“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.”
“Then 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…”
“Yes, where I discovered gobs of oozing mud. It quite cushioned my fall, but it also ate my shoes. When I lifted my foot, there came this horrible sucking sound. Then my foot, encased only in my stocking, emerged. I plunged my hands into the mud, and discovered it was only about a foot deep. Underneath the mud was a hard substance I realized was stone. I felt around for my shoe, and while doing so, I found something small and round. I pulled it free and managed to wipe off enough of the mud to see it was a coin. Feeling around, I located three more. That evening, I showed the coins to my father. They were made of gold, and appeared to be very old. The next morning we traveled to London, to the British Museum.
“The curator was beside himself over the find, explaining that he believed the coins hailed back from when the Romans invaded Britain in 43 a. d. He said that a Roman soldier may have hidden the coins in the well, but was killed in the fighting before he could return for them. Such a scenario fired my imagination, and from that moment on, I’ve been fascinated by the study of the past and the remains of ancient civilizations. Over the next several years I dug countless holes on the estate’s property, and while most families took the waters in Bath, my father brought me to the Salisbury Plain to see Stonehenge and to Northumberland to explore Hadrian’s Wall. So, like you, I knew my calling from a very young age.”
She hesitated, then said carefully, “I realize this is none of my affair, Lord Greybourne, but it sounds as if you were close to your father when you were a boy. Yet there is no mistaking the tension between you now.”
Several seconds of silence met her observation, and she wondered if she’d offended him. Finally he said, “Our relationship changed when my mother passed away.”
“I see,” she murmured, even though she didn’t. “I’m sorry.”
“As am I.”
“I hope you are able to set aside your differences before it’s… too late.”
“That is my hope as well. However, I’m not certain it’s possible. Some wounds never heal.”
“Yes, I know. But I would urge you to do whatever necessary to mend your relationship with your father. You don’t realize how fortunate you are to
“Your father is dead?”
The question hit Meredith like a backhanded slap, making her realize that she’d allowed this conversation to veer down a road she did not wish to tread upon. “Yes, he’s dead.” At least she supposed he was. It was what she told herself. Determined to change the subject, she asked, “Whatever happened to the coins you found in the well?”
“We donated three of them to the museum. I kept one for myself.”
“Do you still have it?”
“I do. Would you like to see it?”
“Very much.”
He paused, lightly grasping her arm to turn her to face him. To her surprise he proceeded to loosen his cravat. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Showing you the coin.” With his cravat unknotted, he parted the edges of his snowy shirt, exposing the column of his throat. Reaching inside the V, he withdrew a chain hanging around his neck from which dangled a small circular object. However, he didn’t pull the chain over his head. Instead he stepped closer, then held out the disk.
She went perfectly still. They stood in a deeply shadowed curve of the narrow pathway, lit only by the faint glow of moonlight sifting through the trees. The noise, music, crowds, and illuminated lamps of the grove were far in the distance, cloaking them in intimacy. A fragrant breeze brushed her gown against his boots. No more than two feet separated them. Two feet that could be erased in one step. One step that would bring her flush against him. She heard him breathing. Could he hear her heart pounding?
Her gaze riveted on the coin he held out to her. Unable to stop herself, she raised her hand, noting that it shook slightly. He settled the coin against her palm. His fingers brushed hers as he did so, sizzling heat up her arm.
Warm. The gold was warm from where it had rested against his skin only seconds before. Her fingers involuntarily closed over the coin, absorbing the heat, pressing it into her palm. Slowly opening her fingers, she stared at the round disk. “I cannot see it very well, I’m afraid.”
