Who Will Take This Man?

Eleven

Only nine crates remained.

By six o’clock that evening, they’d completed searching through three more crates-without success. Discouraged, Philip called the work to a halt. His muscles ached, his damp shirt clung to him like an uncomfortable second skin he longed to shed, and hunger he couldn’t ignore much longer grumbled in his stomach. Indeed, the work effort would have ended hours earlier if Meredith hadn’t had the foresight to bring a basket filled with biscuits, scones, cheese, jam, and jars of cider.

He had no intention of quitting for the day, but some food and a change of clothing were in order. Besides, he couldn’t expect anything more from his father, Meredith, or Goddard today. They’d all worked the entire day without a single word of complaint. He’d made his father take several breaks, but the earl appeared to thrive with the work, and was reluctant to quit each time Philip insisted he rest.

In addition to eating and changing his clothes, Philip also wanted to catch up with Andrew, who either was still not feeling well, or had gone to the museum. There was much they needed to discuss.

His father, followed by Goddard, headed down the long walkway toward the exit. Before Meredith fell in behind them, Philip asked, “May I have a word with you, Meredith?”

Goddard halted, looking over his shoulder at Meredith with a questioning gaze.

“It’s all right, Albert,” she said with a tired smile. “I’ll be along in a moment.”

With a nod, Goddard continued down the walkway.

When he was certain he couldn’t be overheard, Philip walked toward her, halting when only two feet separated them. Streaks of dust marred her creamy cheeks and grayed her lustrous dark hair, to say nothing of the havoc her labors had wrought upon her brown gown. She looked tired, rumpled, and dirty. Yet even as guilt slapped him for causing her untidy state, he couldn’t deny that even tired, rumpled, and dirty, he found her more appealing than any perfectly turned-out female he’d ever seen. His fingers all but itched with the desire to grab hold of her and rumple her further.

“I want to thank you for your tireless help today- yours and Goddard’s-and for thinking to bring a hamper of food and drink. I’m afraid I tend to forget such mundane matters as hunger and thirst when I’m embroiled in something. Your forethought falls in the category of ‘sheer genius. ’”

She favored him with a tentative smile. “Thank you, but the truth is it falls more into the category of ‘self-preservation.’ I deduced we’d be here for most of the afternoon, and further suspected that no one would think of food or drink until we were all faint from hunger. I knew if I were the first person to suggest we abandon our work to seek out sustenance, I would be branded a-”

“Hothouse flower?”

“Precisely. And clearly my plan worked beautifully, for rather than categorizing me as a ‘limp, weak, female,’ you believe I’m a genius.”

“Well, your offering was much appreciated, and absolutely delicious. One of the finest meals I’ve had in ages.”

“That’s only because you were so hungry. I’d wager that even if I’d served you sawdust patties you would have gobbled them up with nary a complaint.”

“Hmmm. You may be right. But be that as it may, you quite saved the day, and in return for your generosity in providing me with such a wonderful meal, I would like to return the favor. Will you dine with me tomorrow evening?”

Wariness filled her gaze. “Dine with you?”

“Yes.” His lips quirked upward. “I’m certain you don’t mean to look and sound so horrified. I promise you won’t be served sawdust patties.”

He could see that she meant to refuse him. Before she could do so, he added, “This would be a perfect opportunity for me to get better acquainted with some of the ladies from last night’s party.”

She blinked twice, then a look of unmistakable relief, which he found most discouraging, passed over her features, instantly followed by what could have been a flash of disappointment, which he found most encouraging. “Oh! You mean to invite other people to join us?”

“I shall write the invitations myself. I think eight is a nice number for a dinner party-you, me, and six other young ladies. I’ll look over last night’s guest list and make my choices. May I count on you to come?”

“Yes. I’d be delighted.”

“Excellent. I’ll send Bakari ‘round in my carriage to pick you up. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

“That will be fine.” She looked at him for several seconds, then said quietly, “Philip… I’m glad that you’re taking steps to further your acquaintance with these young ladies. Any one of them will make you an admirable, respectable wife.”

“I’m counting on it, Meredith. We both want me to choose an admirable, respectable wife, and rest assured, I plan to see that we both get exactly what we want.”

When Philip arrived home, Bakari informed him that Andrew had spent the day at the museum and was still not home. Philip ordered a hot bath, and while he waited for the tub to be filled, he retired to his private study with Bakari and took the edge off his appetite with several slices of freshly baked bread and a wedge of cheese.

After bringing Bakari up to date on the day’s proceedings, he said, “I have a bad feeling, Bakari, this missing gypsum vessel might be the very thing we’re searching for. And you know how my bad feelings have a disturbing propensity for proving correct.”

Bakari shuddered. “The sandstorm in Thebes, the storm off Cyprus, the grave robbers in Cairo-don’t remind Bakari.”

“I find it extremely odd that it was the only thing missing, and you know I’m not one to put faith in coincidence. I didn’t dwell on my concern, as I did not want to alarm the others. And I refuse to give up hope. There are still nine crates at the warehouse, and the Sea Raven with her cargo of the remaining artifacts will, I hope, arrive in the next several days. Perhaps this gypsum vessel was indeed a boat.” He raked his hands through his hair. “Damn it all, I should have made the connection. I can only pray that this doesn’t prove to be the most costly error of my life.”

“Bakari pray, too,” the small man said in a grave tone Philip recognized all too well. It was Bakari’s “I’ll pray for all I’m worth, but it probably won’t do much good” voice. Bloody hell.

After finishing off his last bite of bread, Philip said, “There’s something else I need to discuss with you. I’d like you to arrange a small, intimate dinner party for tomorrow evening. Mediterranean-style.”

Bakari’s black eyes glittered. “Intimate?”

“Yes.” Philip outlined what he wanted, knowing Bakari would commit his instructions to memory and carry them out to the letter. When he finished his instructions, he rose. “My bath must be close to ready by now. By the time I’m finished, Andrew should be home. The dinner hour draws near, and it isn’t like him to miss a meal.”

Sure enough, when, freshly bathed and clothed, Philip entered the dining room forty-five minutes later, Andrew was seated at the cherrywood table, enjoying a bowl of what appeared to be a hearty soup. Nodding at the hovering footman to bring him the same, Philip slid into the chair across from Andrew, whose clothing and hair bore evidence of dust and grime.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better.”

“Not nearly as glad as I am.” His gaze flicked over Philip’s clean clothes and still damp hair. “I envy you your bath. I requested one, but I had to eat first. I think I quite horrified your staff by reporting to the dining room looking like something that’s been dragged across a dusty floor. Thank God Bakari is here to act as a buffer, else I think I’d have been tossed outside.”

After the footman set a steaming bowl in front of Philip, Philip dismissed him. He and Andrew ate in concentrated silence for several seconds before Philip spoke. “As you didn’t pounce the moment I walked in with the good news that you’d found the missing stone, I assume today’s search at the museum was unsuccessful?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Only three crates remain. Edward assisted me, at least as well as he could with his injured hand. He told me what happened last night. Nasty business. He’s lucky he lived to tell the tale. Said he thought some artifacts were broken during the scuffle.”

“Sadly, five were. However, it could have been much worse.”

Andrew shot him a questioning look. “Was anything stolen?”

Philip filled him in on the day’s events, reporting the guard’s death and the missing gypsum vessel. “Damn it Andrew, I should have made the connection.”

“I looked those ledgers over, as did Edward and Bakari. None of us picked up on it, Philip. Stop blaming yourself.”

Philip nodded absently. “Clearly the same person is responsible for the robbery and the threatening notes. I need to discover his identity before anyone else is hurt. Toward that end, I’m planning to hire a Bow Street Runner to investigate. I think the person responsible is most likely someone who sailed on board the Dream Keeper with us. Someone who is familiar with the artifacts and the curse.”

Andrew studied him for several seconds, then said, “Why not let me conduct the investigation? Edward can handle the remaining crates at the museum. I’m already acquainted with everyone from the Dream Keeper, and you know I’m capable of ferreting out information.”

“Yes, you proved that when you recovered the stolen Aphrodite statue in Athens, and you’re certainly capable of defending yourself should the need arise. You’re certain you want to do this?”

“Yes. I want this bastard stopped as much as you do. I’ll begin tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Relieved, and confident that Andrew would hunt down the truth, Philip said, “I also had an interesting conversation with Meredith’s friend and butler, Albert Goddard, today.” He briefly outlined the story Albert had related about how he’d come to live with Meredith.

“Goddard’s fortunate to have survived such a horrid childhood,” Andrew said grimly. “Clearly there’s more to your Miss Chilton-Grizedale than meets the eye.”

“Yes, the lady is something of an enigma. And you know how I enjoy a puzzle.”

“Is that what you intend to do? Enjoy her?”

“Actually, I’ve decided to take your advice.”

“As well you should, since I am, ahem, rarely wrong. Er, which piece of wisdom, exactly, have you chosen to follow?”

He eyed Andrew over the rim of his wineglass. “I’m going to court her. Before I met Meredith, I was fully prepared to marry a woman I didn’t know to honor my agreement with my father. Now that I must choose someone else to be my wife, I’d prefer to marry someone I… like. Someone I desire.”

“A wise decision. I couldn’t imagine marrying someone I didn’t know. Of course, it would be undeniably better if you more than… liked Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

“I barely know her.”

“From where I stand, you know all you need to. But liking and desiring her are certainly a good start. Since the sweeping romantic gesture is not your forte, I’d be happy to offer a few suggestions.”

Philip narrowed his eyes. “Contrary to what you believe, I have made several such gestures before.” Several? his inner voice snickered. Fine. None. But he’d certainly thought about it, had meant to make such a gesture. He’d just never met a woman who’d inspired him to do so. Until now. “And toward that end, I’ve invited Meredith to join me here for dinner tomorrow evening.”

“A dinner party? I’d love to come.”

“Pity. You’re not invited.”

“Ah. So it is that sort of party. Not to worry, I’ll toddle off and make myself scarce. Believe I’ll go back to Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Emporium. Quite enjoyed it last evening, and I’d like another crack at it.” A lazy smile lifted one corner of Andrew’s mouth. “Great way to work out the frustrations-pounding the piss out of someone in the ring. You know how I love a good fight.”

“Last evening?” Philip’s gaze dipped to Andrew’s hand, and for the first time noticed the swollen, bruised knuckles. “I thought you’d taken to your bed.”

“I had. I fell asleep after drinking Bakari’s concoction, and awoke feeling much improved. Decided to head out and see something of the city. I recalled you mentioning Gentleman Jackson’s during one conversation or another, and I decided to pay the establishment a visit.”

“My father thought he saw you out and about, but I assured him it wasn’t you. My relief knows no bounds that there aren’t two of you running amok in London.” A frown pulled his brows. “I wonder why Bakari didn’t mention you’d gone out.”

“I slipped down the servants’ stairs so as not to disturb the party.”

“You were welcome to join us.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure; however, I was afraid if I attended, all the ladies who were there for your perusal might be swept away by my fascinating American charm.” He coughed modestly into his hand. “Didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Believe me, you were welcome to the lot of them. Save one.”

“Hmm, yes. Miss Chilton-Grizedale. You may have fancied a young lady before, but I’m sure you realize there’s a difference this time.”

Philip nodded slowly. “Yes. This time it matters.”

“Courting her will prove a challenge, especially since all her energies are focused on finding you a bride.”

A slow smile pulled at Philip’s lips, and he lifted his wineglass in salute. “Ah, but she needn’t bother, as I’ve already chosen one. Besides, you know how I love a challenge.” He glanced at the mantel clock. “And speaking of challenges, are you up for some crate-searching at the warehouse tonight?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent. And while we’re in the East End, on our way home, let’s stop in a pub.”

“Sounds intriguing. Are we looking for something- besides trouble?”

“Information.”

“About…?”

“A chimney sweep named Taggert.”

The following morning, her eyes gritty from lack of sleep, Meredith sat in the gig, staring straight ahead while Albert handled the reins. He appeared lost in thought, for which she was grateful, as her own preoccupation rendered her silent.

Philip. Damnation, she had to stop thinking about him. But how? Last night he’d occupied every corner of her mind-which was bad enough, but it was the way he’d occupied her mind that was so unsettling.

She kept imagining stripping off his clothes, then running her hands over his warm flesh, exploring every muscle and plane. Then Philip returning the favor, slipping her gown from her body, his mouth and hands touching her everywhere, then making love to her with slow, languorous, exquisite care.

The images had danced in her head all night, invading her dreams when she’d managed to doze off. She’d lain in her bed, alone, heart pounding, her body tense with longing and frustration, the flesh between her thighs aching and moist. In the past, whenever such yearnings had gripped her-to experience the passion of a man’s kiss, the feel of his hands on her skin, the sensation of him inside her body-her fantasy lover had been merely a nameless, faceless figment of her imagination. And therefore dismissable.

Philip was no figment of her imagination.

He was a flesh-and-blood man who appealed to her on every level. She liked him. Liked his easy smile and teasing demeanor. The intelligence so evident in his warm brown eyes. His passion for his antiquarian studies. Admired the part of him that had rescued a helpless puppy, and the kindness with which he’d treated Hope. His acceptance and thoughtful understanding of Albert’s affliction. It had not escaped her notice that Philip had assigned Albert tasks that accommodated his disability. Botheration, she even found his stubbornness and flouting of propriety-which was, thank goodness, growing less frequent-no longer overly off-putting. In the short time she’d known him, he’d engaged her sense of humor, her curiosity, her mind, and God help her, her body. If she were looking for a man for herself, she would certainly not need to look any further…

Reality came back with a jarring thump. She was not looking for a man for herself. And even if she were, Philip, engaging though he was, was an impossible choice. Why could she not seem to remember that? Thank goodness, after their talk the night of the soiree, he clearly realized that she was not that woman, as proved by this evening’s dinner party. He’d abandoned his pursuit of her, gone over the list of young ladies, and found six that interested him. Excellent.

A sensation that felt uncomfortably like a cramp gripped her stomach. Excellent? She was nothing but a bald-faced liar. She wasn’t glad at all. She was miserable and jealous and wanted to hiss at any woman who touched him. The thought of him making love to one of those perfect, young, nubile, blond beauties made her want to scream.

A wave of resentment washed over her, drowning her in its wake. Resentment that she could not allow herself to hope for a relationship with a man like Philip. That she could not tell him the truth as to why. Resentment that decisions that had been made years ago, that she’d had no hand in making, still ruled her life and would until she drew her last breath. Resentment that she could never be more to him than a mistress. While such an arrangement would satisfy her physically, it would destroy her emotionally, forcing her to give up the respectability she’d fought so hard for, not to mention the pain she’d suffer when their affair ended, as it inevitably would. She knew all too well how such arrangements worked. And the fate that faced a discarded mistress. She couldn’t allow that to happen to her. Not after she’d run so far to avoid it. Never again.

Surely after tonight’s dinner party Philip would make his choice for a bride. As soon as the curse problem was solved, as it certainly would soon be-she refused to believe otherwise-the wedding could take place. All that could happen within a matter of days. Only a matter of days, and then she’d never have to see Philip again. And that was very good. Her heart tried to refute that statement, but her mind flattened her heart’s attempt like an insect. And as for tonight’s dinner party, she’d simply concentrate on her role as matchmaker by ensuring that the conversation remained lively, but she’d otherwise remain in the background.

Drawing a deep breath, she straightened her spine, grateful that she’d managed to realign things into their proper perspective. Especially since they’d almost arrived at the warehouse. “I appreciate you escorting me to the warehouse and helping search through the crates, Albert.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Miss Merrie. ‘Specially since it seems like somethin’ evil’s afoot, wot with the robbery and all. Lord Greybourne asked that I be extra careful watchin‘ over ye.”

They arrived at the warehouse minutes later. Meredith walked into the vast building, marching through the dust motes dancing in the warm air, fully intent upon concentrating on the search and ignoring Philip. Her good intentions took a serious jolt when she turned the final corner and found herself staring directly at him.

It appeared he’d been at work for some time, for a film of dust covered his mussed, sun-streaked brown hair, and his glasses had slid halfway down his nose. He’d discarded his jacket and cravat, and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. He looked nothing short of delicious. Dear God, this was going to be an excruciatingly long day.

Over the course of the morning, Meredith immersed herself in cataloging the artifacts, her tension at being in such proximity to Philip tempered by her wonder and delight at the pieces of the past she held in her hands.

About an hour into their work, a gentleman arrived who was introduced to her and Albert as Mr. Edward Binsmore. Meredith recognized the name as that of the gentleman whose wife had died, allegedly as a result of the curse. He appeared tired and drawn, his dark eyes bleak pools of misery, and his palpable sadness kindled her sympathy. Clearly his wife’s death had affected him deeply.

After the introductions, Mr. Binsmore looked around, then frowned. “I thought Andrew would be here.”

“He’s conducting some inquiries to discover who is responsible for the robbery,” Philip said.

“Oh? Has he made any progress?”

“He only started this morning. I’ll let you know if he discovers anything.”

“Good. Speaking of discovering things… I finished cataloging the remaining crates at the museum before coming here.” Mr. Binsmore shook his head. “There was no sign of the missing piece of stone.”

Philip’s jaw tightened. “There’s still hope it may be amongst the remaining crates here. And if not, there’s still the items on the Sea Raven, which is due to dock soon.” He dragged his hand down his face. He looked so worried, Meredith had to fight the urge to go to him, to touch the crinkle between his brows, to enfold him in a commiserating hug.

Work resumed, with Meredith and Albert working on one crate, Philip and Mr. Binsmore on yet another. She could easily identify many of the pieces, as a large percentage of them were recognizable items such as vases, bowls, and goblets. Although it slowed down the process, she couldn’t help but cradle each precious piece in her hands for several seconds, closing her eyes, trying to imagine to whom it had belonged, and what that person’s life in an ancient civilization, in a distant land, had been like.

She froze as her senses suddenly recognized his presence directly behind her.

“I do the same thing,” Philip said softly, walking around so that he faced her. He offered her a lopsided smile that she found far too endearing. “I touch these things and my mind wanders as I try to envision who owned them and what their lives were like.”

Heart thumping, she returned his smile. “I’d just decided the spoon and ladle had belonged to an Egyptian princess who spent her days dressed in fine silks while her every whim was pampered to.”

“Interesting… and intriguing. A silk-clad princess whose every whim is pampered to. Tell me, does that reflect your own desires?”

Heat sluiced through her at the mere mention of desires, especially when the object of hers was looking at her with compelling, dark brown eyes. “I think a small part of every woman secretly dreams of that. Indeed, I’m certain most men also dream of having their every whim pampered to, also.”

He offered her a broad wink. “Especially by a silk-clad princess.”

A genuine laugh escaped her. Then, noticing that Mr. Binsmore was regarding them with a curious expression, she sobered and pointed to an item resting on the corner of the sheet. “I set that aside,” she said, “because I was not certain what it was.”

Crouching down, he picked up a metal instrument shaped very much like a question mark. “This is a strigil. It was used by ancient Greeks and Romans for scraping moisture off their skin after bathing.”

Their eyes met, and something seemed to pass between them. A secret, silent, private message that made it seem as if they were the only two people in the room. She instantly recalled her vivid fantasy of yesterday, of removing his dusty clothing and bathing him, her soap-slick hands gliding over his naked, aroused body. Heat crept up her neck, made all the worse because she knew he saw the flush staining her cheeks.

“The Romans were famous for their warm-water baths, and frequent bathing in the healing waters was an important part of their culture. Therefore, the strigil was a very common bathing utensil. When a person was done bathing, she would run the strigil over her skin like this.” He gently pulled her arm until it was outstretched, rested the curved part of the strigil against her gown, just above her elbow, then slowly scraped the instrument toward her wrist.

“Of course,” he said softly, “you wouldn’t be wearing any clothing, having just come from the bath.” Still holding her hand, he continued, “The strigil was also used to remove oil from the skin. Oil was massaged onto women’s bodies; then, after an hour or so, the strigil removed the excess oil, leaving behind soft, fragrant skin.” As he said soft, fragrant skin, his thumb gently caressed the back of her hand.

Looking into his eyes, a myriad of images rolled through her mind. Of him, and her, in ancient Roman times, naked in the bath. Of him massaging oil over her body. Touching. Kissing. Philip laying her down on the warm tiles…

“Are you imagining them using the strigil?” he murmured in a low voice clearly meant only for her ears. “Picturing them in the bath? Rubbing oil on each other?”

She had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “Them?” Good heavens, had that throaty sound come from her?

“The people in your imagination. Ancient Romans… or perhaps not?”

There was no mistaking the speculation in his eyes, and she quickly pulled her hand from his and averted her gaze lest he read her true thoughts.

Adopting her most brisk tone, she said, “Thank you for the edifying lesson, Lord Greybourne. I shall check the strigil off on the ledger.” With that, she pointedly applied her attention to the ledger with the zeal a master chef would bestow upon a prized recipe. Risking a quick peek at him from beneath her lashes, she watched him lean down to replace the strigil on the sheet, then walk over to discuss something with Mr. Binsmore.

She breathed out a sigh of relief. Good. He now stood way over there. She could forget all about him and concentrate on her work.

Except she could still hear the low-pitched timbre of his deep voice as he spoke to Mr. Binsmore. Could still feel the warm imprint of his hand where it had held hers. Still feel the lingering tingle where his thumb had caressed her skin. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for this morning and afternoon to end. A humorless sound lodged in her throat. Morning and afternoon to end? Why, yes. So then she could look forward to spending the entire evening in his company as well.

By God, she’d been right. This was going to be a very long day.

Late that afternoon, Philip called a halt to the work. Everyone was dusty, and tired, and sadly their efforts had not yielded any sign of the missing piece of the Stone of Tears. Forcing aside his discouragement, he wiped his hands on a rag, then approached Goddard.

“A moment of your time?” he said, inclining his head toward the office.

Surprise flashed in Goddard’s eyes, but he nodded. Once the two men entered the office, Philip closed the door. He watched Goddard limp to the center of the room, then turn to face him with a questioning expression. “Well?” the young man asked.

“I’ve learned something I think you might find interesting.”

Goddard’s eyes turned wary, and Philip wondered what secrets he was hiding. “Why do ye think I’d find it interestin‘?”

“Because it concerns a chimney sweep named Taggert.”

What appeared to be relief flashed in Goddard’s eyes. Interesting. But the emotion was almost instantly replaced with bitterness, followed by a flicker of fear.

“Taggert?” Goddard’s voice resembled a growl. “Only thing of interest I’d want to know about him is that the bastard is dead.”

“He is. Died last year, in debtor’s prison, where he’d spent the final two years of his life.”

All the color seemed to drain from Goddard’s face. “How do ye know this?”

“I asked some questions of the right people.”

“The right people? Only way you and Taggert would have any people in common would have been if he’d stolen from yer fancy friends.”

“It wasn’t my fancy friends I questioned. I found several acquaintances of Taggert’s at a pub near the docks.”

Goddard’s eyes narrowed. “Why were ye askin‘ about Taggert?”

“Because I thought you’d want to know. Because if I were you, I’d have wanted, needed to know. I wouldn’t want him always in the back of my mind, wondering if he might someday find me. Or if I might see him on the street. And be tempted to wrap my hands around his neck and kill him on the spot. I didn’t want him to have that power over you. He’s dead, Goddard. He can’t hurt you or any other child ever again.”

Confusion flickered across his face. “How did you know-?”

“Because it’s exactly how I would have felt.”

Goddard’s hands clenched at his sides, and his throat worked. A sheen of moisture glittered in his eyes, and he squeezed them shut. “I wanted to know,” he whispered. “But I was terrified to try to find out. Terrified that it might somehow get back to him that someone were askin‘ about him, and he’d put it together. Might do somethin’ to hurt Miss Merrie. Or Charlotte or Hope. He were an evil, heartless bastard, and I couldn’t risk that he might touch our lives in any way. But it ate at me, always there in the back of my mind. Was he waitin‘ ’round the next corner? Would he recognize me? I wondered… God help me, I wondered.”

“You don’t have to wonder any longer. You’re free, Goddard.”

The young man opened his eyes. He made no move to wipe the tears dampening his face, and Philip pretended not to see them. “I’m not certain wot to say to ye… except that ye have my thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” With a nod, Philip turned to leave, but Goddard’s voice stopped him.

“Why would ye do this? Risk yer safety goin‘ to such dangerous places for me-someone ye barely know?”

Philip studied him for several seconds, debating how truthful to be, then sighed. Nothing less than the full truth would do. “Because the story you told me about how Taggert treated you affected me deeply. Not only due to the horrors you suffered, but it made the slights and humiliations I endured as a lad, which until that moment had seemed important, pale into insignificance.”

Goddard raised his brows. “Who’d slight a rich bloke like you?”

“Other rich blokes. But there’s one other reason, Goddard.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re important to her. And she’s important to me.”

By the time Meredith handed over her bonnet and cashmere shawl to Bakari that evening, she had her emotions well in control. She would make certain to maintain her distance from her host, keep the conversation rolling, and concentrate on the other female guests. Then escape as soon as possible.

She followed Bakari down the corridor, surprised when they walked past the doors leading to both the dining and drawing rooms. He halted at the very last door. “What room is this?” she asked, mystified.

“Private study.” His black-eyed gaze searched hers for several seconds with an inscrutable expression. “Hope you like.”

Before she could question him further, Bakari knocked on the oak-paneled door. A muffled voice answered from within, and Bakari opened the door.

“Miss Chilton-Grizedale,” he said solemnly, indicating she should enter.

With her best impersonal smile firmly in place, Meredith crossed the threshold. And froze.

Private study? This room in no way resembled a study. Indeed, she felt as if she stood inside an opulent tent. Yards of jewel-toned silks and satins covered the walls, draping from a central point in the ceiling, pooling in luxurious puddles upon the floor. She reached out and touched a hand to the fall of burgundy silk covering the wall nearest the door. Except for Madame Renée’s Emporium, Meredith had never seen such an abundance of beautiful material.

Her gaze slowly panned the room. A gorgeous rug, woven with an intricate design she did not recognize, covered the floor. A cozy fire burned in the grate, casting the room with intriguing shadows. A half dozen low-slung tables were scattered about the room, the flickering glow of dozens of candles of varying heights reflecting off their dark, polished surfaces. A low, rectangular table nestled before the fire. Covered silver platters rested upon the table, as did an array of both stoneware and sparkling crystal goblets. Massive tasseled pillows in deep sapphire, emerald, topaz, and ruby flanked the table, and were strewn invitingly all about the room, urging one to recline upon their soft, plump, decadent depths.

Only two other pieces of furniture decorated the room: an ornate changing screen in the far corner, and a beautiful chaise lounge in the opposite corner. Her heart tripped over itself when she spied Philip standing in the shadows next to the chaise lounge.

“Good evening, Meredith.” His deep voice sent a tingle down her spine, and although she meant to return his greeting, she could not seem to dredge up her voice. And just when she might have done so, he thwarted her attempt by moving toward her with his graceful, sleek gait that instantly reminded her of a predatory jungle cat.

Her eyes widened at his attire. Instead of a proper linen shirt and cravat, a loose-fitting shirt that appeared made from silk covered his broad upper body, leaving his tanned throat bare. His shirt was tucked into… She swallowed.

Instead of proper breeches, he wore loose-fitting, midnight-blue trousers that appeared to be held onto his body with nothing more than a drawstring at the waist. Soft brown leather boots encased his feet. With his perennially mussed hair, he looked dark and dangerous in a way that raced blood through her veins. Only his spectacles reminded her that this wildly attractive man was a scholarly antiquarian-or they would have, if the lenses hadn’t magnified the compelling heat emanating from his gaze.

He stopped when less than three feet separated them. His gaze never wavering from hers, he offered her a formal bow, then took her hand and pressed a warm, lingering kiss to her fingers. The touch of his mouth against her skin sizzled heat and awareness through her like a lightning bolt, which, although unsettling, at least served to rouse her from the stupor into which she’d fallen.

Cheeks burning, she snatched her hand away, then backed up. Unfortunately, she’d retreated only two steps when her shoulders hit the closed door. Even worse, he erased her two backward steps with a single long-legged stride that brought him close enough to touch. Close enough to breathe in his clean, masculine scent. A feeling akin to panic-peppered with a dose of indignation- skittered through her.

“What on earth are you doing?” she said in a hissing whisper, wiping her hand on her gown in a vain attempt to erase the lingering tingle of his kiss. “And why is your study decorated in such a… a decadent fashion? And what on earth are you wearing? Good heavens, what will your guests think?” She cast a quick glance around the room. “And where exactly are your guests?”

“So many questions. As for what am I doing-do you mean when I kissed your hand or right now?” Before she could answer, he continued, “I kissed your hand in greeting, and right now, I am simply admiring how lovely you look. The room has been transformed to resemble a tent, similar to one belonging to a wealthy Egyptian trader I met during my travels. As for my attire, it is what I grew accustomed to wearing while abroad, and I can attest it is infinitely more comfortable than English clothing. As for what my guests will think, I anxiously await your opinion.”

“It is scandalous. All of it. An absolute disaster looms upon the horizon.” She swept her hand in an arc, her fingers inadvertently brushing his arm as she encompassed the entire room. She pulled her hand away as if she’d touched fire. “Have any guests other than me seen this?”

“No.”

“Thank goodness. Now you must go and immediately don some proper clothing before the other guests arrive.”

“All the guests have arrived.”

Her relief vanished like a snuffed-out candle. “Dear God. If any of those proper young women get wind of these seductive dinner arrangements…” She briefly squeezed her eyes shut, unable to bring that scenario to fruition. “Where are they? I’ll keep them entertained while you dress and-”

He cut off her rush of words by resting a single fingertip against her lips. “Meredith. All the guests, the only guests, are here, in this room.”