friend of mine offered to help us sort through the artifacts, should we require his services.” Actually, both Albert and Charlotte had wanted to accompany her today, but Meredith had convinced them to wait a day. She wanted to first ascertain what sort of conditions they would be working under, and she was glad she’d insisted. The fact that they would be near the docks... Charlotte hated the docks.

  “His services? Is your friend an antiquarian?”

  “No. Actually, Albert is my butler, and one of my dearest friends.”

  If he was surprised by her referring to her butler as a dear friend, he did not show it. Instead, he nodded. “Excellent. My American colleague and friend, Andrew Stanton, is at the British Museum today, looking over artifacts there. Another friend and antiquarian, Edward Binsmore, has also offered his help.”

  The name sounded familiar, and after a second’s thought, recognition hit her. “The gentleman whose wife passed away?”

  “Yes. I think he is looking for a way to keep busy.”

  “It’s probably best for him,” Meredith said softly.

  “Grief is sometimes harder to bear when nothing but hour upon hour of loneliness yawns in front of you.”

  “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

  Meredith’s gaze flew to his. He was watching her, his eyes soft with understanding, as if he, too, had known such sadness. She swallowed to ease the sudden lump clogging her throat. “I think most adults have experienced grief in one of its many forms.” He looked as if he were about to question her, and as she had no desire to answer any questions, she forestalled him by asking, “Can you show me the stone the curse is written upon and tell me exactly what it says? It seems that would better enable me to know what I am looking for.”

  He frowned. “I have hidden the Stone of Tears so as not to risk anyone else finding it and translating it. However, I have written down the English translation in my journal.” Opening the worn leather book, he passed it to her. “I cannot see any harm in letting you read it, as you will never take a bride.”

  Meredith set the journal on her lap, then looked down at the neat, precise handwriting on the yellowed page and read.

  As my betrothed betrayed me with another,

  So shall the same fate befall your lover.

  To the ends of the earth

  From this day forth,

  Ye are the cursed,

  Condemned to hell’s worst.

  For true love’s very breath

  Is destined for death.

  Grace will fall, a stumble she’ll take,

  Then suffer the pain of hell’s headache.

  If ye have the gift of wedded bliss,

  She will die before you kiss.

  Or two days after the vows are said,

  Your bride, so cursed, shall be found dead.

  Once your intended has been lo

  Nothing can save her from

  There is but one key

  To set the cursed f

  Follow the b

  As she

  And

  An involuntary shiver snaked down Meredith’s spine, and she fought the urge to snap the book closed and not gaze upon the eerie words any longer.

  Lord Greybourne leaned forward and ran his finger over the last lines. “That is where the stone is broken, leaving only these fragments of words and sentences.”

  The sight of his large, tanned hand hovering just above her lap snaked another shiver—of an entirely different nature—through Meredith. Swallowing to moisten her suddenly dry throat, she asked, “How large is the stone?”

  He turned over his hand, resting it palm up on the journal. “About the size of my hand, and approximately two inches thick. I judge the missing piece is about this size, or a bit smaller.” He curled his hand into a fist.

  Her gaze riveted on his fisted hand, the weight of which pressed upon her thighs through the book. She swore she could feel the warmth of that masculine hand right through the journal, an unsettling, disturbing sensation that seemed to heat her from the inside out. An overwhelming urge to shift in her seat hit her, and she had to force herself to remain still. He seemed oblivious to how improper his casual familiarity was. And she most assuredly would have told him—if she’d been able to find her voice.

  Thankfully, the coach slowed, and Lord Greybourne leaned back, his hand slipping from the journal. He looked out the window, allowing Meredith to expel a breath she hadn’t even realized she held.

  “The warehouse is just ahead,” he reported.

  Excellent. She couldn’t wait to exit the confines of this carriage, which seemed to grow more restraining with each passing moment.

  A few minutes later, feeling much recovered from the short walk from the carriage, Meredith stepped into the vast, dimly lit warehouse. Row upon row of wooden crates stood stacked. Dozens of crates. Hundreds of crates. Very large crates.

  “Good heavens. How many of these belong to you?”

  “Everything in approximately the back third of the building.”

  She turned and stared at him. “Surely you jest.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Did you leave anything at all behind in the countries you visited?”

  He laughed, the deep, unrestrained sound echoing in the vast chamber. “Not all of my crates are filled with artifacts. Many of them contain fabrics, rugs, spices, and furniture I purchased for a business venture my father and I are involved with.”

  “I see.” She stared at the seemingly endless rows of crates. “Where do we begin?”

  “Follow me.” He headed down one narrow aisle, his boot heels thudding against the rough wooden floor. She followed him as he turned again and again, until she felt like a rat in a maze. Finally they arrived at an office.

  Extracting a key from his waistcoat pocket, he unlocked the door and indicated she should enter. She crossed the threshold and found herself in a cramped room, the limited space dominated by an oversized beechwood desk. Crossing to the desk, Lord Greybourne opened the top drawer and withdrew two thick ledgers.

  “The plan is to open a crate, remove its contents, check them against these ledgers, then repack the crate. The ledgers contain itemized lists of the contents of each crate, all of which are numbered.”

  “If that is the case, then why must we unpack each crate? Why can we not simply look at the itemized list to see if something such as ‘half a curse stone’ is noted?”

  “Several reasons. First, I’ve already examined these ledgers, and nothing faintly resembling ‘half a curse stone’ is listed. Second, it is highly possible that it is listed, but inaccurately described. Therefore a visual examination of the contents is necessary. Third, as I was not the only person cataloging the items and packing the crates, I cannot swear that unintentional errors were not made. And last, it is possible that I did not find a ‘half a curse stone’ listed because it may very well be part of another item listed. For instance, when I found my piece of the stone, it was in an alabaster box, therefore—”

  “The listing may only read ‘alabaster box’ wi
thout listing the actual contents of the box.”

  “Exactly.” He crossed to the corner of the office where blankets were piled, and hefted up an armful. “I’ll set these on the floor to protect the artifacts and open a crate. I suggest we do one crate together to familiarize you with the procedure, then we can each work on a separate crate. Does that meet with your approval?”

  The sooner they started, the quicker they’d find the stone. Then the wedding could take place, her life could be restored to normal, and she would forget all about Lord Greybourne. “Let us begin.”

  Two hours later, Philip looked up from cataloging a particularly fine clay vase he recalled finding in Turkey. His gaze settled upon Miss Chilton-Grizedale, and his breaming hitched.

  Due to the hot, stuffy air in the warehouse, she’d discarded her cream lace fichu, just as he’d discarded his jacket. She was bent over the crate, reaching inside to withdraw another artifact. The material of her gown molded itself to the feminine curve of her buttocks. The very lovely feminine curve of her buttocks.

  Ever since she’d settled herself across from him in his carriage—a conveyance which had seemed quite roomy until that moment—he’d been disturbingly aware of her. No doubt because of her scent... that delicious fragrance of freshly baked cake that whetted the appetite. Bloody hell, women weren’t supposed to smell like that. Like something sinfully edible that made a man want to take a bite.

  A golden shaft of morning sunlight gleamed through the window, capturing her in its glow. There was something very vibrant about this woman. Underneath her calm, decorous exterior, he sensed suppressed energy. Vitality. Passion.

  And then there was her coloring. Shiny midnight curls contrasting with a porcelain complexion, properly pale except for twin brushes of peach staining her cheeks. All set off by those striking blue-green eyes whose color reminded him of the turquoise Aegean, not to mention her full, deep rose lips...

  Everything about her seemed so very vivid. Colorful. Outstanding. Like a single spot of bright color painted upon an otherwise white canvas. She reminded him of a sunset in the desert—the rich, vibrant hues of the evening sun painting the sky a stunning contrast to the golden beige of the endless sand.

  She shifted, and an image—a most unwanted and vivid image—of him stealing up behind her, touching his lips to the vulnerable skin on her nape, pressing his body against her feminine form, flashed through his mind, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

  He shook his head to dispel the sensual image, shook it so vigorously his spectacles slid down his nose: Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He was normally not prone to such lascivious thoughts, especially when he was working. Of course, he had never worked in such proximity to a woman before. A woman whose skirts rustled with her every movement, inspiring thoughts of the curvaceous form beneath. A woman who smelled like she’d just stepped out of the damn confectioner’s.

  A woman who was not his fiancée.

  That thought brought him up short and blinked the remnants of the disturbingly provocative image from his mind. He grimly set his jaw. Yes, she was not his fiancée. Excellent. Now he was back on the correct path. He found this woman imperious and annoying. Her goal was to turn him into some simpering, dandified, ruffle-cuffed fop. Yes, yes, that was much better. She was the enemy.

  Yet, when he attempted to pull his gaze from the enemy’s enticing curves, he failed completely. He watched as she carefully lifted a wooden bowl from the crate and gently set it on the blanket spread on the floor. Turning, she made a notation in the ledger, affording him the opportunity to admire her profile.

  Her nose tilted slightly upward, and her chin was set at an angle that could only be described as stubborn. She frowned, and worried her lower lip between her teeth, drawing his attention to her mouth. And bloody hell, what a lovely mouth it was. How could he not have noticed it before now? He couldn’t decide if it was more likely that those full, moist, delectable lips had been fashioned by an angel or by the devil himself. Miss Chilton-Grizedale portrayed the epitome of a proper lady, but there was nothing proper about that rosy, lush mouth, or the heated thoughts it inspired.

  He closed his eyes and was overtaken by a vivid image of himself pulling her into his arms. He could almost feel her curves pressed against him. Lowering his head, he touched his lips to hers. Warm. Soft. She tasted delicious... like a rich, luscious dessert. He deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into the heat of her mouth and—

  “Is something amiss, Lord Greybourne?”

  Philip’s eyes popped open. She was staring at him with quizzical concern. Heat crept up his neck, and he had to fight the urge to jerk at his already loosened cravat. He swallowed twice to locate his voice. “Amiss? No. Why do you ask?”

  “You groaned. Did you hurt yourself?”

  “No.” Aching was certainly not the same as hurting. As unobtrusively as possible, he shifted, moving his arm so the ledger he held shielded that which ached. Damn. This was a devil of an inconvenient time for his months of celibacy to catch up with him.

  Ah! Yes, surely these uncharacteristic lustful urges she inspired were due to the fact that it had been months— many months—since he’d last had a woman. He grabbed on to that explanation like a mongrel with a bone. Of course, that was all this was. His body was simply reacting to her in response to his long abstinence. Why, he’d feel the same if confined in close quarters with any woman. The fact that this... termagant had inspired lustful thoughts just proved that theory.

  He felt considerably cheered until his inner voice chimed in. You spent over an hour alone with Lady Sarah—your fiancée—in the privacy of the dimly lit gallery, and not once did your thoughts stray to that.

  “Did you discover something?” she asked.

  Yes. That you ‘re having the most unsettling, unwanted, uncharacteristic effect upon me. And I don’t like it one bit. “No.” He forced a smile he hoped didn’t appear as tight as it felt. “Just a bit of a cramp from all the crouching.” Nodding toward the pile of artifacts carefully lined up on the blanket, he asked, “Anything interesting in your crate?”

  “All of it is interesting. Fascinating, in fact. But nothing even remotely resembling what we’re looking for.” She waved her hand in an arc encompassing the artifacts spread around her. “This is truly amazing. Incredible that you found all these things. Amazing that they were once held by people who lived centuries ago. You must have been filled with wonder every time you discovered something else.”

  “Yes. Filled with wonder. That describes it exactly.”

  “Did you actually dig these things from the ground?”

  “Some of them, yes. Some were purchased with my own personal funds, others by funds allocated by the museum. And still others were bartered for English goods.”

  “Fascinating,” she murmured. Reaching down again, she picked up a small bowl. “Who would barter away something this beautiful?”

  “Someone who was starving. Someone who may have stolen it. Someone desperate.” Some perverse devil in him prodded him forward, almost as if daring his mind and body not to react to her, as if he required proof that the past few minutes were nothing more than an aberration. He stopped when only several feet separated them. “Desperate situations often force people to act in ways they might not otherwise.”

  Something flashed in her eyes, something dark and pain-filled. In a blink that haunted look disappeared, and if it hadn’t been so stark and vivid, he would have thought he’d imagined it.

  “I’m certain you’re right,” she said softly. She looked at the bowl cradled in her hand and ran a fingertip over the glossy inside. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It looks like flattened pearls. What is it called?”

  “Mother of pearl. I estimate this piece hails from approximately the sixteenth century, and most likely belonged to a noblewoman.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Mother of pearl comes from the inside of mollusk shells and is associated with the moon an
d water, thus making it very feminine in nature. While not as valuable as pearls, mother of pearl was still costly and would have only belonged to someone of wealth.”

  Her finger continued to slowly move over the smooth inside of the bowl, a hypnotic motion that riveted his attention in a way that dispelled his hope that his body would not react further to her. “There’s something so lovely, so magical about pearls,” she said in a soft, trancelike voice. “I recall as a child seeing a painting of a woman with long ropes of lustrous pearls wound through her dark hair. I thought she surely must be the most beautiful woman ever born. She was smiling in the portrait, and I knew the reason she was so happy was because she wore those pearls.” A wistful-looking smile touched her lips. “I told myself that someday I would wear pearls like that in my hair.”

  He instantly imagined her with ropes of the creamy gems wound through her midnight curls. “And have you?”

  She looked up and their eyes met. He could almost see the curtain fall over the glimpse into the past she’d taken as the memories were chased from her eyes. “No. Nor do I expect to. It was merely a childish yearning.”

  “My mother was very fond of pearls,” Philip said. “They were once thought to be the tears of the gods. They are symbols of innocence; therefore, they are talismans for the innocent and are said to keep children safe.”

  “Wouldn’t it be lovely, then, if every child could have one? To feel safe.”

  “Indeed it would.” Something in her voice piqued his already overly inquisitive nature, and he wondered if she was speaking of any child in particular.

  “Did you know,” he said, in an attempt to restart the conversation rather than simply gawk at her, “that the Greeks and Romans believed pearls were born in oysters when a drop of dew or rain penetrated between the shell?”

  The instant the question crossed his lips, he wished he could snatch it back. Surely her eyes would glaze over with boredom at such a topic. He may not have been among Society in a great while, but he recalled—all too well—that stories of historical lore were not popular to discuss with ladies.