Philip digested this bit of news, his curiosity piqued about the Chilton-Grizedale household. Hope called her “Aunt Merrie.” What was Mrs. Carlyle’s relation to Miss Chilton-Grizedale? He could not see any family resemblance, but that did not mean they weren’t related. He and Catherine looked decidedly dissimilar. And what of “Uncle” Albert? Since his last name was Goddard, he obviously was not Mrs. Carlyle’s husband. Very curious. And just another bit of mystery surrounding her he unfortunately found fascinating—as if he needed anything else to further kindle his growing interest in her.
He turned toward Miss Chilton-Grizedale, not at all noticing how enticing she looked with the sunlight dancing over her. “Your niece is delightful.” His gaze bounced between Miss Chilton-Grizedale and Mrs. Carlyle. “Are you sisters?”
“Not in a blood-relation sense,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale said. “Mrs. Carlyle is a dear friend of long standing. She has lived with me since her husband passed away, just several weeks before Hope’s birth.”
It wasn’t what she said, but the way she said it, that caught his interest. As if she were reciting a memorized verse. Her expression gave nothing away—in complete contrast to Mrs. Carlyle, whose cheeks bore twin flags of bright color, whose hands were clenched together at her waist, and whose eyes were averted, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Because she recalled a painful time in her life? Perhaps. But her distress looked more like embarrassment than sadness.
“My condolences on the loss of your husband, Mrs. Carlyle.”
“Th-thank you,” she said, not looking at him.
Inclining his head toward Miss Chilton-Grizedale, he said, “My apologies for interrupting your stroll, but I must thank you for bringing Prince to a halt. It appears, however, that I shall need to carry the little fellow home.”
Bending down, he gently scooped Prince off Hope’s lap, cradling the sleeping beast in his arms like a babe. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carlyle, and you as well, Miss Carlyle. Thank you for helping me name Prince.”
The child scrambled to her feet and smiled up at him. “Welcome. Can I see Prince again soon?”
“As I imagine I’ll be spending a great deal of time in the park with Prince, I’m certain we’ll see each other again.” He smiled at Hope, then turned his attention to Miss Chilton-Grizedale. Their eyes met, and a tingle shot through him. Damn it all, he liked the look of her. More every time he saw her. Which was bad. Which meant that he should endeavor to see less of her. Certainly not more of her. He needed to leave. Now.
Instead, his voice developed a mind of its own, and working together with his mouth—which had also developed a mind of its own—he found himself asking, “Would you like to join me on a visit to Vauxhall this evening, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”
She appeared to be quite torn, and hoping to nudge her toward acceptance, he coaxed, “Mr. Stanton and my sister Catherine are accompanying me. Joining us would afford you a perfect opportunity to further harangue me on my lack of decorum.”
“Harangue? I prefer to call it gently reminding.”
“I’m certain you do. You could also discuss your matchmaking services with Mr. Stanton....”
Clearly she had not considered this, for her eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “Why, yes, I could. A marvelous suggestion. In that case, I’d love to join you.”
A breath he hadn’t realized he held blew past his lips, and he smiled, pushing aside the bothersome fact that she had not shown much animation about the outing until he’d reminded her of Andrew’s bachelor state.
“Excellent. We’ll come ‘round for you at nine?”
“That will be fine.”
Yes, indeed, that will be very fine. He very nearly jumped up and clicked his heels together. “I’d best be off, ladies.” He made the trio a formal bow, then started walking backward. “Must get Prince home.”
“Watch behind you,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale warned.
He halted abruptly and swiftly turned around. Good God, he’d almost backed into a thorn bush. Drawing a deep, calming breath, he stepped to the side. He heard Hope giggle behind him, and, hoping his face was not overly red, he turned to face them, offering a jaunty salute to show he was unharmed.
Unfortunately, his sudden stop awakened Prince, who, after issuing a huge yawn, squirmed to be let down. Philip gently settled the puppy on the grass, bracing himself for the upcoming mad dash down the path.
Prince, however, buried his nose in a mound of grass.
“Come along now,” Philip said tugging gently on the lead.
Prince dug his paws in and continued to smell the grass.
Bloody hell, the dog had nearly yanked his arm from the socket earlier, but now, when time was of the essence, he couldn’t get the beast to move. At this rate, they wouldn’t reach home until Michaelmas.
“I’ll see that you get a nice, big beef bone to chew on the minute we arrive home,” Philip bribed, trying to urge Prince along, but Prince was having none of it.
“How about a biscuit?” Nothing. Not even a tail wag. “Ham? Cozy pillow to sleep on? Your own rug by the fire?” Philip dragged a hand down his face. “Five pounds. I’ll give you five pounds if you run like you did earlier. All right, ten pounds. My kingdom. My entire bloody kingdom if you come along now.”
Clearly Prince was not a beast open to bribery.
Looking up, Philip noted that Miss Chilton-Grizedale, Mrs. Carlyle, and Hope had nearly reached a curve in the path. Thank goodness. Seconds later, they turned, disappearing from his sight. He instantly scooped up Prince in his arms, and broke into a run. Prince, clearly enjoying this game, licked Philip’s chin and yipped.
“All right, I’ll still give you the beef bone. But you’re not getting the ten pounds. And you should be bloody grateful. If not for me, you’d be named Princess.”
Prince, golden ears flapping back in the breeze, yipped again, and Philip increased his pace. There was no time to lose. He needed to call upon Catherine, then go to the museum to speak to Andrew—to inform both of them that they were going to Vauxhall this evening.
Eight
Meredith walked along Vauxhall’s graveled South Walk, and attempted to accomplish the impossible: ignore the man walking beside her.
Botheration, how could she hope to turn a blind eye when she was so acutely aware of him? When hints of his clean, masculine scent teased her senses? Lady Bickley and Mr. Stanton strolled several yards ahead, and she focused her attention on their backs with the zeal a pirate would bestow upon a booty of gold coins, but to no avail. Lord Greybourne remained no more than a foot away, and every nerve in her body tingled with that knowledge.
At least being outdoors proved a welcome improvement over sitting opposite him in the confines of the carriage. Seated upon the plush gray velvet squabs in the elegant black lacquer coach, he’d been close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to catch teasing whiffs of his tantalizing scent that filled her with the urge to lean forward and simply bury her face against his neck and breathe. Close enough so that their knees bumped every time the carriage hit a rut in the road. And each time her heart had tripped over itself, shooting unwanted, heated sensations through her.
And that posed a tremendous problem.
Not only for the discomfort those unwanted sensations brought her, but his nearness had rendered her uncharacteristically mute. Thank goodness Lady Bickley had kept up a lively conversation, chatting in an animated fashion about tomorrow night’s party. And thank goodness as well for the coach’s dim interior, which hid the fiery color she knew colored her cheeks.
Unfortunately, she now faced the even more daunting prospect of strolling beside Lord Greybourne in Vauxhall’s enticing atmosphere, which by its very nature lent itself to romance. The fragrant gardens, the dimly lit paths surrounded by stately elms, their foliage festooned with twinkling lamps, the narrow lanes that led to even more dimly lit places where all manner of scandalous behavior occurred...
The mere thought pulsed heat throug
h her, and she was once again rendered mute. Good lord, the man was going to think her a complete nodcock. She should be discussing decorum with him, but the task was impossible when her thoughts were focused on very undecorous matters. Why did he not say something? Toss her some sort of conversational gambit, as she was clearly incapable of thinking of one on her own.
Their shoulders bumped, and she drew in a sharp breath at the contact. She turned toward him, and discovered him gazing at her with such intensity, her stride faltered. Reaching out, he grasped her upper arm to steady her, then brought them to a halt.
“Are you all right, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”
Meredith stared at his handsome, compelling face, and the bottom dropped out of her stomach. No, I am not all right at all, and it is entirely your fault. You have me feeling things I do not want to feel. Wanting things I can never have. Desiring you in a way that will lead to nothing but heartbreak.
The warmth of his hand seeped through her gown, heating her skin in a way that begged for her to step closer, press herself against him. Terrified that she would do just that, her mind instructed her feet to step back, away from him—a command her feet blithely ignored.
Swallowing to moisten her dust dry throat, she said, “I... I’m fine.”
“This gravel can be quite treacherous. Did you twist your ankle?”
“No, I merely stumbled. No damage done.”
“Good.” He released her arm with a lack of haste she foolishly fancied might be reluctance. “Would you like to continue walking? Andrew and my sister are quite far ahead of us.”
Meredith turned and noted that indeed the other couple had already disappeared from view. She moved forward, and he fell into step next to her. Other couples strolled along, but without the security of Mr. Stanton’s and Lady Bickley’s presence, Meredith was very much aware of being alone with Lord Greybourne. She quickened her pace.
“Are we engaged in a race, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?” he asked in a voice laced with amusement.
“No, I just thought perhaps we should catch up with Mr. Stanton and Lady Bickley. We would not want to lose them.”
“Never fear. If I know Catherine, she is on her way to secure a prominent supper box. By the time we arrive, Andrew will have already ordered wine, thus relieving me of the burden of choosing a vintage.” He chuckled. “Thank goodness the Gardens are renowned for their excellent wines, as Andrew is most definitely not a connoisseur. Brandy is much more his preference.”
A bit more relaxed now that the mood seemed lightened, Meredith pointed ahead to the three triumphal arches spanning the walk. “At this distance, it almost appears as if the authentic Ruins of Palmyra reside in Vauxhall.”
Philip focused his attention on the arches, vastly relieved to have something to concentrate on other than his companion. After a brief perusal he said, “They are a reasonable facsimile, but cannot compare to the actual ruins.”
“I did not realize your travels spanned to the Syrian desert, my lord.”
Impressed by her knowledge of the ruins’ location, he said, “Syria was but one of many places I visited over the course of the past decade.”
“The ruins were magnificent, I imagine.”
An image instantly crystallized in his mind, so vivid he felt as if he once again stood in the ancient city. “Among the vast array of ruins I studied, Palmyra stands out, mostly because of its sheer dramatic scope. The contrast of color is remarkable, and quite impossible to describe, I’m afraid. During the day the ruins are bleached white by the relentless sun, against an infinite sky so dazzlingly blue it hurts the eyes to look at it. At sunset, shadows fall over the ruins as the sky lightens from that vivid blue to yellow, then deepens to orange, then to an almost blood red. And then the sky would grow darker, darker, until the city simply vanished into the desert night, gone until the sun rose again.”
He turned his head to look at her. She was gazing at him, a dreamy look in her eyes, as if she, too, could see Palmyra as clearly as he. “It sounds extraordinary,” she whispered. “Incredible. Beautiful.”
“Yes. All those things. And more.” His gaze roamed over her face, touching upon each unique feature, settling last on her lovely mouth. He wanted to touch her. Kiss her. With an intensity that he could no longer ignore.
Pulling his gaze from her, he quickly took note of their surroundings. “Come,” he said, placing his hand gently under her elbow to steer her toward a path leading away from the pavilions and colonnade. “It is such a lovely evening, let us walk and talk a bit longer before joining Andrew and Catherine in the supper box. There are several things I’m wondering about, and perhaps you’d satisfy my curiosity.”
He glanced down at her. She blinked rapidly, and the faraway expression vanished from her eyes. “Certainly, my lord. At least I’ll try. What are you curious about?”
“You, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. How is it that you came to be a matchmaker?”
She hesitated for a second, then said, “In the usual manner. At a young age I possessed an innate sense regarding which gentleman and lady among my family’s acquaintances would suit one another, and I enjoyed dropping hints regarding my choices. Amazingly enough, quite a number of my suggestions came to pass. As I grew older, I read the Society pages, and mentally paired off members of the peerage. I would read the banns and often think, heavens, no—he shouldn’t marry her? Lady so and so would be a much wiser match. Soon the village mamas began seeking my advice for their daughters. I eventually moved to London, and little by little my reputation grew.”
Just as it had struck him in the park this afternoon, it was not her words that didn’t ring true, but the manner in which she said them. As if she were reciting a speech she’d memorized. He had the distinct impression that if he asked her the same question two months from now, he’d receive the same answer—word for word. And unlike many women he’d met, he sensed a reluctance in her to talk about herself.
She slid him a sideways glance. “Your father hiring me on your behalf to find you a suitable bride was my most prestigious commission to date.”
“Yet even if you do succeed in finding a woman willing to marry me, I can only do so if I am able to break the curse.”
“I refuse to take a pessimistic view regarding breaking the curse. And I cannot imagine any woman not wanting to marry you.”
He slowed his pace and looked at her. “Indeed? Why is that?”
His question clearly flustered her. “Well, because you are”—she waved her hand around, as if trying to conjure the words she sought from the air—“titled. Wealthy.”
Disappointment and something that felt suspiciously like hurt filled him. Was that all she saw? “And those are the sole criteria you use when arranging suitable matches?”
“Certainly not.” She flashed a grin. “It helps enormously that you have all your hair and teeth.”
“And if I didn’t have all my hair and teeth?”
“I still cannot imagine any woman not wanting to marry you.”
“Why?”
“Are you casting about for compliments, my lord?” Her voice held an unmistakable trace of amusement.
Damn it, he was. Shamefully. He knew he was far from handsome. Knew his years traveling about had tarnished the shine of his manners. Knew his interests would bore any female to tears. Still, he longed to hear her dispute what he knew. She was clearly striving to keep the conversation light, while he conspired to maneuver her into a dark corner. He should be ashamed of himself. Appalled. And he’d strive to dredge up all those proper feelings— after he’d kissed her.
“Do you have any compliments to give, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”
She heaved out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I could think of one. If pressed.”
“Let me guess. My ears do not stick out nor droop like a hound’s.”
She laughed. “Precisely. And there are no warts upon your nose.”
“Careful. Such praise will go straight to my head.”
“Th
en I’d best not point out that there’s no paunch about your middle. Or that your eyes are—” Her words snapped off as if she’d chopped them with an axe.
“My eyes are what, Miss Chilton-Grizedale?”
She hesitated for several heartbeats, then whispered, “Kind. Your eyes are kind.”
Lovely, simple words. Surely they shouldn’t have pumped such heat through him.
Meredith risked a glance at him. He was looking at her with an intensity that turned her throat to dust. Averting her gaze, she swallowed, then said, “It is your turn now, my lord.”
“To give you compliments? Very well. I think you are—”
“No!” The word burst from her lips, followed by a nervous laugh. “No,” she repeated more softly. “I meant it is your turn to tell me how you fell into your present profession as an antiquarian.” Yes, that’s what she’d meant, but a part of her couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been about to say.
“Ah, well, it is interesting that you would phrase it that way, as I literally did ‘fall’ into my love for antiquities. When I was but a lad of five, I accidentally fell into a well at Ravensly Manor, the family’s country estate in Kent.”
“Oh, dear. Were you hurt?”
“Only my pride. Luckily the well was shallow, as I was quite clumsy as a child. I recall one governess who referred to me as ‘The Accident Ship Looking for a Port to Dock.’ She only muttered that under her breath, of course, but I was clumsy—not deaf.”
There was no mistaking the tinge of hurt in his voice, and she instantly recalled the painting hanging over the mantel in his father’s drawing room. A pudgy, bespectacled boy on the brink of manhood. He’d no doubt been a pudgy, bespectacled child as well, one whom the governess thought it was acceptable to call names. Sympathy, along with a healthy dose of outrage on his behalf, swept through her.
“I hope your father showed that governess the door— without benefit of a reference.”
“Is that what you’d have done?”
“Without hesitation. I cannot abide people who say or do hurtful things to those they are supposed to look after, to those who depend upon them. Those who are smaller or weaker than they. It is the worst sort of betrayal.” Her hands fisted as the words flowed, unstoppable, low, and fervent. Embarrassed by her intensity, and praying he did not read too much into it, she quickly said, “So you were at the bottom of the well...”
WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN? Page 14