Who Will Take This Man?

Four

Meredith sat upon the luxurious gray velvet squabs of Lord Greybourne’s coach, and studied her traveling companion. At first she’d done so covertly, from the corner of her eye as she’d feigned looking out the window at the shops and people lining Oxford Street. However, his attention was so wrapped up in studying the contents of the worn leather journal setting upon his lap, she soon abandoned the ruse and simply looked at him with frank curiosity.

The man sitting across from her was the complete antithesis of the boy in the painting hanging in the drawing room at his father’s London townhouse. His skin was not pale, but a warm, golden brown that bespoke of time spent in the sun. Golden streaks highlighted his thick, wavy dark brown hair that was once again haphazardly coiffed, as if his fingers had tunneled through the strands. Indeed, even as the thought crossed her mind, he lifted one hand and raked it through his hair.

Her gaze wandered slowly downward. Nothing about the adult Lord Greybourne could be described as soft or pudgy. He looked lean and hard and thoroughly masculine. His midnight-blue cutaway jacket, in spite of its numerous wrinkles, hugged his broad shoulders, and the fawn breeches he’d changed into emphasized his muscular legs in a way that, if she were the sort of woman to do so, might induce her to heave a purely feminine sigh.

Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to heave feminine sighs.

In further contrast to his youthful self, although his clothing was finely made of quality cloth, Lord Greybourne projected an undone appearance, no doubt the result of his askew cravat and those thick strands of hair falling over his forehead, in a fashion which, if she were the sort of woman to be tempted, might tempt her to reach out and brush those silky strands back into place.

Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to be tempted.

He looked up and their eyes met, his surrounded by round, wire-framed spectacles. In the painting, Lord Greybourne’s eyes had appeared to be a dull, flat brown. The artist had utterly failed to capture the intelligence and compelling intensity in those eyes. And there could be no denying that Lord Greybourne’s countenance was no longer that of a youth. All the softness had been replaced by lean angles, a firm, square jaw, and high cheekbones. His nose was the same-bold and blade-straight. And his mouth…

Her gaze riveted on his lips. His mouth was lovely in a way that she had not noticed in the painting. It was full. And firm-yet somehow appeared fascinatingly soft at the same time. Just the sort of mouth that, if she were a different sort of woman, might entice her to want to taste.

Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to be enticed.

“Are you all right, Miss Chilton-Grizedale? You look a bit flushed.”

Damnation! She snapped her gaze up to his and arranged her features into her most prim expression. “I’m fine, thank you. It is merely warm in the carriage.” She resisted the urge to lift her hand to fan herself. Just as well, as, with her luck, she’d lift her hand and swing her stone-laden reticule around and cosh herself on the head with it. Instead she nodded toward the journal resting on his lap.

“What are you reading?” she asked, refraining from pointing out his lack of manners in ignoring her. Clearly she would need to pick her battles with this man, and her inner voice cautioned that having him ignore her might be in her best interests.

“I’m searching through a volume of my notes from my travels. I’m hopeful that I may have made a notation or sketch at some point that might provide a clue.”

“Have you had any success?”

“No. My notes fill over one hundred volumes, and although I examined them during my return voyage to England to no avail, I was hoping that perhaps I might find something I’d missed.” He closed the book, then tied a length of worn leather around it.

“What do your notes contain?”

“Sketches of artifacts and hieroglyphs, descriptions, folklore and stories told to me, personal observations. Things of that nature.”

“You learned enough to fill more than one hundred volumes?” An incredulous laugh escaped her. “Heavens, I find it a chore to compose a single-page letter.”

“In truth, I experienced more than I could ever have time to record in writing.” An expression that seemed to combine longing and passion entered his eyes. “Egypt, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Morocco… they are impossible to adequately describe, yet they’re so vivid in my memory, if I close my eyes, I feel as if I am still there.”

“You loved those places.”

“Yes.”

“You did not want to leave.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“His services? Is your friend an antiquarian?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You sound as if you speak from experience.”

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

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

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

As my betrothed betrayed me with another,

So shall the same fate befall your lover.

To the ends of the earth

From this day forth,

Ye are the cursed,

Condemned to hell’s worst.

For true love’s very breath

Is destined for death.

Grace will fall, a stumble she’ll take,

Then suffer the pain of hell’s headache.

If ye have the gift of wedded bliss,

She will die before you kiss.

Or two days after the vows are said,

Your bride, so cursed, shall be found dead.

Once your intended has been lo

Nothing can save her from

There is but one key

To set the cursed f

Follow the b

As she

And

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The warehouse is just ahead,” he reported.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m afraid not.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The listing may only read ‘alabaster box’ without listing the actual contents of the box.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A woman who was not his fiancée.

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

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

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

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

“Is something amiss, Lord Greybourne?”

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

“You groaned. Did you hurt yourself?”

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

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

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

“Did you discover something?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How do you know that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But her eyes instantly lit with unmistakable interest. “Really?”

“Yes, although the ancient Chinese adhered to an even more unusual theory. They believed that pearls were conceived in the brains of dragons. They were very rare gems, and therefore guarded between the dragon’s teeth. The only way for the pearl to be taken was to slay the dragon.”

“I’m certain the dragon had something to say about that.”

Looking at her, her eyes bright with amusement, he couldn’t suppress the grin pulling at his lips. She certainly didn’t seem such the autocratic termagant now, what with those streaks of dust in her hair. Indeed, he could not recall the last time he’d felt such an easy camaraderie with a woman, at least a proper Englishwoman. In his youth he’d always felt awkward and clumsy in their presence, as if he’d tied a knot in his tongue. Even as a young man, before he’d left England, he’d always lacked the smooth sophistication and charming finesse so many of his contemporaries displayed. Thankfully he’d outgrown his awkwardness and shyness as he’d matured during his years abroad, and been exposed to other cultures.

His gaze roamed her face, slightly flushed, no doubt from the overly warm air in the warehouse. A bit of dirt marked her cheek, and without thinking, he reached out to wipe it off.

The instant his fingers touched her smooth cheek he realized his error. Her skin was like velvet cream. So incredibly soft. And pale. His hand looked dark and rough next to her complexion, as if it didn’t belong there. Which it most emphatically did not.

Feeling like a complete ass, especially given the way she’d gone perfectly still, except for her eyes, which widened to the size of saucers, he lowered his hand and stepped back. “There was a smudge of dirt on your face.”

She blinked several times, as if coming out of a trance, and hectic color stained her cheeks, enchanting him far more than it should have. Bloody hell, this… whatever it was… attraction, awareness, whatever name he assigned to it, was no aberration. And whatever had sparked this attraction, he consigned it to the devil.

A shaky-sounding laugh escaped her, and she, too, retreated several steps. “Quite all right. Heaven knows I don’t want to be going about with a dirty face.”

He desperately searched his mind for something, anything, to say, but damn it, the only thing he could focus on was horrendously inappropriate, even for him. He could hardly ask, May I touch you again? Gone was the ease he’d felt only moments before. In a heartbeat this woman brought back all the awkwardness he’d thought he’d conquered. Just another reason to dislike her. And he did dislike her. Didn’t he?

The fact that his fingertips still tingled where they’d brushed against her skin did not bode well for the disliking her theory.

Just as it occurred to him that the growing silence was becoming oppressive, the sound of a door slamming startled him from his Miss Chilton-Grizedale-induced stupor. A deep voice called out, “Are you here, Greybourne?”

Philip drew in a shaky, relieved breath at the interruption, but then frowned. “That sounds like Lord Hedington.” Raising his voice, he said, “Yes, I’m here. Near the back.”

“Perhaps he brings word of Lady Sarah.” There was no missing her hopeful tone.

“Yes. Lady Sarah.” Your fiancée. The mother of your future children. The woman who should be occupying your thoughts.

Meredith pressed her lips together and, leaning down, brushed at a bit of dust clinging to her gown in an effort to collect herself. She hoped Lord Hedington was here with news regarding Lady Sarah, but regardless of his reason, she thanked the stars above for his precipitous arrival.

Lord Greybourne had the oddest, most unwelcome effect on her. The mere innocent brush of his fingers across her cheek had heated her as if he’d set fire to her gown. Surely it was merely the result of being alone with him for such a prolonged period. Yes, that explained why, even while her attention was focused on cataloging the artifacts, she’d been intensely aware of him. Of his every movement. The sound of him removing items from the crate. The occasional heaving of a sigh.

She should have been discussing etiquette with him, but between her fascination with the artifacts and her preoccupation with him, all thoughts of manners had fled from her head.

Their eyes had met four times. And four times it had felt as if every particle of air had been sucked from the room. Four times he’d smile in his lopsided way, the way that creased that dimple in his cheek, then asked if she was all right. And four times she’d answered that she was fine.

But she’d lied four times. She was not fine. This man kindled feelings in her, longings, that confused and frightened her. And she did not like to be confused or frightened.

She could not overlook his obvious faults regarding his manners and outspoken nature, yet when it came to discussing his work, he was proving himself-and she was finding him-intelligent, entertaining, and disturbingly attractive.

And that was very bad.

“There you are,” said the duke as he rounded the corner, a fierce scowl puckering his features. “I-” He halted at the sight of her, then, lifting his quizzing glass, he glared at her. “You!” he said.

“Miss Chilton-Grizedale is helping in the search for the missing piece of the stone tablet, your grace,” Philip said. “Have you any news?”

The duke’s jaw worked back and forth as he alternated his glare between them. “Yes, I have news.” He stepped closer to Meredith and pointed an accusing finger at her. “This is entirely your fault.”

Before Meredith could say a word, Lord Greybourne stepped between her and the irate duke. “Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself,” Lord Greybourne said in a soft voice that did little to belie the steel underneath. Since she could not see around him, she moved to the side, to stand next to him.

Lord Hedington, his houndlike face flushed deep red, looked like a canine teapot on the verge of spewing a stream of steam. “I blame you as well, Greybourne.” Reaching into the pocket of his brocade waistcoat, he extracted a folded piece of ivory vellum. “This note arrived an hour ago from my daughter… the new Baroness Weycroft. In order to ensure that she would not be forced to marry you, she married Lord Weycroft by special license yesterday.”

The duke’s words echoed in the silent warehouse. Meredith’s heart seemed to stall, but she knew her pulse was beating, for she could feel it thumping, no, pounding, in her ears. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Greybourne go perfectly still.

“Apparently the idea came to her after your conversation in the gallery,” the duke fumed. “Seems the chit has carried a tendre for Weycroft for years, but knowing it was her duty to marry in accordance to my wishes, she agreed to the match with you.” His gaze swung to Meredith, nearly freezing her with the arctic blast. “A match you arranged. A match you assured me would be beneficial to my family and to my daughter.”

He focused his attention on Philip once again. “According to her letter, when she finally met you, she found herself not at all drawn to you, a fact which made her realize exactly how strongly she felt for Weycroft. Your talk of curses and falling and headaches frightened her, convincing her that if she married you, she would indeed die. But of course, she also knew I would not agree to dissolve the betrothal.

“The morning after meeting with you, she wrote to Weycroft, explaining everything. Apparently Weycroft carried a tendre for Sarah as well. Unwilling to allow her to come to harm by marrying you, he procured a special license. He came for her yesterday, under the guise of escorting her to her wedding at St. Paul’s. They were married and are now on their way to the continent for an extended wedding trip.”

The irate duke swiveled his attention back to Meredith, and leveled her with a look filled with utter disgust. “The scandal attached to this will cast a black mark upon my family, and I hold you personally responsible, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. I shall make it my personal crusade to ensure that you never again foist your matchmaking ‘skills’ upon anyone.” He turned to Lord Greybourne. “As for you, the only bright spot in this entire disaster is that my daughter did not marry an imbecile such as yourself, whereupon she would have given birth to a future generation of imbeciles. Although, rumor has it that you wouldn’t have been able to give her a child anyway.”

Meredith could not suppress her gasp at the duke’s unmistakable implication. She risked a glance at Lord Greybourne. His lips were pressed together and a muscle ticked in his jaw.

Lord Greybourne took one step forward, every line of his body taut with obvious tension. “You may say what you wish to me, but you will recall there is a lady present. You are about to cross a line that, I assure you, you’ll regret crossing.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was no mistaking the menace emanating from him.

“Are you threatening me?” the duke asked, the bravado in his voice lessened by his hasty backward step.

“I am warning you that my patience with you is about to end. Now, unless there is something else in Lady Sarah’s note that you wish to tell me, I believe there is nothing more to say.” He nodded to the left. “The exit is that way.”

Favoring them both with one last scathing look through his quizzing glass, the duke turned on his heel and stalked away. The sound of his boots against the wooden floor faded, then a door slammed closed and the warehouse was silent.

Meredith forced herself to take long, deep, calming breaths. A half sob, half laugh rose in her throat, and she pressed her hands to her lips to contain it. Dear God, she hadn’t thought this situation could get any worse, but now with Lady Sarah married, this situation was indeed very much worse. It was, in fact, a complete debacle.

Lord Greybourne stepped in front of her. Behind his spectacles, his brown eyes simmered with anger, although there was no mistaking his concern. Reaching out, he gently grasped her shoulders. “I’m sorry you were subjected to such inexcusable rudeness and crude innuendo. Are you all right?”

Meredith simply stared at him for several seconds. Clearly he believed she was distraught due to the duke’s remark regarding Lord Greybourne’s… manliness. Little did Lord Greybourne know that thanks to her past, very little shocked Meredith. Nor could she fathom that anyone could so much as look at Lord Greybourne and have a doubt regarding his masculinity.

Lowering her hands from her mouth, she swallowed to find her voice. “I’m fine.”

“Well, I’m not. I’d have to place myself firmly in the category of ‘vastly annoyed.’ ” His gaze roamed over her face and his hands tightened on her shoulders. “You’re not going to faint again, are you?”

“Certainly not.” She stepped back, and his hands lowered to his sides. The warm imprint from his palms seeped through her gown, shooting tingles down her arms. “You may place me firmly in the category of ‘females who do not succumb to vapors. ’”

He cocked a brow. “I happen to know that is not precisely true.”

“The episode at St. Paul’s was an aberration, I assure you.”

While he did not appear entirely convinced, he said, “Glad to hear it.”

“You came to my defense in a very gentlemanly way. Thank you.”

“I’m certain you don’t mean to sound so surprised.”

Indeed, she was surprised-stunned, actually-although she had not meant to sound as if she were. But she’d have to reflect upon that later. Right now there were other, bigger issues to contemplate.

Unable to stand still, Meredith paced in front of him. “Unfortunately, with the duke’s news, we must now recategorize our situation from ‘bad’ to ‘utterly disastrous.’ Your bride is well and truly lost, ruining our plan for you to marry on the twenty-second, and my reputation as a matchmaker is in tatters. And with your father’s ill health, time is short. There must be a way to somehow turn this situation around. But how?”

“I’m open to suggestions. Even if we are successful in finding the missing piece of stone, my marrying is out of the question without a bride.” A humorless sound escaped him. “Between this curse hanging over my head, the unflattering story in the newspaper, and the gossip Lord Hedington alluded to circulating about my ability to… perform, it seems that the answer to the question posed in today’s issue of The Times is yes-the cursed viscount is the most unmanageable man in England.”

Unmarriageable. The word echoed through Meredith’s mind. Damnation, there must be a way-

She swung around to face him. “Unmarriageable,” she repeated, her drawn-out pronunciation of the word in direct contrast to her runaway thoughts. “Yes, one might very well christen you the Most Unmarriageable Man in England.”

He inclined his head in a mock bow. “A title of dubious honor. And one I’m surprised you sound so… enthusiastic about. Perhaps you’d care to share your thoughts?”

“Actually I was thinking you exhibited a moment of brilliance, my lord.”

He walked toward her, his gaze never wavering from hers, not stopping until only two feet separated them. Awareness skittered down her spine, and she forced herself to stand her ground when everything inside her urged her to retreat.

“A moment of brilliance? In sharp contrast to all my other moments, I suppose. A lovely compliment, although your stunned tone when uttering it took off a bit of the shine. And brilliant though I may be-albeit only for a moment-I’m afraid I’m in the dark as to what I said to inspire you so.”

“I think we can agree that Lady Sarah marrying Lord Weycroft places us both in an awkward situation.” At his nod, she continued, “Well then, if you are the Most Unmarriageable Man in England, and it seems quite clear you are, the matchmaker who could marry you off would score an incredible coup. If I were successful in such an undertaking, you would gain a wife, and my reputation would be reinstated.”

“My moment of brilliance clearly remains upon me, as I’m following your thought process, and what you’ve described is a good plan. However, I cannot marry unless I am able to break the curse.”

“Which a brilliant man such as yourself will certainly be able to do.”

“If we are able to locate the missing piece of the Stone of Tears. Assuming we are successful, whom did you have in mind that I would marry?”

Meredith’s brow puckered, and she once again commenced pacing. “Hmmm. Yes, that is problematic. Yet surely in all of London there must be one unsuperstitious woman willing to be courted by a cursed, gossip-ridden viscount of questionable masculinity who will most likely fill their homes with ancient relics.”

“I beg you to cease before all these complimentary words swell my head.”

She ignored his dust-dry tone and continued pacing. “Of course, in order to ensure the reinstatement of my reputation, I must match you with just the perfect woman. Not just any woman will do.”

“Well, thank goodness for that.”

“But who?” She paced, puzzling it over in her mind, then she halted and snapped her fingers. “Of course! The perfect woman for the Most Unmarriageable Man in England is the Most Unmarriageable Woman in England!”

“Ah. Yes, she sounds delightful.”

Again she ignored him. “I can see the Society pages now-England’s Most Unmarriageable Man Weds England’s Most Unmarriageable Woman-and praise to Meredith Chilton-Grizedale, the acclaimed Matchmaker of Mayfair, for bringing them together.” She pursed her lips and tapped her index finger against her chin. “But who is this Most Unmarriageable Woman?”

He cleared his throat. “Actually, I believe I know.” Meredith halted, and turned toward him eagerly. “Excellent. Who?”

“You, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. By the time Society reads tomorrow’s edition of The Times, you will be the Most Unmarriageable Woman in England.”