WHO WILL TAKE THIS MAN?

by Jacquie D'Alessandro

  “You could perhaps categorize me as cautiously smitten with one of them.”

  “Indeed?” Her voice was ripe with interest. “With whom?”

  He chucked her lightly under her chin, a childhood gesture he’d never outgrown. “If I told you now, Imp, we’d have nothing to talk about when I visit you tomorrow.”

  She stuck out her tongue at him, a childhood gesture she’d never outgrown. “That’s beastly, Philip! I shall expire from curiosity before tomorrow.”

  “Yes, well, you know what a beast I’ve always been.”

  “Actually, I was the beastly one. But I’m glad someone has gained your attention. Father will be very pleased. He’s been much improved in the past few weeks, anticipating your homecoming and wedding.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Have you resolved your differences?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Don’t wait too long, Philip. Even though he’s experiencing a number of ‘good’ days, he slips a bit further away every day. I’d hate for you to have any regrets, of things left unsaid, when he passes away.”

  Sadness, guilt, and remorse reared their heads, glowering at him, but he bludgeoned them back. “Don’t worry, Imp. I’ll make things right.” Then, resting his hands on her shoulders, he said, “I’ve something to tell you. Someone broke into the warehouse this evening and ransacked several of my crates.”

  Instant concern reflected in her eyes. “Was anything stolen?”

  “I’m not yet certain. I don’t want to alarm you, but it’s possible this may be more than a simple robbery attempt. It might be more personally directed—at me. Promise me you’ll be extra careful and not go anywhere alone. Bakari will see you home.”

  Her eyes widened, but she nodded. “All right. I promise. But what about you?”

  “I’ll be careful as well.” When she expectantly lifted her brows to an imperious height, he added, “I promise.”

  He handed her into the carriage, offering a wave and a reminder to expect him to visit her tomorrow. He then strode quickly back up the walk to face the only guest who remained. Just as he closed the door behind him, Meredith entered the foyer and their eyes met. His heart performed a crazy roll and he had to clamp his jaws together to keep from laughing aloud at himself and his strong reaction to the mere sight of this woman.

  “I’ll escort you home after Bakari returns with the carriage,” he said, crossing the marble-tiled floor. “May I offer you a drink while we wait? Perhaps a sherry?”

  “Thank you. This time together will also afford us the opportunity to compare notes on the evening.”

  “Er, yes, compare notes. That is exactly what I wish to do.”

  “So you’ve reached some conclusions regarding the young ladies, then?”

  “Indeed I have. Come. Let us retire to my study.”

  Philip led the way down the corridor, then closed the door behind them. Leaning back against the oak panels, he watched her cross the room, his eyes drawn to the generous curve of her hips hinted at beneath her gown as she walked. His gaze wandered upward, resting on the vulnerable nape of her neck showing where her lustrous hair was upswept into a Grecian knot. Turquoise ribbons, the same shade as her gown, twined through her curls. God help him, she looked as delectable from the back as she did from the front. What had he called himself? Cautiously smitten? Not bloody likely. There was nothing in the least bit cautious about the feelings this woman inspired.

  He expected her to sit on the settee, but instead she appeared to sink out of sight. Concerned she’d fallen, he quickly crossed the room to discover her kneeling on the hearth, tickling her fingers over Prince’s belly, much to the squirming puppy’s delight.

  “Is this where you hid yourself all evening, you little devil?” she crooned. “I’d wondered where you were.”

  Prince jumped up and planted several enthusiastic kisses on her chin, for which he was rewarded with a cuddle and a delightful sound that could only be described as a giggle. Prince then squirmed free and promptly flopped himself once again onto his back, paws dangling in the air, shamelessly presenting her with his belly to rub, which she did.

  Laughing, she looked up at Philip. “I place him firmly in the category of ‘Sweetest Dog Imaginable. ’”

  Philip looked at Prince, and he swore the puppy winked at him. Sweetest dog? He’d more likely place the cunning devil in the category of “Smartest Dog in the World.” His gaze riveted on her fingers tickling over the Prince’s belly. Or “Luckiest Dog in the World.”

  A vivid image flashed in Philip’s mind, of him and Meredith, naked, lying on the hearth rug, her hands skimming over his abdomen. He instantly swelled against his breeches, and he had to press his lips together to keep from groaning out loud. Blinking to dispel the erotic image, he crossed to the crystal decanters, hoping she wouldn’t notice the slight limp in his gait. He poured himself a brandy, which he tossed back in a single, bracing gulp. After refilling his drink, he prepared a sherry for her, then, feeling much more in control, and thankfully able to walk properly once again, he rejoined her. During his brief absence she’d seated herself on one corner of the settee. Prince lay sprawled beside her, his head resting on her lap, gazing up at her with adoring puppy eyes. As the settee was only long enough for two people—or one person and a dog—Philip opted to stand. Leaning his shoulders against the mantel, he shot a glare at Prince who blithely ignored him. By God, it was a sad day when a man was actually jealous of his dog.

  She lifted her cordial glass and smiled. “A toast, Lord Greybourne, to the success we achieved this evening. In spite of that near-disastrous misstep, I have a feeling tonight will result in everything we wanted.”

  With his gaze steady on hers, Philip reached out and touched the rim of his glass to hers. The ring of crystal echoed in the quiet room. “To getting everything we want.”

  She inclined her head, then took a delicate sip. “Delicious,” she murmured. After setting her glass on the round mahogany end table, she opened her reticule and withdrew a piece of foolscap and a sheet of vellum. While unfolding them, she said, “I jotted down some notes during the cleanup process, which I referenced to the notes I took the other evening regarding your preferences.”

  “Very efficient. So you meant, quite literally, for us to compare notes. I’m afraid I failed to take any. But never fear. This”—he tapped his forehead—“is like a sealed dungeon, filled with all my impressions of the evening.”

  “Excellent.” She looked down and consulted her two pages of notes. “There are a number of young ladies I feel are suitable; however, one in particular stands out. She is—”

  “Oh, let’s not begin with your first choice,” Philip broke in. “Where’s the fun in that? I suggest you begin at the bottom of your list, then work your way up to the grand finale. Makes the anticipation so much greater, you know.”

  “Very well. We’ll begin with Lady Harriet Osborn. I believe she is an excellent candidate.”

  “No, I’m afraid she won’t do at all.”

  “Whyever not? She is an accomplished dancer, and possesses a lovely singing voice.”

  “She doesn’t like dogs. When I mentioned Prince, she wrinkled her nose in a way that indicated the beast would be immediately banished to the country estate.”

  Prince raised his head at that and issued a low growl, impressing Philip. By God, he very well might be the Smartest Dog in the World.

  “See there? Prince wants nothing to do with a woman who would cast him from his home, and I’m afraid I have to agree with him. Who is next on your list?”

  “Lady Amelia Wentworth. She is—”

  “Completely unacceptable.”

  “Oh? Is she not fond of dogs?”

  “I’ve no idea. But it doesn’t matter. She is an abysmal dancer.” He lifted one booted foot and waggled it about. “My poor abused toes may never recover.”

  “I cannot see how her dancing ability enters into this, especially since I distinctly recall you s
aying that you yourself were not fond of dancing.”

  “Exactly. Your list of my preferences should read that my future bride be an accomplished dancer so as to instruct me. ”

  “Surely Lady Amelia can improve her dancing with lessons.”

  “Impossible. She possesses absolutely no sense of rhythm whatsoever. Next?”

  She glanced down at her list. “Lady Alexandra Rigby.”

  “No.”

  There was no mistaking the flare of impatience in her eyes. “Because... ?”

  “I’m not the least bit attracted to her. In fact, I find her most off-putting.”

  Confusion replaced the impatience. “But why? She is extremely beautiful and an accomplished dancer.”

  “It goes back many years. Her family visited mine at Ravensly Manor the summer I was eleven. Lady Alexandra was two. One afternoon I came upon her in the gardens and caught her eating...” He cleared his throat. “For lack of a more delicate way to say it”—he dropped his voice to a whisper—“rabbit droppings?”

  Although she tried to disguise it as a cough, there was no mistaking the horrified laugh that emitted from Meredith’s lips. “She was only two years old, Lord Greybourne. Surely many children that age do such things.”

  “I never did any such thing. Did you?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  He raised his hand, cutting off her words. “It is a most unfortunate image of Lady Alexandra I have never been able to erase from my mind. I’m afraid I must insist you file her under the category of ‘Lips that have touched rabbit poo shall never touch mine.’ ” He waved his hand in rolling motion. “Who is next?”

  “Lady Elizabeth Watson.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Really? Did she also make unfortunate food choices as a toddler?”

  “I haven’t a clue. However, I know she makes them as an adult. She smelled like Brussels sprouts.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve a particular dislike for Brussels sprouts.”

  “Yes. And cabbage, too, which is why you must cross Lady Berthilde Atkins off your list as well.”

  “Because she smells like—”

  “Cabbage. I’m afraid so.” He heaved a dramatic sigh. “Quite unfortunate really, as she had potential.”

  “I’m certain Lady Berthilde could be persuaded to adjust her eating habits.”

  “I couldn’t dream of asking her to give up—for a lifetime—a food item she is obviously so very fond of. Next?”

  She eyed him with clear suspicion. “Do you possess any other strong food aversions?”

  He offered her a wide smile. “None that I can think of.”

  “All right.” She consulted her list, then looked up at him. “Lady Lydia Tudwell.”

  He winced. “Won’t do. She smells strongly of—”

  “I thought there were no other food aversions—”

  “—brandy, which is not a food. She quite reeked of the stuff. Clearly she...” He mimed tossing back several drinks in quick succession. “On the sly. Completely unacceptable. Next?”

  “Lady Agatha Gateshold.”

  “No.”

  She huffed out a clearly exasperated breath. “We are establishing a pattern here, my lord, that is not lost upon me. However, according to your list of preferences, Lady Agatha is a perfect candidate.”

  “I agree. Except for one thing. She carries a tendre for Lord Sassafrass.”

  “Sassafrass? I’ve never heard of him.”

  He shrugged. “Some foreign title. Italian, I believe. On the mother’s side.”

  Doubt was written all over her face. “Lady Agatha made no mention of this attachment to me.”

  “Really? I’m certain she meant to. She sang his praises to me during our conversation. ‘Lord Sassafrass this, Lord Sassafrass that.’ It was obvious she was letting me know, in a rather unsubtle way, that she was not interested in me. I’ve certainly no wish to marry a woman who is in love with another man. Next?”

  “Well, Lady Emily and Lady Henrietta—”

  “Impossible. They both nearly swooned at the mere mention of sexual matters—”

  “As any gently bred young woman would.”

  “Clearly you do not understand as much about the workings of the ton as you believe. No, neither Lady Emily nor Lady Henrietta will do. I’m certain their delicate constitutions could not withstand the actual act of lovemaking, and I am expected to produce an heir— hardly a feat I can accomplish by myself.”

  Color rushed into her face, and she stared at him for several seconds. He arranged his features into the picture of innocence. Clearing her throat, she said, “I distinctly recall you saying that you were not necessarily particular about the bride, so long as she was not overly off-putting. Yet now you seem to be most extremely particular.”

  “Hmmm. Yes, I suppose it must seem that way. Who is next?”

  “Based on our lack of success thus far, I think I shall simply move to the top of the list and hopefully save us both some time.”

  “And who sits upon the top of your list?”

  “Lady Penelope Hickam.”

  “Ah, yes, Lady Penelope.”

  “Lady Penelope possesses each and every trait you yourself said you found admirable in a woman.” Looking down, she consulted her list. “She enjoys music, plays the pianoforte, and sings like an angel. She appeared interested in your field of antiquarian studies, voiced no strong objection to dusty relics, and proved a proficient conversationalist on a variety of topics. Romantic drivel holds no appeal to her, and she is an expert at handling servants and running a household. In addition, she is fond of animals, an accomplished dancer, speaks French fluently, and adores embroidering.” Looking up from her list, she favored him with a triumphant gleam in her eye. Find something wrong with her, that gleam clearly challenged.

  “Hmmm. I believe you left one thing out.”

  Frowning, she once again looked at her list. Then, with a laugh, she looked up. “Only the ‘classic, willowy beauty.’ I did not mention it, as I felt it unnecessary. Lady Penelope is unquestionably beautiful.”

  “I think she’s rather... pale.”

  Her eyes widened with obvious disbelief. “She’s blonde?”

  “Ah, and therein lies the problem. I prefer dark hair.”

  With an exclamation of clear exasperation and impatience, she gently extricated herself from beneath Prince’s sleeping form, then jumped to her feet, clutching her lists. Marching to the mantel, she planted her fists on her hips, then stuck out her jaw at an unmistakably stubborn angle. “What is this nonsense? You most certainly do not prefer dark hair.”

  He puckered his face into an expression of bewilderment. “Are you certain? Because I’m quite positive I do. And surely that is something I would know.”

  “You are making sport of me, Lord Greybourne, and I do not like it.” She shook her list under his nose. “It is written right here. I wrote it myself the other evening. You said you liked”—she looked at the list, then pointed to the words—“classically beautiful blondes.”

  “Actually, it was Andrew who said that.”

  “You said nothing to indicate he was mistaken.”

  “He wasn’t mistaken. I’d be hard-pressed to name any man who would not admire—however briefly—a classically beautiful blonde. However, I prefer dark hair.”

  He heard a tapping sound and realized it was her shoe hitting the stone hearth in a staccato click of clear annoyance. “You made no mention of this the other evening.”

  “I confess my preference is of a rather recent nature.”

  The tapping increased. “Indeed? How recent? Since I paraded a roomful of ‘classically beautiful blondes’ through your drawing room?”

  “No. Before that.”

  “When?”

  His gaze shifted to her hair. Reaching out, he captured one of the shiny tendrils framing her face, rubbing the glossy strands between his thumb and index finger. The tapping abruptly stopped, and she drew
in a sharp breath.

  “Do you really want to know, Meredith? Because I can tell you, almost to the exact moment, when my preference changed.”

  Everything inside Meredith went perfectly still. His words, the soft, husky voice in which they were spoken, the heat simmering in his gaze, effectively shut her up, halting her breath. Dear God, there was no mistaking his meaning or the desire all but emanating from him in waves. Her heart sputtered back to life with a slow, hard pound so loud it echoed in her ears. So loud he surely must hear it.

  “Actually, there was one woman at the party who captured my interest, and, I would very much like for you to arrange another meeting between us.”

  She swallowed once. Hard. She had to stop this. Now. “Lord Greybourne, I—”

  “Philip. Please call me Philip. Would you like me to tell you about this woman?” Before she could reply—which would have taken a while, considering she could not seem to locate her voice—he said, his fingers still playing with her hair, “Her hair is dark, like a desert night. Its glossy color is like the rich, black soil deposited along the banks of the Nile each year after the spring floods. Her hair is, in fact, identical to yours.”

  Desperate to add some levity, to dispel the foglike tension, she attempted a smile. “Are you saying my hair reminds you of dirt?”

  Instead of answering, he eased pins from her hair until her tresses spilled over his hands. Stop him! her inner voice commanded, but her lips refused to vocalize the command. All vestiges of mirth disappeared, leaving her floundering in a sea of awareness and aching longing that threatened to drown her. He sifted his long fingers through her curls, and she had to bite down on her lip to keep from purring.

  “Dirt? No. Your hair... her hair... is vibrant. Silky. Glossy. Lovely.”

  He slowly traced his fingertips over her face. Every nerve ending tingled, and her eyes slid closed at the sheer pleasure of his touch. “This woman who has captured my interest... she is not a classic beauty. Her features are too stark and angular.”

  The feathery caress of his fingertip tickled over her lips, and her eyes flew open. His gaze was fixed on her lips with a compelling intensity that sizzled heat straight to her core. “Her mouth is too wide and mobile, her lips too rosy and plump. Yet it is the sort of mouth that inspires sensual fantasies, and distracts me from all the other things I should be thinking about.”