“Yes. It’s hardly the boy’s fault he was born with a clubfoot. The man should be happy he was blessed with a child.”
At Andrew’s sharp tone, Philip turned to his friend and offered a grim smile at his dark scowl. “I appreciate the outrage on Catherine’s behalf. Believe me, it cannot possibly match mine. I greatly look forward to engaging in a little private discussion with my swine of a brother-in-law.”
“Happy to participate in that ‘chat’ should you require any assistance.”
A knock sounded at the door. At his call to enter, Bakari opened the door. “Lady Bickley,” he intoned, then stepped aside.
Catherine stepped over the threshold, and a lump clogged Philip’s throat at the sight of her. Clad in a pale green muslin day gown, her shiny chestnut curls framing her lovely face, she looked very much like the image he carried in his mind and heart, only more so. More beautiful, more slim, more elegant. An air of regal serenity surrounded her—not unusual for a proper English lady. Yet it had always been the flashes of deviltry so often present in her golden brown eyes that were so unexpected. And endearing.
He walked slowly toward her, across the expanse of the Persian rug to where she remained framed in the doorway, like a stunning portrait. Before he’d taken half a dozen steps, however, her lips twitched in that infectious, engaging way of hers, and she ran toward him. He caught her up in his arms, swung her around in an exuberant manner, and was instantly inundated with her delicate floral scent, exactly the same as he recalled. No matter what sort of mischief Catherine had engaged in, she’d always smelled as if she’d just stepped out of the garden. After one final twirl, he set her down, then they held each other at arm’s length while giving each other a thorough look-over.
“You look exactly the same,” he declared, “only more lovely, if that is possible.”
She laughed, a delightful sound that filled him with nostalgia. “Well, I’m afraid you look completely different.”
“For the better, I hope.”
“For the much better.”
“Is that to insinuate my appearance was lacking before I went abroad?”
“Not at all. Ten years ago, you were a darling boy. Now you’re a—”
“Darling man?”
“Exactly.” She squeezed his shoulders. “And so strong,” she teased in the exaggerated way he so vividly recalled. “Clearly, living in rustic conditions agrees with you.” Her smile faded, and her eyes turned misty. A myriad of emotions flashed in her eyes, so quickly he couldn’t decipher them. Resting her palm against his cheek, she said, “It is so wonderful to have you home, Philip. I’ve missed you very much.”
Her voice hitched, and looking into her eyes, he realized that there were subtle changes. This was not the carefree girl he’d left behind. Shadows flickered in her eyes, shadows a casual observer wouldn’t notice, but he knew her very well. Clearly Father’s illness and her unhappy marriage had taken their toll on her vivacious spirit. He looked forward to speaking to her privately, to hear about her son and husband, things she wouldn’t confide to him in front of Andrew.
“And I’ve missed you, Imp.” She smiled at his use of her childhood sobriquet. Grabbing her hand, he kissed her fingers in his most gallant gesture, then offered her his arm. “Come, you must meet Andrew.”
They turned and made their way across the room to the fireplace where Andrew stood. Leaning his head toward Catherine, Philip whispered, making certain he spoke loud enough for his friend to hear, “Do not believe a word he says. He is an outrageous flirt and an accomplished mischief maker.”
Drawing to a halt near the hearth, Philip said, “May I present my friend and colleague, Mr. Andrew Stanton. Andrew, my sister, Catherine Ashfield, Lady Bickley. ”
Catherine smiled and offered her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stanton, although I feel I already know you through Philip’s letters.”
Andrew said nothing for several seconds, then seemed to gather himself, and reaching out, he took her hand and formally bowed over it. “It is an honor, Lady Bickley. As Philip was kind enough to share snippets of your letters with me and often regaled me with stories of your childhood, I, too, feel as if we are already acquainted. The miniature of you he carried did not do you justice.”
“Thank you.” Catherine shot Philip an arch look. “Childhood stories? Oh, dear. You must not believe everything my brother tells you, Mr. Stanton.”
“I assure you he painted you in the most flattering light.” One corner of Andrew’s mouth lifted. “Usually.”
“Come, let us sit,” Philip said. “Miss Chilton-Grizedale isn’t expected to arrive for another hour, which gives us some time to catch up.”
“Yes,” Catherine agreed. “I want to hear about... everything.”
Once they were seated, Philip asked, “As neither Spencer nor Bickley joined us this evening, I take it that you traveled to London alone?”
A pained expression flashed in Catherine’s eyes, so quickly that if Philip didn’t know her well, he would not have recognized it as such. “Yes. Bertrand is immersed in his duties at Bickley Manor. I left Spencer in Little Longstone, under the care of Mrs. Carlton, his governess. Traveling is difficult for him, and he does not particularly care for London.” Then her face lit up with a look of deep, motherly love. “However, he is most anxious to meet his wildly adventurous uncle and made me promise to extract your promise to visit us in Little Longstone the instant you return from your wedding trip.” She reached out and clasped his hand. “I visited with Father earlier and he told me everything. I’m so sorry about your canceled wedding, Philip. But do not worry. The idea you wrote me of hosting a party is excellent. With the soiree Miss Chilton-Grizedale and I will arrange, we’ll find you a lovely bride in no time.”
Philip leaned nonchalantly against the marble mantel in the drawing room, ankles crossed, half smile in place, swirling a snifter of after-dinner brandy. Outwardly, he knew he appeared relaxed and composed. Inwardly, a mass of tense confusion writhed through him like snakes in a pit. As he had all during dinner—wildly unsuccessfully— he now again tried his damnedest to keep up with the conversation buzzing between Miss Chilton-Grizedale and Catherine, but his mind was not cooperating. No, he was far too preoccupied. With her—the annoying matchmaker, whom he was finding more annoying with each passing minute. More and more annoying because it was no longer her autocratic nature he was finding irksome— although there was no denying that still rubbed him the wrong way. No, it was this damnable attraction and awareness he was experiencing that was now the source of his mounting irritation. The excellent meal had done little to hold his attention, in spite of the fact that the Mediterranean influences in the courses indicated that Bakari had obviously gone to great pains to see to it that his very English cook, Mrs. Smythe, had prepared the food according to his tastes. Judging by the number of harrumphs Bakari had muttered, and Mrs. Smythe’s formidable demeanor, Philip judged this had been no easy task.
The delicately poached turbot had been lost upon him as he’d attempted to divert his gaze away from Miss Chilton-Grizedale—and failed utterly. She sat on his left, giving him an unimpeded view of her profile. Her dark hair was arranged in a Grecian-style knot, with a bronze ribbon that matched her gown woven through the shiny strands. His gaze touched upon her smooth skin, the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her lashes. With every sip from her wine goblet, his attention was drawn to her lovely mouth.
Every time she’d leaned forward to say something to Catherine, he’d desperately tried not to notice how the movement pulled the coppery-bronze silk of her gown just a bit tighter across the generous swell of her breasts. Every word she uttered to Catherine regarding this party they were planning with the precision of a military invasion provided him with another opportunity to enjoy her voice.
In fact, she was speaking to Catherine now, both women perched upon the brocade settee. A delicate blush colored Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s cheeks, and her eyes were alight with interest. She
moved her hands in animated gestures as she spoke, punctuating her words. Her voice was rich and warm, with just a slightly husky timbre that made it sound as if she’d just awoken. From bed. His bed.
An image instantly formed in his mind, of them, together, naked, limbs entwined, her whispering his name in that husky voice... Philip... please, Philip...
“Philip... please. What do you think?”
Catherine’s voice snapped him back from his runaway thoughts like a cobra bite. He looked around and noted three pairs of eyes regarding him with varying degrees of quizzical expressions. Andrew, who sat on an overstuffed wing chair across from the ladies, bore an expression that appeared more amused than questioning. Heat crept up Philip’s neck. He adjusted his spectacles, then, convention be damned, he loosened his confining cravat.
“Afraid I was in a bit of a brown study. What were you saying?”
Catherine’s lips quirked upward. Alternating her gaze between Andrew and Miss Chilton-Grizedale, she reported in a teasing voice, “My brother has changed very little in the past decade, I see. His mind, always filled with thoughts of his studies, often wandered off during our conversations. I recall one time relating a fascinating story to him of a musicale I’d attended. After the fifth ‘That’s nice, Catherine’ he’d uttered, I said, ‘And then I jumped into the Thames and swam across to Vauxhall.’ He simply nodded. However, when I said, ‘The pyramids at Giza were built by Sir Christopher Wren,’ that comment quickly rewarded me with his attention—something you might both wish to remember the next time Philip’s mind wanders.”
“Thank you for the advice, Lady Bickley,” said Andrew. He turned to Philip. “Is that what you were contemplating just now, Philip? The beauty of the... pyramids?”
Philip shot Andrew a quelling look. Normally he enjoyed his friend’s irreverent sense of humor—but not now. Not when he felt so unsettled and undone. “No. I was merely... preoccupied.” Careful to avoid looking at Miss Chilton-Grizedale, he focused his attention on Catherine. “What do I think about what?”
“Holding the gathering here at your townhouse the evening after next, with me acting as hostess. Miss Chilton-Grizedale and I thought a dinner with dancing afterward would best suit our purposes.”
“Can you arrange something that quickly?”
“With the proper help and staff, a coronation could be arranged that quickly.” Sadness shadowed Catherine’s eyes. “And with father’s illness, time is of the essence.”
“To assist me in my search for a wife for you, it would help to know what sort of qualities you admire in a woman,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale said in that brisk, no-nonsense tone of hers.
Something that sounded suspiciously like a guffaw arose from Andrew. Philip shot his friend a frown, and when Catherine and Miss Chilton-Grizedale looked his way, Andrew started coughing. Waving his hand, Andrew reached for his brandy and gasped, “I’m fine. Really.” After taking a sip, Andrew grinned at Philip. “Yes, Philip. What sort of qualities do you admire in a woman?”
All eyes turned his way, and when Philip remained silent, Miss Chilton-Grizedale said, “I’m not saying I shall be able to meet all your criteria, Lord Greybourne, especially as time is short. However, it might prove helpful to know if there are any characteristics that you find particularly attractive or overly off-putting. In fact, if you wouldn’t object to loaning me the use of your desk and a piece of vellum, I’d like to jot down some notes.”
This was not a conversation he particularly wished to have, especially given the devilish gleam he recognized all too well in Andrew’s eyes. But since he couldn’t think of a way to refuse her request without reinforcing her belief that his manners were sorely lacking, he led the way to his desk. Extracting a piece of thick ivory vellum from the top drawer, he held out the maroon leather chair for her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, sitting down with fluid grace. Her bronze skirts brushed his breeches, and her delicious scent wafted into his head. Scones. Tonight she smelled like warm, freshly baked, buttered scones. Damn it all, he had a particular weakness for warm, freshly baked, buttered scones. He stepped quickly back from her.
“Philip harbors a fondness for willowy blondes,” Andrew said, rising to stand near the fireplace, “especially since he met so few during his travels. And if her features are those of a classic beauty, so much the better.” He made a Ming noise. “Too bad Lady Sarah ran off. Physically, she was exactly the sort he likes.”
“Classically beautiful blondes,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale repeated in a serious tone, making a note. “Excellent. What else, my lord?”
A scowl bunched Philip’s brows. Damn it all, as recently as two days ago he would have agreed with Andrew. But now...
“My brother enjoys music,” Catherine added, “therefore someone with a talent for the pianoforte, or a pleasant singing voice, would be preferable.” She turned toward him. “Don’t you agree, Philip?”
“Er, yes. Musical talent is nice.”
“Someone who has at least a passing interest in antiquarian studies would no doubt be helpful,” Catherine added. “For conversational purposes.”
“Indeed,” agreed Andrew, who was clearly enjoying this conversation far too much. “Being of a scientific and intellectual bent, Philip prefers ladies who are conversant in subjects other than fashion and the weather. However, she should most certainly be a practical woman who won’t expect romantic drivel. Philip isn’t the sort to make the grand romantic gesture.”
“Oh, I agree,” Catherine said, before Philip could reply. “Romance is simply not in Philip’s nature.” She smiled and wagged her finger at him. “Don’t look so stricken, Philip, dear. Most men are notoriously unromantic.”
“I am not stricken, nor am I unroman—”
Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s tsking cut off his words. She shot him a look of clear disapproval. “How vexing this is. Based on these comments, I’d made a perfect match for you, Lord Greybourne.”
“I did not intentionally curse myself, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”
“But that does not make you any less cursed, now, does it, my lord?”
“How kind of you to point that out. Have you always had this compelling need to state the obvious?”
“I prefer to call it a reiteration of the pertinent facts—”
“Yes, I’m certain you do.”
“—and no, I only need to do so when certain people lose sight of the situation.”
“Ah. Certain people who are not showing a moment of brilliance, perhaps?”
She smiled sweetly. “I would not have presumed to imply as much—”
“Ha!”
“—but now that you mention it, yes.” Before he could reply, she turned to Catherine and asked, “Where were we? Oh, yes. The bride-to-be’s traits. What else?”
Catherine’s bemused gaze bounced between him and Miss Chilton-Grizedale, then she said, “She should, of course, be accomplished in handling the servants and know how to run the household.”
Miss Chilton-Grizedale, he noted, jotted down copious notes, her bottom lip caught between her teeth with concentration.
Catherine stroked her chin. “What else? Oh, yes. A love of dusty relics is an absolute must.”
“I fear no such woman exists,” Andrew chimed in. “A woman who does not abhor them would be enough to ask for.”
“All right,” Catherine agreed. “Philip, what else do you like?”
“I’m surprised you’ve bothered to ask. I like—”
“Animals,” Andrew said. “She must love large animals. He already has a puppy that, based on the size of its paws, promises to grow to the size of a pony.”
Catherine turned toward him. “A puppy? Did you bring him home from Egypt?”
“No. I found him on the way home from the docks. Abandoned.”
“Where is he now?”
“Resting in Bakari’s quarters. The beast had an injury which Bakari bandaged. He’s keeping him as still as possible for a few days to give its
leg a chance to heal.”
Catherine gave him a fond smile. “You always did have a soft spot for abandoned creatures.”
“I’ve always felt a special kinship toward them,” Philip said quietly.
Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s hand moved swiftly across the vellum for several more seconds, then she looked up. “Anything else?”
“She should be an accomplished dancer,” Catherine said, which brought a guffaw from Andrew.
“Oh, most assuredly,” Andrew agreed, “so she can teach Philip how to dance.”
A confused frown puckered Catherine’s brow. “As I recall, Philip is a passable dancer.”
“Such effusive praise will surely swell my head,” Philip murmured.
Andrew laughed. “My dear Lady Bickley, the last time I saw him engaging in a dance, the din he raised sounded like a stomping herd of elephants.”
“Camels,” said Philip. “It was camels, not elephants. Several camels broke free of their tethers during a soiree in Alexandria and caused quite a commotion.” He glared at Andrew. “So all that stomping wasn’t me at all.”
Catherine coughed to cover an obvious laugh. “My relief knows no bounds. To continue, your future wife should possess at least a passing knowledge of French. And don’t you think she should know how to embroider, Philip? Even as a child you liked having your initials decorate your handkerchiefs.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Philip said. “Please be certain to add that to your list, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. ‘Must know how to embroider.’ I couldn’t possibly consider marrying a woman who was not handy with a needle and thread.”
Clearly his dry tone was not lost upon Miss Chilton-Grizedale. She looked up and their eyes met. One corner of her mouth twitched, and clear amusement glittered in her eyes. “I’ve not only added ‘expert embroiderer’ to the list, my lord, but I’ve placed a star next to it as well to denote its category as one of the utmost importance.”
She smiled at him, a simple gesture that sped up his heart to a ridiculous rate. A reluctant answering grin pulled at his lips, evaporating a measure of his irritation. Andrew issued a loud ahem, recalling Philip’s attention, and he realized he’d been grinning at Miss Chilton-Grizedale like an idiotic green schoolboy experiencing his first crush. She blinked twice, as if she, too, had forgotten the presence of others.
WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN? Page 10