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 Greybour
ne. “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.”
Five
Philip watched all the color leach from Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s cheeks as his words hung in the air like a heavy fog. Where seconds ago her eyes had danced with excitement, they now resembled shards of aquamarine ice. Her lips curved in what he suspected she meant as a smile, but which came out mo
re like a grimace, inexplicably tweaking his pride.
“How amusing you are, my lord. I can hardly be considered unmarriageable, as, since I’ve no desire to ever marry, I was never considered marriageable.” Her tone was light, but sounded forced. And what was that look that had flashed in her eyes? Fear? Sadness? His curiosity about her doubled. Why would she not want to marry? Bah, probably no man would have the dictatorial piece. But the instant the thought entered his mind, he rejected it. Surely there was some man, somewhere, who wouldn’t find her autocratic ways completely off-putting. And as he was coming to learn, she wasn’t autocratic all the time.
Had she given her heart to someone who did not return her feelings? Or did she, even now, love a man who either would not or could not marry her?
The thought filled him with an unpleasant sensation that felt suspiciously like jealousy. “I thought most women wanted nothing more than to marry.”
“I am not most women, Lord Greybourne. ”
No, she was not most women, a fact that increasingly intrigued him far more than it should.
Lifting her chin, she said in a brisk tone, “Besides, a woman such as myself would never do for a man like you.”
“A woman such as yourself? Meaning what, exactly?”
Color crept into her pale cheeks. “I meant a woman not of the peerage. You are a viscount, the heir to an earldom. You must marry a woman from your social class.”
He stared at her intently, wishing he could read her thoughts, for although her explanation made perfect sense, he strongly suspected that she had let something slip, had revealed something she had not meant to. A woman such as myself...
“Yes, I suppose you are correct. But until I am free of this curse, not to mention this unfortunate bit of gossip, I cannot imagine any woman being eager to marry me.”
“You can dispel the gossip very easily, my lord. Simply take a mistress, and be certain to be seen with her. At the opera, the theater.”
WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN? Page 8