Love and the Single Heiress

he did before preparing for a pugilistic bout at Gentleman Jackson’s Emporium. His gaze continued to pan over the guests, halting abruptly when he caught sight of Lady Catherine, exiting from behind an Oriental silk screen near the French doors.

He stilled at the sight of her bronze gown. Every time he’d seen her during the past year, her widow’s weeds had engulfed her like a dark, heavy rain cloud. Now officially out of mourning, she resembled a golden bronze sun setting over the Nile, gilding the landscape with slanting rays of warmth.

She paused to exchange a few words with a gentleman, and Andrew’s avid gaze noted the way the vivid material of her gown contrasted with her pale shoulders and complemented her shiny chestnut curls gathered into a Grecian knot. The becoming coiffure left the vulnerable curve of her nape bare…

He blew out a long breath and raked his free hand through his hair. How many times had he imagined skimming his fingers, his mouth, over that soft, silky skin? More than he cared to admit. She was all things lovely and good. A perfect lady. Indeed, she was perfect in every way.

He knew damn well he wasn’t good enough for her. In spite of his financial successes, socially he felt like a beggar with his nose pressed to the glass at the confectioner’s shop. But neither his mind nor his common sense were in charge any longer. She was free. And while he cherished the platonic relationship that had blossomed between them over the past fourteen months, his feelings ran far deeper than mere friendship, and his heart would not be denied. His sullied past, her noble lineage, his lack of lineage-all be damned.

His gaze tracked her slim, regal form as she made her way around the perimeter of the room, and his heart executed the same erratic hop it performed every time he looked at her. If he’d been capable of laughter, he would have chuckled at himself and his gut-level reaction to her. He felt like a tongue-tied, green schoolboy-quite deflating as he normally considered himself a man of at least some finesse.

Rolling his shoulders to loosen his tense muscles, he pulled in a lungful of air and prepared to step from the shadows. A firm hand grasped him by the shoulder.

“You might want to straighten your cravat before heading into the fray, old man.”

Andrew turned swiftly and found himself staring into Philip’s amused, bespectacled brown eyes. Frustration instantly gave way to concern. “What are you doing here? Is Meredith all right?”

“My wife is fine, thank you, or at least as fine as a woman in the final weeks of pregnancy can be. As to why I am here, for reasons I cannot fathom, Meredith insisted I make an appearance at Father’s birthday celebration.” He shook his head, clearly bemused. “I did not want to leave her, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few months, it is that only a fool argues with an expectant mother. So I reluctantly left her side and suffered the three-hour journey to London to bestow my felicitations upon Father. Meredith suggested I remain here overnight, but I flatly refused. My coach is being brought ‘round even as we speak. However, I couldn’t leave without talking to you. How goes the progress on the museum?”

“Very well. Hiring Simon Wentworth as our steward was one of the smartest things we’ve done. He’s extremely organized and keeps the workmen on schedule.”

“Excellent.” Philip’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “How goes the Charles Brightmore investigation?”

Andrew blew out a sigh. “The bastard doesn’t appear to exist, except on paper as the author of the Guide, but that only serves to intrigue me further. Trust me, I have every intention of collecting the impressive sum Lord Markingworth and his friends have promised me for identifying the author.”

“Yes, well, that’s why I recommended you. You’re tenacious and unrelenting when it comes to ferreting out the truth. And thanks to your ties to the museum and your association with the, ahem, exalted likes of me, you have access to both Society’s finest and persons of, shall we say, more humble origins. People would be far more inclined to confide in you than a Runner, and your presence at these types of soirees doesn’t raise a brow, as a stranger’s or a Runner’s would.”

“Yes, that is to my advantage,” Andrew agreed. “It has been my experience that clues are often inadvertently revealed during casual conversations.”

“Well, I’ve no doubt of your success. I only hope that revealing this Charles Brightmore’s identity puts a stop to this damnable Ladies’ Guide. I want that book pulled from the shelves before Meredith manages to secure a copy. My lovely wife is by far too independent as it is. Keeping her in check already requires nearly more energy than I can muster.”

“Yes, I’m certain that it’s your beautiful wife’s independence that drains your energy.” His gaze skimmed over Philip in a pointed fashion. “You do not appear to be suffering overmuch at her hands. But fear not-I intend to unmask this Brightmore person. I’ll not only have the pleasure of exposing the charlatan, but the money I’ll earn doing so will help further my campaign with regard to your sister. I have every intention of giving Lady Catherine the luxury to which she is accustomed.”

“Ah. Speaking of which-how goes the courting of my sister?”

Andrew looked toward the ceiling. “Rather slowly, I’m afraid.”

“Well, quit dawdling about. I’ve never known you to be anything less than relentless when you wanted something. Why are you dilly-dallying?”

“I’m not dilly-”

“And for God’s sake, quit tugging at your hair. You look as if a lightning bolt struck you.”

Andrew scraped a hasty hand through his apparently lightning-struck hair and frowned. “You’re a fine one to talk. Have you consulted a mirror lately? Your manner can only be described as harried, and your own hair looks as if you were caught in sudden freakish storm.”

“I am harried, but considering that my first child is soon to be born, I at least have a valid excuse for yanking at my hair and behaving oddly. What the devil is wrong with you?”

“There is nothing wrong with me, other than frustration. I haven’t had an opportunity even to speak with Lady Catherine. Every time I finally spot her in the crowd, another museum investor or potential investor claims my attention.” He shot Philip a pointed stare. “I was attempting to approach her for the fourth time this evening when I was again waylaid-this time by you.”

“And you should be glad you were. If she’d seen that mess of a coiffure, she would have run screaming from the room.”

“Thank you. Your encouragement warms my heart. Truly. Although I find it difficult to take fashion advice from someone whose own attire and coiffure most often resemble a squirrel’s nest.”

Instead of taking offense, Philip smiled. “True. However, I am not attempting to court a lady this evening. I have already succeeded in winning the woman I love.”

“Yes, and almost in spite of yourself, I might add. If not for my advice on how to woo and win Meredith…”Andrew shook his head sadly. “Well, let us just say that the outcome of your courting was highly questionable.”

A rude sound escaped Philip. “Is that so? If you are such an expert, then why haven’t you yet succeeded with Catherine?”

“Because I’ve yet to start with her-thanks, most recently, to you. Tell me, is there not some other house in Mayfair you can haunt?”

“Fear not, I’m on my way out the door. However, if I leave now, I won’t be able to tell you about the two very interesting conversations I had this evening. One was with a Mr. Sidney Carmichael. Have you met him yet?”

Andrew shook his head. “The name is not familiar to me.”

“He was introduced to me by Mrs. Warrenfield, the wealthy American widow.” Philip lowered his voice. “If you happen to speak with her, be prepared to listen to her describe, in detail, her plethora of aches and pains.”

“Thank you for the warning. If only you’d told me an hour ago.”

“Ah. Something struck me as rather odd about the lady, but I cannot put my finger on it,” Philip said, frowning. “Did you notice anything?”

Andrew considered a moment. “I admit I was preoccupied when I spoke to her, but now that you mention it, yes. I think it’s her voice. It’s unusually deep and raspy for a lady. Combined with the veiled, black hat she wears, which obscures half her face, it’s a bit disconcerting to speak with her.”

“Yes, that must be it. Well, back to Mr. Carmichael. He’s interested in making a very sizable investment in the museum.”

“How sizable?”