WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN?

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  The instant the question left her lips, she longed to snatch it back. What if he couldn’t sleep because he’d been thinking about some beautiful young thing he was smitten with? He’d never spoken of anyone, but she knew all about young men his age and the urges that ruled them.

  “I couldn’t sleep, because, like ye, my mind was busy.”

  She drew a deep breath, summoned her courage, then turned to face him.

  He stood no more than two feet away from her. “Are you worried about Meredith?” she asked. “It is after midnight.”

  “No. If she were alone with that Greybourne bloke who looks at her as if she were a pork chop and he were a hound, I might be. But other folks are there. Actually, it’s you I’m worried about, Charlotte.”

  “Me? Whatever for?”

  “Ye haven’t seemed yourself lately.”

  Dear God, had she revealed herself? “In what way?”

  He frowned. “Can’t explain it exactly. Like yer out of sorts. With me.” His gaze searched hers. “Have I done somethin‘ to upset ye?”

  “No. I’ve merely been tired lately.”

  “I can see that. Ye’ve circles under yer eyes.” Before she realized what he was about, he reached out and brushed the tip of his index finger under her eye. She drew in a sharp breath at the heat his feathery touch shimmered through her. Jerking her head back, away from his hand, she pressed her hips against the counter and leaned as far away from him as possible.

  He slowly lowered his hand. There was no mistaking the stricken look in his eyes. “Charlotte... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...” He dragged unsteady hands down his face. “But surely ye know I’d never hurt you.”

  Shame filled her that her reaction would make him think for even an instant that she’d believe he’d hurt her. But how could she tell him that she’d rejected his touch not because she didn’t trust him, but because she did not trust herself? Unable to form a word around the lump in her throat, she merely nodded.

  None of the tension left his expression or stance. “I’m glad ye know that. And I’d never let anyone else hurt ye. Not ever again.”

  What was left of her heart simply melted. He looked and sounded so fierce, like a robe-garbed warrior defending his castle. “Thank you, Albert.” She’d certainly had no intention of touching him, but somehow, of its own volition—perhaps because she wanted to so very badly— her hand lifted, and she laid her palm against his cheek.

  The instant she touched him she realized her grave error. Her gaze riveted on the provocative sight of her hand resting against his face. His skin was warm, and the stubble of his beard lightly abraded her palm. The urge to stroke her fingers over his cheek, to explore the stark panes of his face, overwhelmed her. And she might well have given in to the temptation... but then she realized he’d gone completely, utterly still. A muscle jumped spasmodically beneath her fingers, indicating he clenched and unclenched his jaw. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if he were in pain—the sort of pain one suffered when placed in a grossly uncomfortable situation. Like being touched by someone you did not want to touch you.

  Embarrassment and humiliation scorched her, and she snatched her hand away as if he’d turned into a pillar of fire. To her further mortification, hot tears pushed at the backs of her eyes, threatening to spill over. She needed to get away from him.

  “I... I think I heard Hope,” she said, grasping at the first excuse that came to mind. “I must go. Good night.” She ran from the room, not stopping until she’d reached the safety of her bedchamber.

  What an impossible situation. She could not continue living like this much longer. Her only hope was to avoid him completely, but how could that be accomplished while they lived under the same roof? If she remained, it was only a matter of time before she gave herself away. Yet she had nowhere else to go. She ached at the thought of leaving here, the only true home she’d ever known. Of taking Hope away from Meredith and Albert. Of taking herself away from them. What on earth was she going to do?

  Just before one a. m., after safely delivering first Meredith, then Catherine to their respective residences, Philip pushed aside the green velvet draperies in his private study. After yanking off his cravat, he removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his hands down his face. A knock sounded at the door, and he blew out a resigned sigh. He had no desire to rehash the evening, but knew there was no point attempting to put off the conversation. “Come in, Andrew.”

  Andrew entered the room, closing the door behind him. He crossed the maroon and gold Axminster rug, pausing at the brandy decanters. “You look as if you could use some revivification. Would you like one?”

  Philip lifted the snifter he’d set on his desk. “Beat you to it.” Watching Andrew pour himself a fingerful of amber liquor, he mentally counted off the seconds. Five, four, three, two, one...

  As if on cue, Andrew said, “Clearly the evening did not go as you’d hoped.”

  “On the contrary, I thought the orchestra quite good.”

  “I was not referring to the music.”

  “Ah. Well, it’s true the food was only adequate, and the portions quite sparse, but as none of us were particularly hungry, it did not bother me.”

  “Nor was I referring to the food.”

  “The wine was excellent—”

  “Nor the wine. As you damn well know, I meant Miss Chilton-Grizedale.” He gently swirled his brandy. “Where did you two disappear to?”

  “Were you worried about us?”

  “Actually, no. Your sister expressed some concern, but I assured her you merely wished to discuss the finding of your future bride with Miss Chilton-Grizedale in private. I then, with my usual wit and charm, managed to keep Lady Bickley’s attention diverted until you returned... looking a bit disheveled, I might add.”

  “It was quite breezy.”

  “Yes, I’m certain that it was the breeze which rendered Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s lips swollen and rosy, and retied your cravat in a different knot than the one you’d sported prior to your walk.”

  Unease slithered down Philip’s spine, along with self-recrimination. Damn it all, he should not have risked kissing her in a public place, regardless of the fact that he’d done so under the cover of darkness, hidden away from prying eyes. The last thing he wanted was to further harm her reputation.

  “Did anyone else notice, do you think?” he asked. “Catherine—?”

  “No. You both did an admirable job of looking perfectly innocent when you rejoined us. I only noticed the differences because I was looking for them. I’m not trying to pry, Philip. I’m merely trying to help. It is obvious you are out of sorts.”

  Philip tossed back a swallow of brandy, relishing the burn that eased down his throat. Perhaps Andrew could help. Could talk him out of this insane attraction to a woman he barely knew. “This woman you care for... how long were you acquainted with her before you knew how you felt about her?”

  A humorless sound erupted from Andrew. “I’m guessing you want me to say I knew her for months or years, and that my feelings developed slowly over time, but it was nothing like that. It was more like a lightning bolt struck me. She affected me in ways I’d never before experienced the instant I laid eyes upon her.” He stared down into his brandy, his voice taking on a rough, almost angry edge. “Everything about her fascinated me, and each detail I learned about her only served to deepen my feelings from that first initial attraction. I wanted her until I ached, both physically and mentally. She was everything I wanted....” Andrew looked up and his lips quirked with an attempt at humor that did not quite reach his eyes. “You have no idea how many times I imagined the untimely demise of her husband. In some very inventive ways, I might add.”

  “And if he were to meet with such a fate?” All vestiges of humor were wiped from his expression. “Nothing would stop me from making her mine. Nothing.”

  “But what if the lady did not share your feelings?”

  “Is that what has you
out of sorts? You believe Miss Chilton-Grizedale is not enamored of you? Because if so, you are wrong. She is accomplished at hiding her feelings, but they are there, if you know where to look. And to answer your question, if the lady did not share my feelings, or needed some persuasion, I would court her.”

  “Court her?”

  Andrew looked toward the ceiling, shaking his head. “Bring her flowers. Spout poetry. Compose something called ‘Ode to Miss Chilton-Grizedale Upon a MidSummer’s Evening.’ I know romance is not in your scientific nature, but if you want the woman, you must adjust. But before you do, ask yourself how far you plan to let this flirtation go, and where is it going to leave her—and you—when it’s over.”

  A knot tightened in Philip’s stomach. Kissing Meredith had been a gross breach of propriety, but still he’d wanted more. If they’d been in a more private setting, would he have been able to stop himself from taking further liberties with her? God help him, he did not know. She certainly deserved better than to be lured into the shadows of Vauxhall. She deserved to be properly courted by a proper gentleman—

  His teeth clenched. Damn it, the thought of another man touching her, kissing her, courting her, surged jealousy through him. Unfortunately he had not planned on his heart and thoughts being engaged by the woman in charge of helping him find his bride. No, he had not planned on Meredith.

  Andrew cleared his throat, pulling Philip from his brown study. “If you wish to court her—”

  “No. I don’t. I cannot. Nothing could come of it.”

  “Why not?”

  Philip raked his hand through his hair. “I’m in no position to court her. I’m supposed to be concentrating on finding a bride. A woman from my own social class.” The words sounded hollow and supercilious even to his own ears. “Honor dictates that I do so, to keep my promise to my father.”

  Andrew raised his brows. “And did you specifically promise your father to marry a woman from the upper echelons of your lofty Society?”

  “No... but it is expected.”

  “And since when do you always do what is expected of you?”

  Philip couldn’t help but emit a short laugh. It was time to put this evening’s events into their proper perspective. Meredith aroused his curiosity and interest. He’d wanted to kiss her, and he’d satisfied that urge. As she’d pointed out, it was not something they would allow to happen again. He simply needed to keep his hands and his lips to himself. He was a man of ironclad control. He could do anything he set his mind to.

  Before Philip could doubt that thought, Andrew said, “Of course the entire subject of marriage will be moot if we cannot break the curse. How many more crates remain in the warehouse to search through?”

  “Twelve. How many at the museum?”

  “Only four.”

  Sixteen crates. Would one of them contain the missing piece of the Stone of Tears? If so, he would soon be married to some woman from his own class. If not, he would be forced to face a future alone. Both prospects equally filled him with dread.

  Nine

  Meredith stood in the shadows of Lord Greybourne’s drawing room and observed the festivities. If judged solely on the attendance, the party was a raging success. Out of the two dozen invitations issued, they’d received not even one refusal. The room was filled with a bevy of lovely unmarried ladies, all properly chaperoned, of course, all of them either interested in, or at the very least, curious about, Lord Greybourne.

  Her gaze panned around the room until it located the guest of honor, Lord Greybourne himself. When she saw him, her heart lurched in that annoyingly familiar way it had every time she looked at him, only this evening her heart lurched and skipped several beats. Resplendent in formal evening attire, with even his cravat properly tied, he took her breath away. His thick chestnut hair gleamed under the light cast by the crystal chandelier, lit with dozens of beeswax candles. He’d clearly tried to tame his hair into submission, but an errant lock fell over his forehead. He stood near the fireplace, engrossed in conversation with Countess Hickam and her daughter Lady Penelope. Lady Penelope was a diamond of the first water, and very sought-after since her coming out last Season. With her shining blond beauty, angelic singing voice, and family fortune behind her, Lady Penelope was a stellar choice for a bride for Lord Greybourne. Indeed, the only reason Meredith had chosen Lady Sarah over her was because of the advantageous landholdings that marriage would have resulted in.

  Now Lord Greybourne appeared engrossed in whatever Lady Penelope was saying to him. And Lady Penelope appeared equally engrossed, her perfect complexion highlighted to optimum advantage by the candlelight, her gown displaying an enviable curve of bosom, her perfect blond hair coiffed in flattering curls about her perfect face, her wide, cornflower-blue eyes gazing up at Lord Greybourne with innocent adoration.

  Damnation, Meredith wanted to march across the room and just slap all that perfect blue-eyed blondness. She hated the feelings edging through her, and although she longed to he to herself about what they were, she’d learned long ago that while she could tell falsehoods to other people, there was no point in telling them to herself. And the unvarnished truth was that she was jealous. Spectacularly jealous. Jealous to the point that she could cheerfully imagine packing off every single one of these vapid marriage-minded twits on the next ship to some very faraway locale. Indeed, any one of them would make a perfectly respectable wife for Lord Greybourne. And that made her detest each and every one of them even more. Watching them flutter their eyelashes and fans at him, giggling and flirting, made her want to break things. Namely assorted blondes’ arms, legs, and noses.

  Drawing a deep breath, she gave herself a severe mental shake. Very well, there was no denying she felt like a cat who’d been dunked in the lake and was now being petted the wrong way. But she could hide her jealousy and frustration, as she hid so many other things. Lord Greybourne was a client. And the sooner she saw to his marriage, the sooner her life could resume some semblance of normalcy.

  * * *

  The quadrille had just ended when Philip caught sight of Bakari standing in the doorway, his gaze panning the room. When their gazes met, Bakari nodded once. Excusing himself from Lady Penelope, Philip made his way around the perimeter of the room. When he reached Bakari, he asked, “What is it?”

  “Your study.”

  Philip studied him for several seconds, but as always, Bakari’s expression remained inscrutable. “Where were you earlier?” Philip asked. “I looked into the foyer several times, but you weren’t here.”

  “Stepped away.”

  Philip raised his brows, but Bakari offered nothing further, instead turning on his heel and heading back toward the foyer. Mystified, Philip walked down the corridor and entered his private study, closing the door behind him.

  Edward stood near the French windows, tossing back a brandy. Philip started toward him. “Edward, how are... ?” His voice trailed off and his footsteps faltered as Edward turned to face him. His one eye was swollen shut, his cheek badly bruised, his bottom lip sporting a mean cut. A white bandage encircled the knuckles and palm of his right hand. “Good God, man, what happened to you? Let me fetch Bakari—”

  “He’s already seen to me. Cleaned me up and bandaged my hand and ribs.” Edward winced. “Hurts like a bastard.”

  “What the devil happened? Who did this to you?”

  “I don’t know who.” He started pacing, with short, jerky steps. “As for how it happened... I couldn’t sleep. I’m exhausted, but I can’t sleep.” He paused to look at Philip through haunted eyes. “Every time I close my eyes, I see her.”

  Pity and guilt stabbed Philip in the gut. “I’m sorry, Edward. I—”

  Edward held up his hand. “I know.” He took a long swallow of brandy, then continued. “I decided that rather than spend the night in useless pacing, I’d put my time to use by going through a crate of artifacts. I went to the warehouse and set to work.”

  “The warehouse? How did you get in?”
/>
  “The watchman. I trust that is not a problem.”

  “No, of course not. I’m just surprised.” He spread his hands. “I didn’t realize watchmen were such trusting creatures.”

  “Normally it would have surprised me as well, but I was acquainted with the bloke—name of Billy Timson. Seen him at the pub a number of times. He showed me to your crates, and I set to work. I’d been at it for an hour or so when I heard someone come up behind me. I turned around to find a stranger. Holding a knife.”

  Philip’s stomach fell. “Did you recognize him?”

  “No.” Edward’s pacing increased in speed. “He wore a black mask. Covered his entire head, except for his eyes and mouth. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. He said, ‘I want what’s in the crate.’ ” Edward halted and stared at Philip with a bleak expression. “I fought him... I tried. I managed to get the knife away from him. Kicked it under a crate. But he was too strong. Must have knocked me out. When I came around, I was alone. He’d clearly searched through the artifacts in the crate I’d been working on, as the area was ransacked.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “It looked as if several pieces were broken, and some may be missing. I could not tell. I tried to leave, but the doors were secured from the outside—the bastard must have locked me in. The only way for me to escape was to break a window. I tripped and fell in the glass in my haste to get out. I looked around for Billy, but didn’t see him. He must have gotten away. Then I ran until I managed to find a hack and get here. I’m sorry, Philip....”

  Philip laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Don’t apologize, please. I’m just thankful you’re all right. You are all right, aren’t you?”

  “According to Bakari, yes. Nothing broken. A cracked rib. Some bruises. Head hurts like the devil.” He gently rubbed his bruised jaw. “Bastard had fists like bloody bricks.” He appeared about to say something, then stopped.