Who Will Take This Man?

Eight

Meredith walked along Vauxhall’s graveled South Walk, and attempted to accomplish the impossible: ignore the man walking beside her.

Botheration, how could she hope to turn a blind eye when she was so acutely aware of him? When hints of his clean, masculine scent teased her senses? Lady Bickley and Mr. Stanton strolled several yards ahead, and she focused her attention on their backs with the zeal a pirate would bestow upon a booty of gold coins, but to no avail. Lord Greybourne remained no more than a foot away, and every nerve in her body tingled with that knowledge.

At least being outdoors proved a welcome improvement over sitting opposite him in the confines of the carriage. Seated upon the plush gray velvet squabs in the elegant black lacquer coach, he’d been close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to catch teasing whiffs of his tantalizing scent that filled her with the urge to lean forward and simply bury her face against his neck and breathe. Close enough so that their knees bumped every time the carriage hit a rut in the road. And each time her heart had tripped over itself, shooting unwanted, heated sensations through her.

And that posed a tremendous problem.

Not only for the discomfort those unwanted sensations brought her, but his nearness had rendered her uncharacteristically mute. Thank goodness Lady Bickley had kept up a lively conversation, chatting in an animated fashion about tomorrow night’s party. And thank goodness as well for the coach’s dim interior, which hid the fiery color she knew colored her cheeks.

Unfortunately, she now faced the even more daunting prospect of strolling beside Lord Greybourne in Vauxhall’s enticing atmosphere, which by its very nature lent itself to romance. The fragrant gardens, the dimly lit paths surrounded by stately elms, their foliage festooned with twinkling lamps, the narrow lanes that led to even more dimly lit places where all manner of scandalous behavior occurred…

The mere thought pulsed heat through her, and she was once again rendered mute. Good lord, the man was going to think her a complete nodcock. She should be discussing decorum with him, but the task was impossible when her thoughts were focused on very undecorous matters. Why did he not say something? Toss her some sort of conversational gambit, as she was clearly incapable of thinking of one on her own.

Their shoulders bumped, and she drew in a sharp breath at the contact. She turned toward him, and discovered him gazing at her with such intensity, her stride faltered. Reaching out, he grasped her upper arm to steady her, then brought them to a halt.

“Are you all right, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”

Meredith stared at his handsome, compelling face, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. No, I am not all right at all, and it is entirely your fault. You have me feeling things I do not want to feel. Wanting things I can never have. Desiring you in a way that will lead to nothing but heartbreak.

The warmth of his hand seeped through her gown, heating her skin in a way that begged for her to step closer, press herself against him. Terrified that she would do just that, her mind instructed her feet to step back, away from him-a command her feet blithely ignored.

Swallowing to moisten her dust dry throat, she said, “I… I’m fine.”

“This gravel can be quite treacherous. Did you twist your ankle?”

“No, I merely stumbled. No damage done.”

“Good.” He released her arm with a lack of haste she foolishly fancied might be reluctance. “Would you like to continue walking? Andrew and my sister are quite far ahead of us.”

Meredith turned and noted that indeed the other couple had already disappeared from view. She moved forward, and he fell into step next to her. Other couples strolled along, but without the security of Mr. Stanton’s and Lady Bickley’s presence, Meredith was very much aware of being alone with Lord Greybourne. She quickened her pace.

“Are we engaged in a race, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?” he asked in a voice laced with amusement.

“No, I just thought perhaps we should catch up with Mr. Stanton and Lady Bickley. We would not want to lose them.”

“Never fear. If I know Catherine, she is on her way to secure a prominent supper box. By the time we arrive, Andrew will have already ordered wine, thus relieving me of the burden of choosing a vintage.” He chuckled. “Thank goodness the Gardens are renowned for their excellent wines, as Andrew is most definitely not a connoisseur. Brandy is much more his preference.”

A bit more relaxed now that the mood seemed lightened, Meredith pointed ahead to the three triumphal arches spanning the walk. “At this distance, it almost appears as if the authentic Ruins of Palmyra reside in Vauxhall.”

Philip focused his attention on the arches, vastly relieved to have something to concentrate on other than his companion. After a brief perusal he said, “They are a reasonable facsimile, but cannot compare to the actual ruins.”

“I did not realize your travels spanned to the Syrian desert, my lord.”

Impressed by her knowledge of the ruins’ location, he said, “Syria was but one of many places I visited over the course of the past decade.”

“The ruins were magnificent, I imagine.”

An image instantly crystallized in his mind, so vivid he felt as if he once again stood in the ancient city. “Among the vast array of ruins I studied, Palmyra stands out, mostly because of its sheer dramatic scope. The contrast of color is remarkable, and quite impossible to describe, I’m afraid. During the day the ruins are bleached white by the relentless sun, against an infinite sky so dazzlingly blue it hurts the eyes to look at it. At sunset, shadows fall over the ruins as the sky lightens from that vivid blue to yellow, then deepens to orange, then to an almost blood red. And then the sky would grow darker, darker, until the city simply vanished into the desert night, gone until the sun rose again.”

He turned his head to look at her. She was gazing at him, a dreamy look in her eyes, as if she, too, could see Palmyra as clearly as he. “It sounds extraordinary,” she whispered. “Incredible. Beautiful.”

“Yes. All those things. And more.” His gaze roamed over her face, touching upon each unique feature, settling last on her lovely mouth. He wanted to touch her. Kiss her. With an intensity that he could no longer ignore.

Pulling his gaze from her, he quickly took note of their surroundings. “Come,” he said, placing his hand gently under her elbow to steer her toward a path leading away from the pavilions and colonnade. “It is such a lovely evening, let us walk and talk a bit longer before joining Andrew and Catherine in the supper box. There are several things I’m wondering about, and perhaps you’d satisfy my curiosity.”

He glanced down at her. She blinked rapidly, and the faraway expression vanished from her eyes. “Certainly, my lord. At least I’ll try. What are you curious about?”

“You, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. How is it that you came to be a matchmaker?”

She hesitated for a second, then said, “In the usual manner. At a young age I possessed an innate sense regarding which gentleman and lady among my family’s acquaintances would suit one another, and I enjoyed dropping hints regarding my choices. Amazingly enough, quite a number of my suggestions came to pass. As I grew older, I read the Society pages, and mentally paired off members of the peerage. I would read the banns and often think, heavens, no-he shouldn’t marry her? Lady so and so would be a much wiser match. Soon the village mamas began seeking my advice for their daughters. I eventually moved to London, and little by little my reputation grew.”

Just as it had struck him in the park this afternoon, it was not her words that didn’t ring true, but the manner in which she said them. As if she were reciting a speech she’d memorized. He had the distinct impression that if he asked her the same question two months from now, he’d receive the same answer-word for word. And unlike many women he’d met, he sensed a reluctance in her to talk about herself.

She slid him a sideways glance. “Your father hiring me on your behalf to find you a suitable bride was my most prestigious commission to date.”

“Yet even if you do succeed in finding a woman willing to marry me, I can only do so if I am able to break the curse.”

“I refuse to take a pessimistic view regarding breaking the curse. And I cannot imagine any woman not wanting to marry you.”

He slowed his pace and looked at her. “Indeed? Why is that?”

His question clearly flustered her. “Well, because you are”-she waved her hand around, as if trying to conjure the words she sought from the air-“titled. Wealthy.”

Disappointment and something that felt suspiciously like hurt filled him. Was that all she saw? “And those are the sole criteria you use when arranging suitable matches?”

“Certainly not.” She flashed a grin. “It helps enormously that you have all your hair and teeth.”

“And if I didn’t have all my hair and teeth?”

“I still cannot imagine any woman not wanting to marry you.”

“Why?”

“Are you casting about for compliments, my lord?” Her voice held an unmistakable trace of amusement.

Damn it, he was. Shamefully. He knew he was far from handsome. Knew his years traveling about had tarnished the shine of his manners. Knew his interests would bore any female to tears. Still, he longed to hear her dispute what he knew. She was clearly striving to keep the conversation light, while he conspired to maneuver her into a dark corner. He should be ashamed of himself. Appalled. And he’d strive to dredge up all those proper feelings- after he’d kissed her.

“Do you have any compliments to give, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”

She heaved out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I could think of one. If pressed.”

“Let me guess. My ears do not stick out nor droop like a hound’s.”

She laughed. “Precisely. And there are no warts upon your nose.”

“Careful. Such praise will go straight to my head.”

“Then I’d best not point out that there’s no paunch about your middle. Or that your eyes are-” Her words snapped off as if she’d chopped them with an axe.

“My eyes are what, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”

She hesitated for several heartbeats, then whispered, “Kind. Your eyes are kind.”

Lovely, simple words. Surely they shouldn’t have pumped such heat through him.

Meredith risked a glance at him. He was looking at her with an intensity that turned her throat to dust. Averting her gaze, she swallowed, then said, “It is your turn now, my lord.”

“To give you compliments? Very well. I think you are-”

“No!” The word burst from her lips, followed by a nervous laugh. “No,” she repeated more softly. “I meant it is your turn to tell me how you fell into your present profession as an antiquarian.” Yes, that’s what she’d meant, but a part of her couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been about to say.

“Ah, well, it is interesting that you would phrase it that way, as I literally did ‘fall’ into my love for antiquities. When I was but a lad of five, I accidentally fell into a well at Ravensly Manor, the family’s country estate in Kent.”

“Oh, dear. Were you hurt?”

“Only my pride. Luckily the well was shallow, as I was quite clumsy as a child. I recall one governess who referred to me as ‘The Accident Ship Looking for a Port to Dock.’ She only muttered that under her breath, of course, but I was clumsy-not deaf.”

There was no mistaking the tinge of hurt in his voice, and she instantly recalled the painting hanging over the mantel in his father’s drawing room. A pudgy, bespectacled boy on the brink of manhood. He’d no doubt been a pudgy, bespectacled child as well, one whom the governess thought it was acceptable to call names. Sympathy, along with a healthy dose of outrage on his behalf, swept through her.

“I hope your father showed that governess the door- without benefit of a reference.”

“Is that what you’d have done?”

“Without hesitation. I cannot abide people who say or do hurtful things to those they are supposed to look after, to those who depend upon them. Those who are smaller or weaker than they. It is the worst sort of betrayal.” Her hands fisted as the words flowed, unstoppable, low, and fervent. Embarrassed by her intensity, and praying he did not read too much into it, she quickly said, “So you were at the bottom of the well…”

“Yes, where I discovered gobs of oozing mud. It quite cushioned my fall, but it also ate my shoes. When I lifted my foot, there came this horrible sucking sound. Then my foot, encased only in my stocking, emerged. I plunged my hands into the mud, and discovered it was only about a foot deep. Underneath the mud was a hard substance I realized was stone. I felt around for my shoe, and while doing so, I found something small and round. I pulled it free and managed to wipe off enough of the mud to see it was a coin. Feeling around, I located three more. That evening, I showed the coins to my father. They were made of gold, and appeared to be very old. The next morning we traveled to London, to the British Museum.

“The curator was beside himself over the find, explaining that he believed the coins hailed back from when the Romans invaded Britain in 43 a. d. He said that a Roman soldier may have hidden the coins in the well, but was killed in the fighting before he could return for them. Such a scenario fired my imagination, and from that moment on, I’ve been fascinated by the study of the past and the remains of ancient civilizations. Over the next several years I dug countless holes on the estate’s property, and while most families took the waters in Bath, my father brought me to the Salisbury Plain to see Stonehenge and to Northumberland to explore Hadrian’s Wall. So, like you, I knew my calling from a very young age.”

She hesitated, then said carefully, “I realize this is none of my affair, Lord Greybourne, but it sounds as if you were close to your father when you were a boy. Yet there is no mistaking the tension between you now.”

Several seconds of silence met her observation, and she wondered if she’d offended him. Finally he said, “Our relationship changed when my mother passed away.”

“I see,” she murmured, even though she didn’t. “I’m sorry.”

“As am I.”

“I hope you are able to set aside your differences before it’s… too late.”

“That is my hope as well. However, I’m not certain it’s possible. Some wounds never heal.”

“Yes, I know. But I would urge you to do whatever necessary to mend your relationship with your father. You don’t realize how fortunate you are to have a father.”

“Your father is dead?”

The question hit Meredith like a backhanded slap, making her realize that she’d allowed this conversation to veer down a road she did not wish to tread upon. “Yes, he’s dead.” At least she supposed he was. It was what she told herself. Determined to change the subject, she asked, “Whatever happened to the coins you found in the well?”

“We donated three of them to the museum. I kept one for myself.”

“Do you still have it?”

“I do. Would you like to see it?”

“Very much.”

He paused, lightly grasping her arm to turn her to face him. To her surprise he proceeded to loosen his cravat. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Showing you the coin.” With his cravat unknotted, he parted the edges of his snowy shirt, exposing the column of his throat. Reaching inside the V, he withdrew a chain hanging around his neck from which dangled a small circular object. However, he didn’t pull the chain over his head. Instead he stepped closer, then held out the disk.

She went perfectly still. They stood in a deeply shadowed curve of the narrow pathway, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight sifting through the trees. The noise, music, crowds, and illuminated lamps of the grove were far in the distance, cloaking them in intimacy. A fragrant breeze brushed her gown against his boots. No more than two feet separated them. Two feet that could be erased in one step. One step that would bring her flush against him. She heard him breathing. Could he hear her heart pounding?

Her gaze riveted on the coin he held out to her. Unable to stop herself, she raised her hand, noting that it shook slightly. He settled the coin against her palm. His fingers brushed hers as he did so, sizzling heat up her arm.

Warm. The gold was warm from where it had rested against his skin only seconds before. Her fingers involuntarily closed over the coin, absorbing the heat, pressing it into her palm. Slowly opening her fingers, she stared at the round disk. “I cannot see it very well, I’m afraid.”

He stepped closer. Now only inches separated them. “Is that better?”

“Er, yes.” But she lied. It was so much worse. Now she could clearly distinguish his scent. Feel the warmth emanating from his body. See his bare throat work as he swallowed. Her mind screamed at her to back away, but her feet refused to move. Still holding the coin, she looked up at him. The dim light did not prevent her from noting his serious, intent expression as he stared. At her lips.

He cupped her face between his broad palms and gently feathered his thumbs across her cheeks. “So soft,” he whispered. “So incredibly soft.” He lowered his head, slowly, as if to give her the opportunity to pull away, to end this madness. Instead, she closed her eyes and waited…

Philip brushed his mouth lightly over hers, fighting against the rising urge to simply yank her into his arms and devour her. Instead he gently drew her closer, until her body was flush against his, trapping her hand, which still held the coin, against his chest. He ran the tip of his tongue along her plump bottom lip, and her lips parted, inviting him into the warm heaven of her mouth.

Delicious. She tasted exactly as she smelled-sweet, seductive, and delicious. Like something from the confectioner’s shop. Desire pumped through his veins like a drug, ensnaring his senses. A long, feminine moan sounded from her, and he touched his fingers to her throat to absorb the vibration, while his other hand skimmed down to the small of her back, urging her closer, tighter against him.

She released the coin, splaying her fingers against his chest. She had to feel his heart slapping against his ribs. Had to feel his arousal pressing against her. His tongue explored the silky secrets of her lovely mouth, and the exquisite friction of her tongue rubbing against his nearly brought him to his knees.

More. Had to touch more of her. Without breaking their kiss, he pulled on the satin ribbons securing her bonnet beneath her chin, then pushed the bonnet back, exposing her hair. He sifted his fingers through the thick, silky strands, scattering pins that pinged gently as they hit the graveled ground. Soft. Fragrant. More.

Gently fisting his hands in her hair, he tilted her head back, giving him access to her jaw and the vulnerable curve of her neck. He noted with satisfaction that her pulse jumped wildly against his lips, and he touched his tongue to the frantic beat. With a sigh, she rose up on her toes, sifting the fingers of one hand through the hair at his nape, while the hand that pressed his chest moved upward until the tips of her fingers touched the exposed skin at the base of his throat where he’d parted his shirt.

The feel of her fingers on his skin, touching his hair, undid him. He reclaimed her lips with a need he could not stem, which was fired further by her heated response. The feel of her pressed against him, the taste of her in his mouth pummeled him with fists of hot want and need, stealing his subtlety, vanquishing his finesse. His hands, normally so steady, patient, and calm that they could spend hours piecing together minute fragments of broken pottery, roamed unsteady, impatient, and restless up and down her back.

She shifted against him, her softness rubbing against his erection, and a shudder racked him. He had to stop. Now. While there still remained a remote chance that he could. With an effort that cost him, he raised his head and looked down at her.

Her eyes were closed, and rapid, shallow breaths puffed from between her parted lips. Her dark hair lay in tangled disarray about her shoulders. Longing battered him, but he clenched his jaw and forced himself not to give in to the overwhelming need to kiss her again. Her eyelids fluttered open, and their gazes locked.

Damn. While he welcomed the intimacy and privacy afforded by the darkness, he also cursed it, as it hid the nuances of her expression from him. He wanted to see her eyes. Her skin. Were her pupils dilated? Did a flush of arousal stain her cheeks?

She remained pressed against him, forcibly reminding him of his aching erection. God knows he wanted her- with a ferocity completely unfamiliar to him. Was it simply the fact that it had been so long since he’d had a woman? Or was it this particular woman that had him so painfully aroused?

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to imagine someone else wrapped in his arms, his fingers tangled in her hair, and failed. Utterly. He saw only her. This was not a case of any-woman-would-satisfy-him. Only this particular woman would do.

The silence grew heavy with the need to say something, but what? No doubt a true gentleman would apologize and heartily beg her pardon, but the fact that he’d deliberately lured her into the dark recesses of Vauxhall with the express intention of kissing her proved his gentlemanly tendencies were tarnished. Tarnished? His inner voice scoffed. More like rusted beyond repair. And how could he apologize for something he was not sorry for?

Still, the words echoing through his brain, I want you, I want you, were probably best left unsaid. So he brushed back a tangled curl from her forehead and whispered the one word that hovered on the tip of his tongue.

“Meredith.”

The sound of her name, whispered in that aroused-rough voice, yanked Meredith from the sensual fog surrounding her. She blinked rapidly as reality returned with a thump. Every nerve tingled with awareness, hummed with pleasure. The feminine flesh between her legs felt heavy and moist, and ached with a low throb, made all the more acute by the hardness pressing against her belly. His obvious arousal quashed those rumors that he could not… perform-not that she’d believed them for an instant anyway. And the way he kissed…

God help her, he’d kissed her senseless. How many hours had she lain awake, wondering what it would feel like to be kissed in such a way, trying to bludgeon back her curiosity and desires? She knew all too well where such thoughts led, and it was a path she’d vowed never to follow. Yet she’d allowed Lord Greybourne to lead her into the intimate and private darkness, knowing in her heart that he would kiss her. And desperately wanting him to.

But she had not counted on him making her feel like… this. So alive. So aching. So wanting. And so bereft when he stopped. She’d wanted to know the feel and taste of his kiss. And now she knew. And she wanted more. And that was utterly impossible.

She wished she could claim outrage, brand him a cad, but her honor wouldn’t permit such a patent falsehood, nor allow her to place any blame for what had happened between them on his shoulders. She could have stopped him. Should have stopped him. But she’d chosen not to. And now, as she always had, she would simply have to live with the consequences of her actions. But in this case her actions could well threaten the respectability for which she’d fought so long and hard. What on earth was she thinking to risk it all for a clandestine kiss?

With as much dignity as she could muster, she disentangled her fingers from his thick, silky hair, pulled her other hand away from the warmth of his chest, then stepped back, out of the circle of his arms.

Deftly twisting her disarrayed hair into a passable chignon, she pulled her bonnet back into place, securely tying the bow beneath her chin. “We must go back,” she said, feeling much more in control now that her hair was tidy. Now that he was no longer touching her.

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Lady Bickley and Mr. Stanton must be concerned by our prolonged absence.”

“That is not what I meant.” Reaching out, he ran a single fingertip over her cheek, stilling her with a whisper of a touch. “But I think you knew that. I think you know, as I do, that we cannot erase what just happened between us. That from now on, everything will fall into one of two categories-before we kissed, and after we kissed.”

Those words, spoken in that low, fervent voice, threatened to weaken her still-wobbly knees. Stepping back, out of his reach, she raised her chin and adopted her most brisk tone. “Nonsense. We can and will forget it.”

“I will not forget it, Meredith. Not if I live to be one hundred.”

Dear God, neither would she. But one of them had to be sensible. “Please understand that I accept my share of the blame for this.” She attempted a lighthearted laugh, and was quite impressed with the results. “Clearly the romantic atmosphere adversely affected both our judgments. We must not make such a to-do over a meaningless kiss.”

“You truly believe that? That it was nothing more than the atmosphere? That nothing significant passed between us?” He stepped closer to her, and although he did not touch her, his nearness made her heart skip several beats. “You honestly believe it will not happen again?”

“Yes.” The word sounded forced even to her own ears. “Once can be discounted as simply poor judgment. Twice would-”

“Place it in a different category altogether.”

“Yes.”

“A category labeled ‘a mistake of gargantuan proportions. ’”

“I’m glad you agree.” Relieved that they’d reached an understanding, she plunged on before he could change his mind or further discuss their kiss-a topic she longed to forget. “We really must rejoin the others.”

He inclined his head, and they proceeded back toward the supper boxes in silence. Meredith kept her distance from him, careful not to brush her arm against his. No good could come of this impossible attraction to him. They belonged in different worlds. He was destined to marry a woman of his own class-once he broke the curse. And if he failed to break the curse, he couldn’t marry. Either way, she could only ever be a temporary diversion for him, a plaything to be tossed aside when the games were finished, and she would never allow herself to be that to any man. An image of her mother’s face rose in her mind, and she squeezed her eyes shut. No. She would never make the same mistakes Mama had made. Never do what Mama had done.

Charlotte cracked opened her bedchamber door and peeked into the corridor. The light flickering beneath Albert’s door indicated he’d finally lit his candles and retired for the evening. Assured that she would be alone, she hurried to the kitchen to make herself a much-needed pot of hot, soothing tea. She pushed open the kitchen door and halted as if she’d walked into a brick wall. Albert leaned against the wooden work counter, a biscuit in one hand, a steaming cup in the other hand. Her appearance in the doorway froze his hand halfway to his lips. He appeared as startled and disconcerted as she.

Charlotte’s heart slapped against her ribs as she took in his appearance. His light brown hair was badly disheveled, as if he’d overindulged in his habit of raking his long fingers through the thick strands. The glow from the low burning flame in the grate cast his lean features into stark shadows, accentuating the shading along his jaw-line from the nighttime stubble of his beard. Her gaze traveled downward, and her heart threatened to cease slapping altogether.

He wore the dark blue flannel robe she’d given him for his last birthday, almost a year ago. At the time, she hadn’t thought twice about purchasing such a personal item for him-he was Albert, after all. Part of her family. But after he’d opened her gift, he’d hugged her, pressing a warm kiss to her forehead. Simple gestures of gratitude, nothing more. Yet it was as if she’d taken a blow to the head. He’d never done such a thing before. Indeed, it sometimes seemed that Albert went out of his way not to touch her- as if he sensed her aversion to a man’s hands on her-and she’d appreciated his sensitivity.

That hug and tender kiss to her forehead were the first time in her life a man had ever touched her with kindness and gentle care. With friendship. Without expecting or wanting more from her. It was a revelation, and one that had set her on this destructive course of impossible, unacceptable feelings for Albert.

Her gaze traveled downward, and her mouth went dry. The robe gaped open at the chest, revealing a V of hair-dusted skin. Skin she instantly wanted to touch her lips to. The robe ended just below his knees, revealing his calves, one noticeably more muscular than the other due to his injured leg. His feet were bare. Desire, strong and unwanted, gushed through her, and she bit her bottom lip to contain the moan of longing that threatened to spring free. If she’d been capable of it, she would have laughed at herself and the sheer irony of this situation.

When she’d arrived on Meredith’s doorstep five years ago, badly beaten and pregnant with a child, the identity of whose father she could only guess at, she’d sworn she’d never want another man to touch her again for as long as she lived. And she’d kept that vow. Until she’d given Albert that damnable robe.

God help her, she had to make these feelings go away, but how? He was a loving, caring, decent young man who deserved a beautiful, innocent, adoring young woman. Not a jaded, homely, used-up former whore five years his senior. He knew what she’d been, how she’d lived her life before Meredith took her in. He’d always been kind enough to never throw her past in her face, but that only made her love him more.

“I thought you’d gone to bed,” they said simultaneously.

Charlotte forced a weak smile, trying her utmost not to show how unnerved she was. “I could not sleep. I thought some tea might help.”

He nodded toward the kettle, his gaze never leaving hers. “I already made some. Yer welcome to it.”

Relieved to have something to do that allowed her to turn away from him and busy her hands, Charlotte set about pouring her tea, but her attention remained riveted on the man behind her. She heard him set his cup, then the biscuit, down on the counter. Heard his shuffling gait as he crossed the floor, then stopped behind her.

“Why couldn’t ye sleep, Charlotte?”

He stood close. Too close. It took all of her strength not to step backward until her back touched his chest. “My… my mind is just busy. Wondering how Meredith is faring at Vauxhall. How about you?”

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.