Who Will Take This Man?

“Wouldn’t it be lovely, then, if every child could have one? To feel safe.”

“Indeed it would.” Something in her voice piqued his already overly inquisitive nature, and he wondered if she was speaking of any child in particular.

“Did you know,” he said, in an attempt to restart the conversation rather than simply gawk at her, “that the Greeks and Romans believed pearls were born in oysters when a drop of dew or rain penetrated between the shell?”

The instant the question crossed his lips, he wished he could snatch it back. Surely her eyes would glaze over with boredom at such a topic. He may not have been among Society in a great while, but he recalled-all too well- that stories of historical lore were not popular to discuss with ladies.

But her eyes instantly lit with unmistakable interest. “Really?”

“Yes, although the ancient Chinese adhered to an even more unusual theory. They believed that pearls were conceived in the brains of dragons. They were very rare gems, and therefore guarded between the dragon’s teeth. The only way for the pearl to be taken was to slay the dragon.”

“I’m certain the dragon had something to say about that.”

Looking at her, her eyes bright with amusement, he couldn’t suppress the grin pulling at his lips. She certainly didn’t seem such the autocratic termagant now, what with those streaks of dust in her hair. Indeed, he could not recall the last time he’d felt such an easy camaraderie with a woman, at least a proper Englishwoman. In his youth he’d always felt awkward and clumsy in their presence, as if he’d tied a knot in his tongue. Even as a young man, before he’d left England, he’d always lacked the smooth sophistication and charming finesse so many of his contemporaries displayed. Thankfully he’d outgrown his awkwardness and shyness as he’d matured during his years abroad, and been exposed to other cultures.

His gaze roamed her face, slightly flushed, no doubt from the overly warm air in the warehouse. A bit of dirt marked her cheek, and without thinking, he reached out to wipe it off.

The instant his fingers touched her smooth cheek he realized his error. Her skin was like velvet cream. So incredibly soft. And pale. His hand looked dark and rough next to her complexion, as if it didn’t belong there. Which it most emphatically did not.

Feeling like a complete ass, especially given the way she’d gone perfectly still, except for her eyes, which widened to the size of saucers, he lowered his hand and stepped back. “There was a smudge of dirt on your face.”

She blinked several times, as if coming out of a trance, and hectic color stained her cheeks, enchanting him far more than it should have. Bloody hell, this… whatever it was… attraction, awareness, whatever name he assigned to it, was no aberration. And whatever had sparked this attraction, he consigned it to the devil.

A shaky-sounding laugh escaped her, and she, too, retreated several steps. “Quite all right. Heaven knows I don’t want to be going about with a dirty face.”

He desperately searched his mind for something, anything, to say, but damn it, the only thing he could focus on was horrendously inappropriate, even for him. He could hardly ask, May I touch you again? Gone was the ease he’d felt only moments before. In a heartbeat this woman brought back all the awkwardness he’d thought he’d conquered. Just another reason to dislike her. And he did dislike her. Didn’t he?

The fact that his fingertips still tingled where they’d brushed against her skin did not bode well for the disliking her theory.

Just as it occurred to him that the growing silence was becoming oppressive, the sound of a door slamming startled him from his Miss Chilton-Grizedale-induced stupor. A deep voice called out, “Are you here, Greybourne?”

Philip drew in a shaky, relieved breath at the interruption, but then frowned. “That sounds like Lord Hedington.” Raising his voice, he said, “Yes, I’m here. Near the back.”

“Perhaps he brings word of Lady Sarah.” There was no missing her hopeful tone.

“Yes. Lady Sarah.” Your fiancee. The mother of your future children. The woman who should be occupying your thoughts.

Meredith pressed her lips together and, leaning down, brushed at a bit of dust clinging to her gown in an effort to collect herself. She hoped Lord Hedington was here with news regarding Lady Sarah, but regardless of his reason, she thanked the stars above for his precipitous arrival.

Lord Greybourne had the oddest, most unwelcome effect on her. The mere innocent brush of his fingers across her cheek had heated her as if he’d set fire to her gown. Surely it was merely the result of being alone with him for such a prolonged period. Yes, that explained why, even while her attention was focused on cataloging the artifacts, she’d been intensely aware of him. Of his every movement. The sound of him removing items from the crate. The occasional heaving of a sigh.

She should have been discussing etiquette with him, but between her fascination with the artifacts and her preoccupation with him, all thoughts of manners had fled from her head.

Their eyes had met four times. And four times it had felt as if every particle of air had been sucked from the room. Four times he’d smile in his lopsided way, the way that creased that dimple in his cheek, then asked if she was all right. And four times she’d answered that she was fine.

But she’d lied four times. She was not fine. This man kindled feelings in her, longings, that confused and frightened her. And she did not like to be confused or frightened.

She could not overlook his obvious faults regarding his manners and outspoken nature, yet when it came to discussing his work, he was proving himself-and she was finding him-intelligent, entertaining, and disturbingly attractive.

And that was very bad.

“There you are,” said the duke as he rounded the corner, a fierce scowl puckering his features. “I-” He halted at the sight of her, then, lifting his quizzing glass, he glared at her. “You!” he said.

“Miss Chilton-Grizedale is helping in the search for the missing piece of the stone tablet, your grace,” Philip said. “Have you any news?”

The duke’s jaw worked back and forth as he alternated his glare between them. “Yes, I have news.” He stepped closer to Meredith and pointed an accusing finger at her. “This is entirely your fault.”

Before Meredith could say a word, Lord Greybourne stepped between her and the irate duke. “Perhaps you’d like to explain yourself,” Lord Greybourne said in a soft voice that did little to belie the steel underneath. Since she could not see around him, she moved to the side, to stand next to him.

Lord Hedington, his houndlike face flushed deep red, looked like a canine teapot on the verge of spewing a stream of steam. “I blame you as well, Greybourne.” Reaching into the pocket of his brocade waistcoat, he extracted a folded piece of ivory vellum. “This note arrived an hour ago from my daughter… the new Baroness Weycroft. In order to ensure that she would not be forced to marry you, she married Lord Weycroft by special license yesterday.”

The duke’s words echoed in the silent warehouse. Meredith’s heart seemed to stall, but she knew her pulse was beating, for she could feel it thumping, no, pounding, in her ears. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Greybourne go perfectly still.

“Apparently the idea came to her after your conversation in the gallery,” the duke fumed. “Seems the chit has carried a tendre for Weycroft for years, but knowing it was her duty to marry in accordance to my wishes, she agreed to the match with you.” His gaze swung to Meredith, nearly freezing her with the arctic blast. “A match you arranged. A match you assured me would be beneficial to my family and to my daughter.”

He focused his attention on Philip once again. “According to her letter, when she finally met you, she found herself not at all drawn to you, a fact which made her realize exactly how strongly she felt for Weycroft. Your talk of curses and falling and headaches frightened her, convincing her that if she married you, she would indeed die. But of course, she also knew I would not agree to dissolve the betrothal.

“The morning after meeting with you, she wrote to Weycroft, explaining everything. Apparently Weycroft carried a tendre for Sarah as well. Unwilling to allow her to come to harm by marrying you, he procured a special license. He came for her yesterday, under the guise of escorting her to her wedding at St. Paul’s. They were married and are now on their way to the continent for an extended wedding trip.”

The irate duke swiveled his attention back to Meredith, and leveled her with a look filled with utter disgust.