Who Will Take This Man?

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.

“What?”

Edward shook his head. “Nothing. It’s just… his voice. There was something vaguely familiar about it.”

“So this could be someone you know? Perhaps someone who sailed with us aboard the Dream Keeper who knows the value of the contents of the crates?”

“It’s possible, yes. There is something else.” Reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he withdrew a small, wrinkled piece of foolscap, then handed it to Philip. “I found this shoved into my pocket.”

Philip looked at the offering, and he stilled at the brief message: The suffering begins now.

“I don’t like this, Philip,” Edward said. “The bastard made me suffer, no doubt about that, but I can’t help but feel there’s something more… sinister going on here. And why would he want me to suffer? I’ve no enemies that I know of.”

“I think,” Philip said slowly, “that this note may not have been meant for you.”

“As comforting as it would be to believe that, the note was in my pocket, and I’m the one who was pummeled to dust. Who else would it have been meant for?”

“Me.” Philip quickly told him about finding his journals out of place, and the note on his desk. “I asked every member of the household staff if they’d touched my journals. They all denied it, and I’ve no cause to doubt them. This note you found and the attack on you makes it clear that this person is serious. The bastard most likely believed it was me in the warehouse tonight, examining my crates.”

Edward nodded slowly. “Yes, you’re probably correct.”

A sharp edge of guilt sliced through Philip. Damn it, Edward had been hurt because of him. Had the guard, an innocent bystander, been hurt-or worse-because of him as well? Mary Binsmore’s death already lay heavy upon his heart. Would someone else be hurt? If so, who? Father? Catherine? Andrew? Bakari? Meredith? Bloody hell. If someone wanted him to suffer, what more effective way to accomplish that than to harm the people he cared about? The suffering begins now.

Moving to his desk, he withdrew the note he’d received and compared the handwriting. “These were written by the same person.”

“I had the distinct impression that he was looking for something specific.”

“What makes you say that?”

Edward closed his eyes. “It’s difficult to say. It all sort of happened in a blur. But he was muttering things as we fought. Things like ‘It’s mine’ and ‘Once it’s mine, you’re finished.’ ” He opened his eyes. “I’m sorry I can’t recall anything else. Based on the size of the lump on my head, I was hit pretty hard.”

“I’m sorry, Edward. And grateful your injuries weren’t more serious.”

“Yes, it could have been much worse. As much as I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Philip, we need to ask ourselves two questions: What if the thing he spoke of is the missing piece of the Stone of Tears? And what if he found it?”

With Edward’s disturbing questions still buzzing through his mind, Philip instructed Bakari to arrange for transportation for Edward.

“I’ll report the evening’s events to the magistrate before returning home,” Edward promised.

“I still think I should go with you-” Philip began.

“No. There is nothing to be gained by you leaving your guests. I’ll take care of it and report back to you in the morning.”

Philip reluctantly agreed. “All right. I’ll plan to arrive at the warehouse directly after breakfast.” He rested his hand on Edward’s shoulder. “We’ll find out who did this.”

Edward nodded, then departed. The instant the door closed behind him, Philip turned to Bakari. “How serious are his injuries?”

“Most troubling is lump on head and glass embedded deep in back of hand. He’ll hurt, but heal.”

Philip’s relief did nothing to assuage his concern. “There may be… trouble. I want you to take extra precautions.”

Bakari merely nodded. Philip’s request was one he’d heard numerous times during their adventures together. Bakari was well acquainted with trouble, and Philip had every confidence in the man’s ability to circumvent it.

Casting a meaningful glance toward the drawing room, Bakari harrumphed, and Philip nodded. Time to return to his guests. After taking a deep breath to compose himself, he returned to the drawing room. He’d barely set foot in the room when Meredith appeared beside him.

“There you are! Wherever have you been? The waltz is about to begin, and…” She frowned. “Is something amiss?”

His gaze settled on her concerned blue eyes, and his insides squeezed tight. No harm would come to her. Or to anyone else. He would see to it. “Just a small matter that required my immediate attention.”

She studied his face, and he forced his concerns aside-for now-and willed his expression to go blank. Still, some of his turmoil must have shown, for she asked, “Not Mr. Stanton, I hope? Lady Bickley reported he’s feeling under the weather-”

“No, Andrew is safely ensconced in his bedchamber with one of Bakari’s restorative toddies, which will render him cured by morning, I’m certain.” He glanced around the room, noting the speculative gazes resting upon him. “Was I missed?”

“Yes. Everyone’s been asking for you.”

He turned and looked directly at her. “I meant by you.”

Color rushed into her cheeks, charming him, making his fingers itch to reach out and brush over that beguiling blush. “Well, of course. I didn’t know where you’d hidden yourself. Lady Bickley and I were about to form a search party. There’s a roomful of women waiting to receive your invitation to waltz.”

“Excellent. May I have the honor of this dance?”

“Certainly not. I am not here to dance. I am here to-”

“Make certain all these young women believe I’m some sort of fascinating explorer, and to drop hints in gossipmongers’ ears that reports of my inability to… perform are grossly false.”

She cocked a brow. “You make it sound as if that is a bad thing.”

“Heavens, no. What man wouldn’t want a bevy of beauties to think him fascinating?”

“Exactly.”

“And no man wants to be drought of as unable to… perform.”

“Precisely.”

“Between those two recommendations and the fact that I’ve all my hair and teem, not to mention my lack of a paunch, I’m certain I’ve already made great strides with the good ladies in my drawing room.”

“Indeed.”

“Therefore, I insist you dance with me.” Before she could refuse, he leaned a bit closer and confided, “You would be doing me a great service. I’m afraid I’m not a proficient waltzer. If I were able to work out my deficiencies with you, rather than trodding upon the toes of any potential future brides and thus alienating them…” He raised his brows in a meaningful fashion.

She pursed her lips. “Perhaps you are right-”

“Of course I am. Come. The music is starting.” Tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow, he led her to the dance floor.

“It’s a very simple dance,” she whispered. “All you need to do is count. One-two-three. One-two-three. And alternate your feet.”

The quartet struck up a tune. Philip held her one hand raised at the exact proper height, settled his other hand in the precisely proper position on her back, then swept her around the floor. She looked up at him, her beautiful eyes vividly blue, a delicate rose staining her pale skin. Her sweet, delicious scent wafted up to him, and he drew a deep breath to capture the elusive fragrance.

Pie. This evening she smelled like blackberry pie. His favorite dessert. Her turquoise gown accentuated her extraordinary eyes, and while the garment was undeniably modest, it still offered a teasing glimpse of cleavage. His gaze settled on her full, moist lips, and he swallowed a groan.

Bloody hell, so much for keeping things in their proper perspective and his suddenly nonexistent ironclad control. Dancing with her definitely fell into the category of “very poor idea.” Yes, he’d wanted to hold her in his arms, but he had not considered what sweet torture it would be. It required all his concentration to hold her at the proper distance and not yank her against him and bury his face against her tempting skin. To taste her lips. Her lips… God. He gritted his teeth, and counted furiously to himself, one-two-three. One-two-three.

After their third trip around the floor, her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I believe you told me a Banbury tale, my lord. You’re a very fine waltzer.”

He lost count, faltered, then trod upon her toes. She gasped.

“Dreadfully sorry, my dear. You were saying?”

She glared at him. “Lord Greybourne. That little display was very much like the sort of tricks young boys play, a topic I am well versed in. If you think to fool me with such carryings-on, you are destined for disappointment.”

“I would never step on your toes on purpose, Meredith.” Her eyes widened slightly at his use of her Christian name. “However, I must confess I did recently learn the basics of the waltz. ”

“How recently?”

“This afternoon. I commandeered Catherine and forced her to teach me so I wouldn’t disgrace myself this evening.”

“She made no mention of this to me.”

“I asked her not to. I wanted to surprise you.”

“I… see. Well, she did an admirable job. You’ve quite got the hang of it. So well, in fact, that you need not waste any more time dancing with me. Lady Penelope is standing by the punch bowl. I suggest you partner her first.” She steered him toward the punch bowl with a purposeful gleam in her eye, and he, just as purposefully, swung her in the opposite direction.

“I believe you are leading, Meredith. That is the gentleman’s prerogative, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I’m trying to get us to the punch bowl,” she said in a hissing whisper.

“I’m not thirsty.”

“Tongues will wag if you don’t stop dancing with me.”

“Tongues are already wagging about me, so I cannot see that it matters. Indeed, further speculation would no doubt only add to my ever-growing mystique.”

“You are impossible! A quick turn around the floor is one thing, and I appreciate it, as it lends to my credibility that you clearly still have confidence in me and my matchmaking abilities. However, the reality of the situation is that you are a viscount, and I am the hired help, and this dance is quickly approaching the time past what is proper.”

Annoyance skittered through him. “You are my guest. ”

“If you insist upon looking at it like that, fine. Then you will recall that you also have more than two dozen other guests to whom you must now pay attention.” She lowered her gaze for several seconds, then looked back up at him with an expression that nearly stilled his heart. “Please.”

That single, softly spoken plea, combined with the knowing, imploring look in her eyes, told him that more lay behind her request than simply duty to his other guests. Did she find being this close to him as distracting and unnerving as he found her nearness? Was she suffering the same discomfort and longings as he?

Bloody hell, he certainly hoped so. He hated to suffer alone.

But neither could he ignore her request. There were duties he needed to perform for the duration of this party. But this party would eventually end…

With a resigned nod, he steered them toward the punch bowl.

“You must tell us, Lord Greybourne, what you think about”-Lady Emily’s voice dropped to a whisper-“you know what.”

Philip stared at her, certain he’d misunderstood. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, yes, do tell us,” urged Lady Henrietta, with a flirtatious giggle. “Everyone is afraid to talk about you know what, but we understand that you harbor no such fear.”

Philip looked at their expectant faces and inwardly shook his head in stunned disbelief that two such innocent-looking creatures were asking him to discuss sex. “I’m afraid it’s not proper for me to do so.” He swallowed a laugh at how prim he sounded. Wouldn’t Meredith be proud of him?

“We promise we won’t tell,” vowed Lady Emily.

“Not a word. Ever,” seconded Lady Henrietta.

Understanding suddenly dawned. “You want my opinion as an antiquarian?”

The young ladies exchanged a baffled look, then said in unison, “Yes.”

Well, it probably wasn’t strictly proper, but at least these two showed some interest in his study of ancient cultures. Clearing his throat, he began, “The male phallus was frequently depicted in hieroglyphs as a symbol for male virility.”

Lady Emily’s eyes widened to saucers. Lady Henrietta’s mouth dropped open.

Warming to his subject, he continued, “The erect penis, especially, was often used in ancient drawings. While in Egypt I discovered some particularly fine examples-”

“Is everything all right?” asked Meredith, joining the group.

Before he could reply, Lady Emily said in a strained voice, “I need to sit down for a moment.”

“I do, as well,” whispered Lady Henrietta. “Please excuse us.” Arm in arm, the two young women beat a hasty retreat.

“Good heavens, what did you say to them?” Meredith whispered.

“Damned if I know. They asked for my opinion regarding ancient sexual customs-”

“What?”

“I was as surprised as you, believe me, but they insisted. Wanted my opinion as an antiquarian.”

“They actually asked for your opinion about… ”-she cast a furtive glance around, then lowered her voice- “about that? What exactly did they say?”

“They asked what I thought about you know what. I’d barely begun my explanation, which was purely scientific in nature, I assure you, when you arrived.”

Her eyes widened and all the color leached from her face. “Dear God. They must have been referring to Lord Pickerill’s upcoming surprise birthday party.”

He said the only word that came to mind. “Huh?”

“Lord Pickerill’s party. Lady Pickerill has been planning it for months and it’s the latest on dit-besides you. In the hopes of keeping the plans secret from Lord Pickerill, the soiree is being referred to by everyone as you know what. ”

Annoyance skittered through him. “Well, that is not what you know what means. You know what refers to sexual matters. At least it did when I left England ten years ago. Who in God’s name is making these bloody rules?”

Her eyes all but spewed smoke. “The more pertinent question is, what would possess you to discuss such a topic with proper young ladies?”

“You told me to mingle. So I mingled. And you’re still not happy. Has anyone ever told you that you’re very difficult to please?”

“I prefer to call it simply expecting decorous behavior-”

“I’m certain you do.”

“-which unfortunately seems beyond you a good portion of the time.”

“Well, since I seem to have committed such an undecorous faux pas, we can only be grateful that you happened along when you did. Otherwise I no doubt would have shown them the sketches I’d drawn of the hieroglyphs I was discussing.”

“Yes, we can only be grateful.” She drew a breath. “All right, remain calm-”

“I am perfectly calm. You, however, may require a dose of laudanum.”

She shot him a glare clearly intended to incinerate him where he stood. “There must be some way to cast a positive light upon this. If not, dear God, I can see the headline in The Times: Cursed, Impotent Viscount Caught Showing Indecent Sketches to Ladies of the Ton. ”

He glared right back at her. “The sketches depict ancient glyphs and are not indecent, nor did I even show them to the young ladies. And for the last damn time, I am not impotent.”

Although she clearly recognized his anger, she didn’t step back. Rather, she lifted her chin another notch. “Fine. But what we need to concentrate on now is fixing this situation before Lady Emily’s and Lady Henrietta’s mouths run amok and ruin everything. Our best recourse is for you to squelch any rumors before they start, and the best way to do that is with flattery. Lots of flattery. Talk your way around the room, commenting on how both young ladies are so very intelligent and their conversation so stimulating. Applaud their curious natures.” She raised her brows. “Do you think you can do that?”

“I suppose, although I fear it will prove a strain to think of lots of flattering things to say about those two nincom-”

“Lord Greybourne. You will recall that the purpose of this evening is to find you a suitable bride-not to scare off every eligible young woman in the room. Now go undo the damage that you’ve done. And please behave yourself.”

Before he could reply, she glided away, regal as royalty, leaving him gnashing his teeth. He watched her leave the room, her gown swaying against her feminine curves. Damn annoying, dictatorial, autocratic, infuriating woman. A slow smile tugged at his lips. He couldn’t wait until this damn party was over so he could tell her exactly what he thought of her.

With the last of the guests finally gone and his home restored to rights thanks to the army of servants Catherine had engaged and brought from her own home, Philip breathed a sigh of relief. He escorted Catherine down the cobbled walkway to the waiting carriage, followed by Bakari.

“The party was a success,” Catherine said. “Speculation and curiosity about you is rampant.”

“And I gather that is preferable to rumor and innuendo?”

She laughed. “Most assuredly. Um, Miss Chilton-Grizedale apprised me of the”-she coughed delicately into her hand-“you know what situation with Lady Emily and Lady Henrietta.”

“Ah. Well, fear not. Through gobs of insincere flattery I was able to divert a disaster.”

Amusement glittered in her eyes. “According to the rumors I heard, several of the young ladies are ‘cautiously smitten’ with you.”

“How excruciatingly complimentary.”

His desert-dry tone elicited a smile from her. “Considering how dire the circumstances were only days ago, we’ve made good progress. Did any of the young ladies capture your interest?”

“You could perhaps categorize me as cautiously smitten with one of them.”

“Indeed?” Her voice was ripe with interest. “With whom?”

He chucked her lightly under her chin, a childhood gesture he’d never outgrown. “If I told you now, Imp, we’d have nothing to talk about when I visit you tomorrow.”

She stuck out her tongue at him, a childhood gesture she’d never outgrown. “That’s beastly, Philip! I shall expire from curiosity before tomorrow.”

“Yes, well, you know what a beast I’ve always been.”

“Actually, I was the beastly one. But I’m glad someone has gained your attention. Father will be very pleased. He’s been much improved in the past few weeks, anticipating your homecoming and wedding.”

“I’m glad.”

“Have you resolved your differences?”

“Not yet.”

“Don’t wait too long, Philip. Even though he’s experiencing a number of ‘good’ days, he slips a bit further away every day. I’d hate for you to have any regrets, of things left unsaid, when he passes away.”

Sadness, guilt, and remorse reared their heads, glowering at him, but he bludgeoned them back. “Don’t worry, Imp. I’ll make things right.” Then, resting his hands on her shoulders, he said, “I’ve something to tell you. Someone broke into the warehouse this evening and ransacked several of my crates.”

Instant concern reflected in her eyes. “Was anything stolen?”

“I’m not yet certain. I don’t want to alarm you, but it’s possible this may be more than a simple robbery attempt. It might be more personally directed-at me. Promise me you’ll be extra careful and not go anywhere alone. Bakari will see you home.”

Her eyes widened, but she nodded. “All right. I promise. But what about you?”

“I’ll be careful as well.” When she expectantly lifted her brows to an imperious height, he added, “I promise.”

He handed her into the carriage, offering a wave and a reminder to expect him to visit her tomorrow. He then strode quickly back up the walk to face the only guest who remained. Just as he closed the door behind him, Meredith entered the foyer and their eyes met. His heart performed a crazy roll and he had to clamp his jaws together to keep from laughing aloud at himself and his strong reaction to the mere sight of this woman.

“I’ll escort you home after Bakari returns with the carriage,” he said, crossing the marble-tiled floor. “May I offer you a drink while we wait? Perhaps a sherry?”

“Thank you. This time together will also afford us the opportunity to compare notes on the evening.”

“Er, yes, compare notes. That is exactly what I wish to do.”

“So you’ve reached some conclusions regarding the young ladies, then?”

“Indeed I have. Come. Let us retire to my study.”

Philip led the way down the corridor, then closed the door behind them. Leaning back against the oak panels, he watched her cross the room, his eyes drawn to the generous curve of her hips hinted at beneath her gown as she walked. His gaze wandered upward, resting on the vulnerable nape of her neck showing where her lustrous hair was upswept into a Grecian knot. Turquoise ribbons, the same shade as her gown, twined through her curls. God help him, she looked as delectable from the back as she did from the front. What had he called himself? Cautiously smitten? Not bloody likely. There was nothing in the least bit cautious about the feelings this woman inspired.

He expected her to sit on the settee, but instead she appeared to sink out of sight. Concerned she’d fallen, he quickly crossed the room to discover her kneeling on the hearth, tickling her fingers over Prince’s belly, much to the squirming puppy’s delight.

“Is this where you hid yourself all evening, you little devil?” she crooned. “I’d wondered where you were.”

Prince jumped up and planted several enthusiastic kisses on her chin, for which he was rewarded with a cuddle and a delightful sound that could only be described as a giggle. Prince then squirmed free and promptly flopped himself once again onto his back, paws dangling in the air, shamelessly presenting her with his belly to rub, which she did.

Laughing, she looked up at Philip. “I place him firmly in the category of ‘Sweetest Dog Imaginable. ’”

Philip looked at Prince, and he swore the puppy winked at him. Sweetest dog? He’d more likely place the cunning devil in the category of “Smartest Dog in the World.” His gaze riveted on her fingers tickling over the Prince’s belly. Or “Luckiest Dog in the World.”

A vivid image flashed in Philip’s mind, of him and Meredith, naked, lying on the hearth rug, her hands skimming over his abdomen. He instantly swelled against his breeches, and he had to press his lips together to keep from groaning out loud. Blinking to dispel the erotic image, he crossed to the crystal decanters, hoping she wouldn’t notice the slight limp in his gait. He poured himself a brandy, which he tossed back in a single, bracing gulp. After refilling his drink, he prepared a sherry for her, then, feeling much more in control, and thankfully able to walk properly once again, he rejoined her. During his brief absence she’d seated herself on one corner of the settee. Prince lay sprawled beside her, his head resting on her lap, gazing up at her with adoring puppy eyes. As the settee was only long enough for two people-or one person and a dog-Philip opted to stand. Leaning his shoulders against the mantel, he shot a glare at Prince who blithely ignored him. By God, it was a sad day when a man was actually jealous of his dog.

She lifted her cordial glass and smiled. “A toast, Lord Greybourne, to the success we achieved this evening. In spite of that near-disastrous misstep, I have a feeling tonight will result in everything we wanted.”

With his gaze steady on hers, Philip reached out and touched the rim of his glass to hers. The ring of crystal echoed in the quiet room. “To getting everything we want.”

She inclined her head, then took a delicate sip. “Delicious,” she murmured. After setting her glass on the round mahogany end table, she opened her reticule and withdrew a piece of foolscap and a sheet of vellum. While unfolding them, she said, “I jotted down some notes during the cleanup process, which I referenced to the notes I took the other evening regarding your preferences.”

“Very efficient. So you meant, quite literally, for us to compare notes. I’m afraid I failed to take any. But never fear. This”-he tapped his forehead-“is like a sealed dungeon, filled with all my impressions of the evening.”

“Excellent.” She looked down and consulted her two pages of notes. “There are a number of young ladies I feel are suitable; however, one in particular stands out. She is-”

“Oh, let’s not begin with your first choice,” Philip broke in. “Where’s the fun in that? I suggest you begin at the bottom of your list, then work your way up to the grand finale. Makes the anticipation so much greater, you know.”

“Very well. We’ll begin with Lady Harriet Osborn. I believe she is an excellent candidate.”

“No, I’m afraid she won’t do at all.”

“Whyever not? She is an accomplished dancer, and possesses a lovely singing voice.”

“She doesn’t like dogs. When I mentioned Prince, she wrinkled her nose in a way that indicated the beast would be immediately banished to the country estate.”

Prince raised his head at that and issued a low growl, impressing Philip. By God, he very well might be the Smartest Dog in the World.

“See there? Prince wants nothing to do with a woman who would cast him from his home, and I’m afraid I have to agree with him. Who is next on your list?”

“Lady Amelia Wentworth. She is-”

“Completely unacceptable.”

“Oh? Is she not fond of dogs?”

“I’ve no idea. But it doesn’t matter. She is an abysmal dancer.” He lifted one booted foot and waggled it about. “My poor abused toes may never recover.”

“I cannot see how her dancing ability enters into this, especially since I distinctly recall you saying that you yourself were not fond of dancing.”

“Exactly. Your list of my preferences should read that my future bride be an accomplished dancer so as to instruct me. ”

“Surely Lady Amelia can improve her dancing with lessons.”

“Impossible. She possesses absolutely no sense of rhythm whatsoever. Next?”

She glanced down at her list. “Lady Alexandra Rigby.”

“No.”

There was no mistaking the flare of impatience in her eyes. “Because…?”

“I’m not the least bit attracted to her. In fact, I find her most off-putting.”

Confusion replaced the impatience. “But why? She is extremely beautiful and an accomplished dancer.”

“It goes back many years. Her family visited mine at Ravensly Manor the summer I was eleven. Lady Alexandra was two. One afternoon I came upon her in the gardens and caught her eating…” He cleared his throat. “For lack of a more delicate way to say it”-he dropped his voice to a whisper-“rabbit droppings?”

Although she tried to disguise it as a cough, there was no mistaking the horrified laugh that emitted from Meredith’s lips. “She was only two years old, Lord Greybourne. Surely many children that age do such things.”

“I never did any such thing. Did you?”

“Well, no, but-”

He raised his hand, cutting off her words. “It is a most unfortunate image of Lady Alexandra I have never been able to erase from my mind. I’m afraid I must insist you file her under the category of ‘Lips that have touched rabbit poo shall never touch mine.’ ” He waved his hand in rolling motion. “Who is next?”

“Lady Elizabeth Watson.”

“Impossible.”

“Really? Did she also make unfortunate food choices as a toddler?”

“I haven’t a clue. However, I know she makes them as an adult. She smelled like Brussels sprouts.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve a particular dislike for Brussels sprouts.”

“Yes. And cabbage, too, which is why you must cross Lady Berthilde Atkins off your list as well.”

“Because she smells like-”

“Cabbage. I’m afraid so.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Quite unfortunate really, as she had potential.”

“I’m certain Lady Berthilde could be persuaded to adjust her eating habits.”

“I couldn’t dream of asking her to give up-for a lifetime-a food item she is obviously so very fond of. Next?”

She eyed him with clear suspicion. “Do you possess any other strong food aversions?”

He offered her a wide smile. “None that I can think of.”

“All right.” She consulted her list, then looked up at him. “Lady Lydia Tudwell.”

He winced. “Won’t do. She smells strongly of-”

“I thought there were no other food aversions-”

“-brandy, which is not a food. She quite reeked of the stuff. Clearly she…” He mimed tossing back several drinks in quick succession. “On the sly. Completely unacceptable. Next?”

“Lady Agatha Gateshold.”

“No.”

She huffed out a clearly exasperated breath. “We are establishing a pattern here, my lord, that is not lost upon me. However, according to your list of preferences, Lady Agatha is a perfect candidate.”

“I agree. Except for one thing. She carries a tendre for Lord Sassafrass.”

“Sassafrass? I’ve never heard of him.”

He shrugged. “Some foreign title. Italian, I believe. On the mother’s side.”

Doubt was written all over her face. “Lady Agatha made no mention of this attachment to me.”

“Really? I’m certain she meant to. She sang his praises to me during our conversation. ‘Lord Sassafrass this, Lord Sassafrass that.’ It was obvious she was letting me know, in a rather unsubtle way, that she was not interested in me. I’ve certainly no wish to marry a woman who is in love with another man. Next?”

“Well, Lady Emily and Lady Henrietta-”

“Impossible. They both nearly swooned at the mere mention of sexual matters-”

“As any gently bred young woman would.”

“Clearly you do not understand as much about the workings of the ton as you believe. No, neither Lady Emily nor Lady Henrietta will do. I’m certain their delicate constitutions could not withstand the actual act of lovemaking, and I am expected to produce an heir- hardly a feat I can accomplish by myself.”

Color rushed into her face, and she stared at him for several seconds. He arranged his features into the picture of innocence. Clearing her throat, she said, “I distinctly recall you saying that you were not necessarily particular about the bride, so long as she was not overly off-putting. Yet now you seem to be most extremely particular.”

“Hmmm. Yes, I suppose it must seem that way. Who is next?”

“Based on our lack of success thus far, I think I shall simply move to the top of the list and hopefully save us both some time.”

“And who sits upon the top of your list?”

“Lady Penelope Hickam.”

“Ah, yes, Lady Penelope.”

“Lady Penelope possesses each and every trait you yourself said you found admirable in a woman.” Looking down, she consulted her list. “She enjoys music, plays the pianoforte, and sings like an angel. She appeared interested in your field of antiquarian studies, voiced no strong objection to dusty relics, and proved a proficient conversationalist on a variety of topics. Romantic drivel holds no appeal to her, and she is an expert at handling servants and running a household. In addition, she is fond of animals, an accomplished dancer, speaks French fluently, and adores embroidering.” Looking up from her list, she favored him with a triumphant gleam in her eye. Find something wrong with her, that gleam clearly challenged.

“Hmmm. I believe you left one thing out.”

Frowning, she once again looked at her list. Then, with a laugh, she looked up. “Only the ‘classic, willowy beauty.’ I did not mention it, as I felt it unnecessary. Lady Penelope is unquestionably beautiful.”

“I think she’s rather… pale.”

Her eyes widened with obvious disbelief. “She’s blonde?”

“Ah, and therein lies the problem. I prefer dark hair.”

With an exclamation of clear exasperation and impatience, she gently extricated herself from beneath Prince’s sleeping form, then jumped to her feet, clutching her lists. Marching to the mantel, she planted her fists on her hips, then stuck out her jaw at an unmistakably stubborn angle. “What is this nonsense? You most certainly do not prefer dark hair.”

He puckered his face into an expression of bewilderment. “Are you certain? Because I’m quite positive I do. And surely that is something I would know.”

“You are making sport of me, Lord Greybourne, and I do not like it.” She shook her list under his nose. “It is written right here. I wrote it myself the other evening. You said you liked”-she looked at the list, then pointed to the words-“classically beautiful blondes.”

“Actually, it was Andrew who said that.”

“You said nothing to indicate he was mistaken.”

“He wasn’t mistaken. I’d be hard-pressed to name any man who would not admire-however briefly-a classically beautiful blonde. However, I prefer dark hair.”

He heard a tapping sound and realized it was her shoe hitting the stone hearth in a staccato click of clear annoyance. “You made no mention of this the other evening.”

“I confess my preference is of a rather recent nature.”

The tapping increased. “Indeed? How recent? Since I paraded a roomful of ‘classically beautiful blondes’ through your drawing room?”

“No. Before that.”

“When?”

His gaze shifted to her hair. Reaching out, he captured one of the shiny tendrils framing her face, rubbing the glossy strands between his thumb and index finger. The tapping abruptly stopped, and she drew in a sharp breath.

“Do you really want to know, Meredith? Because I can tell you, almost to the exact moment, when my preference changed.”

Everything inside Meredith went perfectly still. His words, the soft, husky voice in which they were spoken, the heat simmering in his gaze, effectively shut her up, halting her breath. Dear God, there was no mistaking his meaning or the desire all but emanating from him in waves. Her heart sputtered back to life with a slow, hard pound so loud it echoed in her ears. So loud he surely must hear it.

“Actually, there was one woman at the party who captured my interest, and, I would very much like for you to arrange another meeting between us.”

She swallowed once. Hard. She had to stop this. Now. “Lord Greybourne, I-”

“Philip. Please call me Philip. Would you like me to tell you about this woman?” Before she could reply-which would have taken a while, considering she could not seem to locate her voice-he said, his fingers still playing with her hair, “Her hair is dark, like a desert night. Its glossy color is like the rich, black soil deposited along the banks of the Nile each year after the spring floods. Her hair is, in fact, identical to yours.”

Desperate to add some levity, to dispel the foglike tension, she attempted a smile. “Are you saying my hair reminds you of dirt?”

Instead of answering, he eased pins from her hair until her tresses spilled over his hands. Stop him! her inner voice commanded, but her lips refused to vocalize the command. All vestiges of mirth disappeared, leaving her floundering in a sea of awareness and aching longing that threatened to drown her. He sifted his long fingers through her curls, and she had to bite down on her lip to keep from purring.

“Dirt? No. Your hair… her hair… is vibrant. Silky. Glossy. Lovely.”

He slowly traced his fingertips over her face. Every nerve ending tingled, and her eyes slid closed at the sheer pleasure of his touch. “This woman who has captured my interest… she is not a classic beauty. Her features are too stark and angular.”

The feathery caress of his fingertip tickled over her lips, and her eyes flew open. His gaze was fixed on her lips with a compelling intensity that sizzled heat straight to her core. “Her mouth is too wide and mobile, her lips too rosy and plump. Yet it is the sort of mouth that inspires sensual fantasies, and distracts me from all the other things I should be thinking about.”

Breathless, heart thumping, she listened, as if in a trance, while his fingers continued their exploration of her face. “Her nose is a shade too wide, and her jaw far too stubborn. Yet she attracts me like no classic beauty ever has. Her smile is enchanting, and illuminates her entire face. She has a tiny dimple, just there”-he skimmed the pad of his thumb over the corner of her mouth-“that winks when she grins. Her skin is like velvet cream stained with peach that deepens and pales in the most fascinating way depending on her mood. And her eyes… her eyes are extraordinary. The same vivid aqua as the Aegean, just as deep, just as fathomless. They are expressive, yet they hide things as well, which only serves to intrigue and bewitch me further. Her features are, in fact, identical to yours.”

He stepped closer to her, drawing her into his arms. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to slip her arms around his waist. He pulled her closer, until their bodies touched from chest to knee. His hardness pressed against her, flooding her with heat that settled between her thighs. Her nipples hardened, and she knew her cheeks flamed bright, knew her eyes and expression and flushed face gave away everything she was feeling. Still, she could not look away from him. From his eyes, the want and need in them magnified all the more by his spectacles. From the muscle jerking in his cheek, a testament to his fight for control-the same fight waging in her, and a battle she very much feared she was on the brink of losing.

He leaned down and kissed the side of her neck. Her eyes slid closed. A long, breathy sigh escaped her, and she tilted her head to allow him better access.

“Her scent,” he whispered, his warm breath caressing her neck, “drives me mad. She smells like fresh-baked goods… warm and enticing, tempting and delicious. How is it that a woman can smell so sweet? Every time I’m near her I want to just take a bite.” His teeth scraped gently against her skin, eliciting a shiver of delight. “Her scent is, in fact, identical to yours.

“And her form,” he continued, before she could catch her breath, “puts that of any so-called classic beauty to shame.” His hands slowly roamed her back, from her shoulders to her buttocks, pressing her closer to him while he continued to trail drugging kisses along her neck, his words breathing heat against her skin. “She fits against me as if the gods fashioned her for me alone. I danced with two dozen women this evening, but she was the only one who felt right in my arms. She felt, in fact, exactly as you feel now.”

He lifted his head, and she instantly mourned the loss of his lips against her. “Meredith. Look at me.”

With an effort, she dragged her heavy eyelids open. He was looking at her as if he wanted to devour her. As if she were the most beautiful, desirable thing he’d ever seen. Surely that should have alarmed her. Brought back her missing common sense. But instead it enthralled her. Excited her. And filled her with the reckless sort of abandon she’d strived to pummel into submission for as long as she could remember.

Keeping one arm wrapped around her, he combed the fingers of his other hand through her hair. “Those golden-haired society diamonds you paraded in front of me this evening all pale in comparison to you. I have never, in my entire life, been so painfully attracted to a woman as I am to you. I cannot stop thinking about you. God knows I’ve tried. After our kiss last night, after I’d tasted you, I thought it would be enough, that I could forget you. But I cannot. That kiss only made me crave more…”

He lowered his head until his lips hovered just above hers. “Is it only me who feels this way, Meredith? Or did our kiss make you want more as well?” His warm, brandy-scented breath touched her, intoxicating her as if she’d actually partaken of the potent liquor. Her heart and mind waged a brief battle, but there was no contest. Raising up on her toes, she spoke a single word against his lips. “More.”

All the pent-up longing and need Philip had held in check erupted like a volcano. He captured her lips in a wild, desperate kiss, all fire and raw need. His tongue caressed the silky heaven of her mouth, while his arms tightened around her. His inner voice tried in vain to inject reason, warning him that he was exhibiting an appalling lack of finesse. But any small chance reason might have had of exerting itself was instantly banished by her heated response.

Lost in a mindless, heated fog, his hands skimmed down her back to cup her rounded buttocks, then raced upward to tangle in the fragrant silk of her hair. One hand then smoothed downward again, tracing her delicate collarbone, absorbing the frantic pulse throbbing at the base of her throat. Then lower, until he cupped the fullness of her breast. Her breath caught, a tiny sound of feminine arousal that tensed every muscle in his body. Her nipple beaded against his palm, and his fingers circled the aroused peak through the thin muslin of her gown.

She squirmed against him, and his erection jerked in response, eliciting an animal groan from him. He cursed the clothing that barred her soft skin from him. He was desperate to touch her. Desperate to have her hands on him. So desperate that in the infinitesimal part of his brain that was still functioning, he recognized that if he didn’t stop this now, he would be unable to stop at all.

Breaking off their kiss, he rested his forehead against hers. Eyes squeezed shut and pulling in ragged, shuddering breaths, he tried to calm his racing heart, but it was damn difficult while her soft body remained flush against his. While her breast still filled his palm. While she still clung to him in a way that indicated her knees were less than steady-much like his own.

After several seconds, he straightened and opened his eyes. And saw nothing but fog. Damn spectacles. Fabulous invention for many pursuits, but kissing was most definitely not one of them. Reluctantly releasing her breast, he lifted his hand to remove the steamed-over lenses, only to feel her small, soft hand halt his halfway to his face.

“May I?” she asked softly.

He wasn’t certain what she was asking permission to do, but he wasn’t about to deny her anything. “Of course.”

She gently removed his glasses, then set them carefully on the mantel. He blinked, feeling very much like an owl. Bloody hell, he no doubt looked like one, too. Since a piece of vellum could not have fit between them, he saw her face clearly. He knew if he took one step backward, she would turn blurry.

After studying his face with unabashed curiosity, the remnants of unmistakable arousal still lingering in her eyes, she said softly, “I’d wondered what you looked like without your spectacles.” She tilted her head from side to side, as if viewing a museum piece When the silence stretched between them, he finally asked, “Well?”

Her lips twitched. “Are you casting about for compliments again?”

“I wouldn’t presume to hope for one. I’m merely curious.”

“You look far less studious. Rather boyish, in fact.” She reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, an intimate gesture that stilled him. “Or perhaps that is just because your hair is disarranged.”

“As is yours. In a very charming way.”

Meredith looked into his brown eyes, at the passion still simmering in their depths, and felt an answering stir in her body. Her common sense coughed back to life, bringing with it all the reasons that she should not be doing this. Drawing a deep breath, she stepped back, out of the circle of his arms.

“Lord Greybourne-”

“Philip. Surely after what we just shared you can call me by my given name.”

Warmth crept up her neck. He looked so incredibly tempting, his hair tousled from her explorations, his cravat askew, his eyes dark with unmistakable desire.

Two steps. It would require only two steps forward for her to be once again wrapped in his strong arms, to feel his warm, hard body against her, to again experience the magic and wonder of his kiss. And the urge to take those two steps was so overwhelming it frightened her. This interlude was something she never should have begun. But since she had and couldn’t change it, it was certainly time that she ended it.

Lifting her chin, she adopted her most businesslike brisk air. “Philip, about what happened here this evening, it was…” Incredible. Intense. Heart-stopping. Frightening.

And impossible.

She cleared her throat. “It was the result of a lapse of judgment on my part.”

“I beg to differ. It was the result of this powerful attraction between us.” He reached out to touch her, and she quickly sidestepped him, moving to put the settee between them. This was difficult enough to say. If he touched her, she feared she’d lose her resolve altogether. He made no further move to touch her; rather, he plucked his spectacles from the mantel and slid them on.

Pressing her hands together, she straightened her back and looked him directly in the eye. “Obviously I cannot deny I find you attractive.”

“Just as I cannot deny I find you attractive.” He shifted a bit. “Painfully so.”

Heat crept up her neck as she recalled the delicious sensation of his hardness pressed against her. “Be that as it may, last night, at Vauxhall, you said, and I agreed, that allowing this to happen again would be a mistake of gargantuan proportions.”

“When I said that, I was merely stating what I thought would be your view of the situation. It was not my view, nor did I agree.”

“Semantics. The fact remains that we cannot act upon this attraction again.”

“Why?”

“Why? Surely you can see this is impossible. There are dozens of reasons why.”

“Then please, share these dozens of reasons with me, for I cannot think of one.” He leaned his shoulders against the mantel, folded his arms across his chest, and crossed his booted ankles. “You have my full attention.”

“You’re making sport of me again.”

“On the contrary, I am very serious. We’ve admitted we are attracted to each other. Even after our kiss last evening, I still thought I could ignore what’s between us, but clearly I am mistaken. I would very much like to see where this attraction leads. You clearly have objections, whereas I have none.”

“But that is the entire point! This attraction cannot lead anywhere.”

“Again, I must ask. Why?”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse? Where precisely do you think it could lead? You are bound by your promise to marry. I am supposed to be finding you a suitable bride. We can hope that in a matter of mere days you will have a wife. Please, let us be honest with each other. There is absolutely no room for me in your life. The only two possible outcomes for this attraction are utterly impossible-I cannot marry you, and I won’t be your mistress.”

Silence, thick and heavy, descended between them, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock. Nearly a minute passed before he spoke. “Just out of curiosity, assuming I am able to break the curse and marry at all, would marrying me prove such a dreadful hardship?”

The quiet note of underlying hurt and confusion in his question tugged at her heart in a completely unacceptable way. A lump clogged her throat, forcing her to swallow twice before she could trust herself to speak. “Whoever you choose will be a very fortunate woman. I’ve no doubt you will be a wonderful husband and… father. And that woman will, of course, be of impeccable breeding and from a station similar to yours. I am, obviously, not that woman. And even if I were, as I’ve told you before, I’ve no desire to ever marry.”

“A statement I find most curious. Why do you harbor this aversion to the one thing most women aggressively strive for?”

If you only knew… “I am very satisfied with my life exactly as it is. I enjoy my work and the measure of independence it affords me. In addition, Albert, Charlotte, and Hope depend on me, and the feeling is mutual. I would never do anything to disrupt the close-knit family we’ve built. As for the other option-”

“Becoming my mistress?”

“Yes. I refuse to endanger my reputation, as it would harm not only me, but my family as well. I fought too long and hard to earn my respectability to risk it.”

His gaze turned questioning, and she instantly realized she’d said too much. To forestall any questions, she rushed on. “I’ve learned that it is futile to look back, to wallow in regrets. We can only move forward and hope to learn from our mistakes.”

“An admirable philosophy, yet I hear the voice of experience there, Meredith. What sort of mistakes have you made?”

“We all make mistakes,” she said, forcing her tone to remain light. “My most recent one occurred only moments ago in this very room.”

He stared at her with an unreadable expression for several heartbeats, then blew out a long breath. “Well. One of the things I liked about you right from the start was your ability to state things in a clear, concise manner.” He inclined his head in salute. “You’ve quite outdone yourself this time.”

Guilt, for the hurt in his voice, and profound regret that things could not be different, collided in her. Drawing a deep breath, she said, “I’ll always treasure what we shared, Philip. I’m not sorry it happened. We simply cannot allow it to happen again.”

Yet even as the words passed her lips, her inner voice yelled, Liar! For she was sorry. Deeply sorry. For herself and the torment the memory of his kiss, his touch, would bring to her. And deeply sorry because those few precious moments in his arms had opened the floodgates to the feminine yearnings she’d so carefully guarded for all these years, making her ache with needs and desires she knew would haunt her long into the lonely nights ahead.

She’d told him she didn’t wallow in regrets, but she knew that tonight, once she was tucked under the covers, she would allow herself one night to wallow, to grieve for her past that would forever keep her from having a man like Philip.

Not trusting himself to be alone with her, Philip arranged for Bakari to accompany Meredith home. Before she left, he explained what had occurred at the warehouse, and cautioned her to be careful. After watching his carriage disappear down the darkened street, he sat on the settee, next to the still-sleeping Prince. Propping his elbows on his knees, Philip lowered his head into his hands.

Bloody hell, what a night.

Pushing aside his conflicted thoughts regarding Meredith for the moment, he turned his attention to the matter he’d forced aside for the bulk of the evening-Edward’s disturbing revelations. Who had attacked him? Had he stolen anything? If so, what? And why? A knot formed in his stomach. Surely it couldn’t be the one item Philip sought. The suffering begins now… Bloody hell, what did that mean? He didn’t know, but he was determined to find out who was behind this. He’d arrive early at the warehouse and assess the damage. He hoped Andrew would feel well enough to accompany him.

Pulling off his spectacles, he rubbed the heels of his palms against his forehead as thoughts of the other part of the evening bombarded him. The party. Granted, most of the young women had been pleasant, and all were undeniably beautiful. Unfortunately, not one had kindled the least spark of interest in him.

Except Meredith.

What had she meant about fighting too hard and long for her reputation? Had it been compromised at some point? Something in her voice when she’d spoken of mistakes led him to wonder exactly how serious some of her past mistakes might have been.

But did any past mistakes really matter? No. Meredith Chilton-Grizedale was without a doubt the woman he wanted. There were some things you could fight, and others you simply could wage no defense against. There was no doubt which category Meredith fell into.

Now he just needed to decide what the bloody hell he was going to do about it.