“I’m not certain. I do know that you won’t require a demonstration on how to swoon. You already know how to do that.”
Good heavens, he was nothing short of insufferable. Here they were, faced with utter travesty and social ruin, and he was making jokes! Closing her eyes, she took a half dozen deep breaths. Feeling considerably better, she again attempted to sit up, but discovered she couldn’t move. “You’re sitting on my gown, Lord Greybourne.”
He shifted, then, grasping her shoulders, lifted her in a no-nonsense fashion into a sitting position, all but plopping her onto her bottom. Embarrassment, combined with a healthy dose of irritation—directed at herself or him, she wasn’t certain—pricked her. “This may come as a shock, my lord, but I am not a sack of potatoes to be hauled about.” The jarring movement knocked a long curl loose from her carefully arranged coiffure, and the lock flopped over her eye.
Pushing aside her hair with impatient fingers, she realized she no longer wore her bonnet.
“I removed it,” he said, before she could question him. “I thought perhaps the ribbon tied beneath your chin might restrict your breathing.” A half smile touched his lips and he tugged at his cravat. “God knows this thing constricts my airflow. You might also want to fix your gown.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of her neck.
Dipping her chin, she realized with chagrin that her fichu was loose and pulled askew, exposing an expanse of skin that, while not indecent, was certainly far more of her bosom than normally saw the light of day.
She sizzled him with an outraged glare, but his lips curved upward in a patently unrepentant grin. “Didn’t want a choking female on my hands.”
Any gratitude she may have harbored for his assistance evaporated. “I merely felt light-headed, my lord—”
“Happy to hear you admit it.”
“—and as such, it was hardly necessary for you to make so free with my attire.”
“Ah. Then I suppose I shouldn’t have straightened your garters.”
Her eyes goggled, and the ill-mannered lout had the audacity to wink at her.
“I am teasing you, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. I merely wanted to bring some color back into your pale cheeks. I would not dream of touching your garters without your express permission. Probably.”
Heat raced up her neck. This man was beyond insufferable—he was incorrigible. Uncouth. “I can assure you, you shall never receive such permission. And a gentleman would never say such a scandalous thing.”
Again that dimple in his cheek flashed. “I’m certain you are correct.”
Before she could fashion a reply, he rose. Crossing to a ceramic pitcher resting on the desk, he poured water into a crystal tumbler. He moved with lithe grace, and the knowledge that he’d untied and removed her bonnet, loosened her fichu, that his fingers had surely brushed over her throat, touched her hair, rushed heat through her—a fiery warmth that felt like something decidedly more than mere embarrassment.
Returning to her, he handed her the glass. “Drink this.”
She somehow resisted the urge to toss the contents into his face. The tepid liquid eased her dry throat, and she assimilated the fact that she’d swooned—for the first time in her life. He clearly thought her some weak-willed twit. In her eight and twenty years she’d suffered worse things, recovered from worse, without succumbing to such missish nonsense. But dear God, this situation was a disaster.
Lady Sarah had abandoned Lord Greybourne at the altar—certainly a circumstance rife with scandal. But one made all the worse, from Meredith’s point of view, because the wedding in question—the most talked-about, anticipated wedding in years—was one Meredith had arranged. And as much as she might wish it otherwise, every member of Society would remember that snippet of information. Remember it, and revile her because of it. Blame her for arranging such an unacceptable match, just as Lord Ravensly and Lord Hedington had done.
All her grand plans for her future evaporated like a trail of steam escaping a teakettle. Her reputation, her respectability for which she’d fought so hard, worked so tirelessly to establish, teetered on the edge of extinction. And all because of him.
Her gaze wandered around the room, and for the first time she realized that she and Lord Greybourne were alone. Just another facet of this debacle that could result in disaster. “Where are your father and Lord Hedington?”
“They went to announce to the congregation that Lady Sarah had taken ill and therefore the wedding could not take place today.” He exhaled a long breath. “Isn’t it odd how two statements that are both true can still somehow be a he?”
“Not a he,” Meredith said, hastily adjusting her fichu and straightening her dark blue skirts. “I prefer to call it an omission of certain pertinent facts.”
He cocked his head and studied her. “A definition that sounds very much like that for ‘he. ’”
“Not at all,” Meredith said briskly. “A lie is making false statements. ‘Tis not a lie to simply not tell everything you know.”
“Actually, I believe that is called a ‘lie of omission. ’”
“It appears you possess an overactive conscience, Lord Greybourne.” At least she could be grateful that he had a conscience—dusty relic though it most likely was.
“More a case of liking my facts and definitions to be neatly aligned.”
“Must be your scientific nature.”
“Yes.” The low hum of muffled voices drifted into the room. Lord Greybourne rose and walked to the window. His lips flattened. “People are leaving the church. Clearly the announcement has been made.” For several seconds he appeared lost in a brown study, then suddenly his eyes focused directly on her. “It has just occurred to me that this episode no doubt bodes poorly for you and your matchmaking enterprise.”
Meredith stared at him, grimly noting that his position by the window bathed him with a golden halo of light— quite a feat for a man she regarded as the devil himself.
“Bodes poorly?” She nearly laughed at his understatement. “Ruination of gargantuan proportions more aptly describes the future of my matchmaking enterprise.” She did not bother to voice the obvious—that this entire mess was his fault—him and his wretched curse. Surely there must be a way to fix this? She chewed on her bottom lip for several seconds, and a possible solution sprang to mind.
“I’m certain we can agree that the cancellation of today’s ceremony is problematic, not just for me, but for everyone involved,” she said. “If, however, you and Lady Sarah were to marry at a future date, preferably soon, that would dispel any scandal, and everyone would see that I did indeed make a wonderful match.”
He nodded slowly, stroking his chin. “I agree with your theory. However, you are forgetting about the curse.”
She debated whether to baldly state her opinion regarding the curse.
Clearly her skepticism showed, because he said, “Just because we cannot see or touch something does not make it any less real, does not mean it does not exist.” He stepped closer to her, and she had to force herself to stand her ground and not retreat. His expression was so earnest, his eyes behind his lenses glowing with intensity. “Religions the world over worship a variety of gods that cannot be seen. I cannot see nor touch the air in this room, yet the fact that I can breathe tells me it is here.”
At his words she drew in an involuntary breath, instantly noting that the air she could not see or touch smelled like Lord Greybourne. Fresh, clean, and masculine. And rife with potentially ruinous scandal.
“Surely you will be able to find a cure, or remedy, or whatever one finds to rid oneself of such things. You seem a bright sort of fellow.”
His lips twitched. “Why, thank you. I—”
“Although your manners and appearance are in desperate need of refurbishment. We shall work to correct the damage years away from proper Society have wrought upon you before your wedding to Lady Sarah is rescheduled.”
He cocked a brow. “And what, precisely, is wrong with m
y appearance?”
She mimicked his haughty expression and ticked items off on her fingers. “Hair too long and unkempt. Cravat disastrous. Waistcoat partially unbuttoned. Shirtfront wrinkled, cuffs too long. Jacket buttons unpolished, breeches too snug, boots scuffed. Do you not have a valet?”
He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like bloody domineering piece. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the time to employ a valet as yet. I’ve been rather preoccupied with trying to find the missing piece of stone—which I am determined to do.”
“Yes, you certainly must find it. We shall need to reschedule the wedding as soon as possible. Tell me, what did you think of Lady Sarah?”
He shrugged. “She was acceptable.”
“Acceptable?” She barely managed to choke out the word. Good lord, on top of everything else, the man was daft. “She is a diamond of the first water. She will make the perfect viscountess and hostess. Not only that, in financial terms, and in terms of your estates, the match is highly advantageous.”
“You say that as if I care a jot about such things, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”
She stared at him. “Do you not?”
He looked as if he were debating how to answer, then he said, “Actually, no. I do not. Society and all its trappings hold no appeal for me. They never have. Parties, soirees, the Season, none of it interests me. My holdings are already substantial enough. I do not require more land.”
She barely suppressed a snort of disbelief. A man not interested in increasing his holdings? Not lured by the appeal of Society’s trappings? Either he thought her a gullible fool or the years he’d spent gathering artifacts under the desert sun had greatly depleted his mental acuity.
He adjusted his glasses, and Meredith noticed his hands. Large, well-formed, long-fingered hands, browned by the sun. Hands that had massaged hers only moments ago. They looked strong and capable and manly in a way that stirred her in an odd, unfamiliar manner.
“Honor dictates I marry—and I need to do so before Father succumbs,” he said, his voice dragging her gaze back to his. “So you see, as far as I’m concerned, whomever you chose, diamond or not, would not much matter. I’m not necessarily particular about the bride, so long as she is not overly off-putting—in which case, Lady Sarah is acceptable.”
Being a practical person herself, Meredith couldn’t find fault with his logic. Still, it irked that he appeared less than bowled over by her coup of snaring the much-sought-after Lady Sarah for him.
“What if you are unable to undo this curse of yours, Lord Greybourne?”
“Failure is simply not an option I will consider, Miss Chilton-Grizdale.”
Since she wished to postpone thinking about the dreadful ramifications should he fail, she asked, “How long do you estimate it will take you to search through your crates?”
He frowned and considered. “With help, perhaps a fortnight.”
The wheels in her head whirred. “That should give us ample time to come up with a contingency plan.”
“And what sort of plan do you suggest, Miss Chilton-Grizedale? Believe me, I am open to suggestions. But I fail to see any, as the facts are quite irrefutable: If I do not break the curse, I cannot marry. And I must marry. However, with this curse hanging about my neck, I would risk the life of any woman I married—something I am not willing to do. And I cannot imagine any woman being willing to do so.”
Unfortunately, Meredith was hard-pressed to immediately name anyone who would want to marry even the heir to an earldom, only to risk expiring two days later. “But surely—”
“Tell me, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, would you be willing to take such a risk?” He stepped closer to her, and suddenly the room seemed to shrink significantly. “Would you want to risk losing your life by becoming my bride?”
Meredith fought the urge to back up, to fan herself to relieve the heat creeping up her neck. Instead she lifted her chin and faced him squarely. “Naturally I would not wish to die two days after my wedding, if I were to believe in such things as curses. Which, in spite of your compelling arguments, I am still inclined to regard as a series of unfortunate coincidences. However, the point is moot, my lord, as I have no desire to ever marry.”
Surprise flickered behind his spectacles. “That places you in a category of females that I believe you might be in all by yourself.”
“I have never objected to solitude.” She tilted her head and studied him for several seconds, then asked, “Do you normally place people into ‘categories’?”
“I’m afraid so. Almost instantaneously. People, objects, most everything. Always have. A trait quite common among scientists.”
“Actually, I tend to do the same thing, yet I am not a scientist.”
“Interesting. Tell me, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, what category have you placed me in?”
Without even thinking, she blurted out, “The ‘not what I expected’ category.”
The instant the words passed her lips, mortification suffused her. Heavens, she hoped he wouldn’t ask what she meant, for she couldn’t very well tell him that she’d been expecting an older version of the pudgy, toady youth in the painting, and he was so very much... not that.
He regarded her with an intensity that filled her with the urge to fidget. “That is very interesting, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, for that is the precise category I placed you in.”
Feeling uncharacteristically unnerved by his regard, Meredith stepped away from him and adopted her most brisk tone. “Now that we are all categorized, let us get back to our present dilemma.” Her brain raced, trying to cast the situation in the best light. “Today is the first of the month. I believe the best plan is to reschedule the wedding for, let us say, the twenty-second. That should give you more than enough time to search your crates.” And give me ample time to polish you into more marriageable material so no one will doubt what a brilliant match I’ve made. “We’ll plan something small and private this time, in your father’s drawing room, perhaps.” In her mind’s eye she envisioned the placement of the flowers, and the complimentary, effusive announcement in The Times the following day, praising her skills, reestablishing her reputation. “We’ve only to convince Lady Sarah that this is the best course. Do you think you can uncurse yourself by then?”
“That is certainly my intention.”
A tiny flicker of hope coughed to life in Meredith’s breast. Yes, perhaps this could possibly be salvaged. Of course, the situation was a debacle. However, it was not a complete and total debacle. She clung to that thought like a lifeline, lest she crumble into a heap. Damn it all, this was so unfair! She’d worked so hard. Had sacrificed so much to finally earn the respect she’d so desperately wanted. She couldn’t lose it... not again. Yet the thought of having to go through it all again... the lying and cheating and stealing. She briefly squeezed her eyes shut. No. It couldn’t come to that. He’d cure his curse and all would be well. It had to be.
A knock sounded at the door, and Lord Greybourne called, “Come in.”
Lord Hedington marched into the room, looking as if he were a volcano on the verge of erupting.
“You advised the guests?” Lord Greybourne asked.
“Yes. I told them Sarah had fallen ill, but gossip about one or the other of you crying off is already rampant. No doubt this damnable story will make the front page of The Times. ”
Meredith cleared her throat. “Lord Greybourne and I were just discussing how best to salvage this situation, your grace. He is hopeful of finding the missing piece of the stone, and thereby being able to reverse the curse. Based on that, I shall reschedule the wedding to take place on the twenty-second. I’ll send the announcement to The Times immediately to squelch any gossip.”
Lord Hedington’s gaze bounced between them, then his head jerked in a nod. “Very well. But I expect to be assured that no harm will come to my daughter. If I am not confident of her safety, there will be no wedding, scandal be damned. And now I plan to return home and retrieve this note Sarah cl
aims to have left me.” Turning on his heel, he quit the room.
Meredith looked at Lord Greybourne. “I offer you my assistance, my lord, in searching for the stone.”
“Thank you. I don’t suppose by any chance you are a farmer, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”
Good Lord, the man was daft. “A farmer? Certainly not. Why do you ask?”
“Because I fear this will very much be like looking for a needle amongst the haystacks.”
Narrowed eyes assessed the collection of Egyptian artifacts resting on red velvet behind the glass display case in the British Museum. How fitting that the artifacts should lie upon such a color—the shade of blood. Blood that had already been shed. And blood that would soon be shed.
Your blood, Greybourne. You shall suffer for the pain you’ve caused. Soon.
Very soon.
Three
Meredith walked slowly up the walkway leading to her modest house on Hadlow Street. While the area was far from the most fashionable in London, it was still respectable, and she loved her house with the fierce pride of someone who had worked hard for something she wanted. And more than anything Meredith had wanted a home. A real home. A respectable home.
Oh, she well knew she’d never be a member of Society, but her association with the ton, even though it was on the fringes, afforded her a measure of the respectability she’d craved her entire life.
Yet now her footsteps slowed to a snail’s pace. She dreaded opening the front door and having to tell the three people she loved most in the world that she’d failed. That the life, the facade she’d so carefully constructed stood in danger of collapsing like a house of cards. Was it possible that Albert, Charlotte, and Hope already knew? Gossip traveled so quickly—
The oak door swung open to reveal Albert Goddard’s expectant smile. Charlotte Carlyle stood behind him, her normally solemn gray eyes wide with anticipation. Charlotte’s daughter Hope peeked around her mother’s dark green skirt, and the instant she saw Meredith, the child raced toward her.
WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN? Page 4