Who Will Take This Man?

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