Who Will Take This Man?

course you will, upping his irritation several notches. Muttering under his breath about autocratic females, he retired to his bedchamber, returning several minutes later, his concessions consisting of changing into a “proper” pair of breeches and yanking on a jacket over his loose-fitting shirt, purposely leaving his jacket unbuttoned.

When she raised her brows and appeared about to comment, he said, “I am going to a warehouse. To work. Not to have my portrait painted. This is the best you’ll get from me. It’s this or I wear nothing at all.”

She appeared startled, then narrowed her eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He moved closer to her, surprising him when she stood her ground, but he was cheered by her sharp intake of breath. “Did you know that temperatures in Egypt, in Syria, can reach levels where you actually can see the heat radiating off the ground? I am quite accustomed to wearing a minimum of clothing. Or none at all. So daring me would not be wise, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

A blush suffused her cheeks, and her lips compressed into a flat line of disapproval. “If you think to shock me with such words, Lord Greybourne, you are doomed to failure. If you wish to shame yourself, your fiancee, and your family, I cannot stop you. I can only hope you will act in a decorous manner.”

He heaved out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose that means I shall not get to disrobe in the foyer. Pity.” Extending his elbow, he said, “Shall we?”

He looked into her eyes, noting their extraordinary clear Aegean-blue color. They sparkled with determination and stubbornness, along with something else, not so easily defined. Unless he was mistaken, which he rarely was in such assessments, a hint of secrets simmered in Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s eyes as well, piquing his curiosity and interest.

That, along with her penchant for loading her reticule with stones, was casting her in the light of an intriguing puzzle.

And he harbored an incredible weakness for puzzles.

Four

Meredith sat upon the luxurious gray velvet squabs of Lord Greybourne’s coach, and studied her traveling companion. At first she’d done so covertly, from the corner of her eye as she’d feigned looking out the window at the shops and people lining Oxford Street. However, his attention was so wrapped up in studying the contents of the worn leather journal setting upon his lap, she soon abandoned the ruse and simply looked at him with frank curiosity.

The man sitting across from her was the complete antithesis of the boy in the painting hanging in the drawing room at his father’s London townhouse. His skin was not pale, but a warm, golden brown that bespoke of time spent in the sun. Golden streaks highlighted his thick, wavy dark brown hair that was once again haphazardly coiffed, as if his fingers had tunneled through the strands. Indeed, even as the thought crossed her mind, he lifted one hand and raked it through his hair.

Her gaze wandered slowly downward. Nothing about the adult Lord Greybourne could be described as soft or pudgy. He looked lean and hard and thoroughly masculine. His midnight-blue cutaway jacket, in spite of its numerous wrinkles, hugged his broad shoulders, and the fawn breeches he’d changed into emphasized his muscular legs in a way that, if she were the sort of woman to do so, might induce her to heave a purely feminine sigh.

Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to heave feminine sighs.

In further contrast to his youthful self, although his clothing was finely made of quality cloth, Lord Greybourne projected an undone appearance, no doubt the result of his askew cravat and those thick strands of hair falling over his forehead, in a fashion which, if she were the sort of woman to be tempted, might tempt her to reach out and brush those silky strands back into place.

Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to be tempted.

He looked up and their eyes met, his surrounded by round, wire-framed spectacles. In the painting, Lord Greybourne’s eyes had appeared to be a dull, flat brown. The artist had utterly failed to capture the intelligence and compelling intensity in those eyes. And there could be no denying that Lord Greybourne’s countenance was no longer that of a youth. All the softness had been replaced by lean angles, a firm, square jaw, and high cheekbones. His nose was the same-bold and blade-straight. And his mouth…

Her gaze riveted on his lips. His mouth was lovely in a way that she had not noticed in the painting. It was full. And firm-yet somehow appeared fascinatingly soft at the same time. Just the sort of mouth that, if she were a different sort of woman, might entice her to want to taste.

Fortunately, she was not at all the sort of woman to be enticed.

“Are you all right, Miss Chilton-Grizedale? You look a bit flushed.”

Damnation! She snapped her gaze up to his and arranged her features into her most prim expression. “I’m fine, thank you. It is merely warm in the carriage.” She resisted the urge to lift her hand to fan herself. Just as well, as, with her luck, she’d lift her hand and swing her stone-laden reticule around and cosh herself on the head with it. Instead she nodded toward the journal resting on his lap.

“What are you reading?” she asked, refraining from pointing out his lack of manners in ignoring her. Clearly she would need to pick her battles with this man, and her inner voice cautioned that having him ignore her might be in her best interests.

“I’m searching through a volume of my notes from my travels. I’m hopeful that I may have made a notation or sketch at some point that might provide a clue.”

“Have you had any success?”

“No. My notes fill over one hundred volumes, and although I examined them during my return voyage to England to no avail, I was hoping that perhaps I might find something I’d missed.” He closed the book, then tied a length of worn leather around it.

“What do your notes contain?”

“Sketches of artifacts and hieroglyphs, descriptions, folklore and stories told to me, personal observations. Things of that nature.”

“You learned enough to fill more than one hundred volumes?” An incredulous laugh escaped her. “Heavens, I find it a chore to compose a single-page letter.”

“In truth, I experienced more than I could ever have time to record in writing.” An expression that seemed to combine longing and passion entered his eyes. “Egypt, Turkey, Greece, Italy, Morocco… they are impossible to adequately describe, yet they’re so vivid in my memory, if I close my eyes, I feel as if I am still there.”

“You loved those places.”

“Yes.”

“You did not want to leave.”

He studied her before replying. “You are correct. England is the place of my birth, yet it no longer feels like… home.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand what I mean. Indeed, I barely do myself.”

“‘Tis true that I do not know what places such as Egypt and Greece look like, but I know about the importance, the necessity, of being in a place that feels like home. And how out of sorts one can feel when they are not there.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving hers. “Yes, that is exactly how I feel. Out of sorts.”

Something in his tone, in the way he was looking at her, with all that focused attention, stalled her breath. And rendered her most definitely out of sorts. In a way that irritated and confused her. What on earth was it about this man that robbed her of her usual aplomb?

In an effort to break the spell between them, she averted her gaze and said, “A friend of mine offered to help us sort through the artifacts, should we require his services.” Actually, both Albert and Charlotte had wanted to accompany her today, but Meredith had convinced them to wait a day. She wanted to first ascertain what sort of conditions they would be working under, and she was glad she’d insisted. The fact that they would be near the docks… Charlotte hated the docks.

“His services? Is your friend an antiquarian?”