Jacquie D'Alessandro (10 page)

He tried hard not to let his idiotic disappointment show. Damn it, he wasn’t a boy. He was man. Soon to turn one and twenty. He wanted to remind her, but what was the point? Forcing a smile, he said, “Ye’re welcome. ’Tis an honor to be yer friend.”

The clip clop of an approaching carriage caught his attention. Walking to the narrow window beside the front door, he moved the curtain aside.

“A fancy carriage,” he reported. “Stoppin’ in front. Must be another note delivery from another of them fancy ladies wantin’ to—”

His words sliced off as a footman opened the carriage door and Miss Merrie emerged, followed by a tall gentleman wearing spectacles.

Albert’s eyes narrowed as he watched the gentleman escort Miss Merrie up the walkway. Because the walkway was narrow, they proceeded single file, with the gentleman falling in behind Miss Merrie. The man’s gaze wandered down Miss Merrie’s back, taking note of her backside in a way that set Albert’s teeth on edge. Without waiting for them to climb the steps, he flung open the door.

“Everythin’ all right here, Miss Merrie?” he asked, scowling at the man.

“Everything is fine, thank you, Albert.” After climbing the steps, Miss Merrie performed a quick introduction.

To Albert’s surprise, the Greybourne bloke extended his hand. “Good to meet you, Goddard.”

Albert wasn’t certain he returned the sentiment, but, scowl firmly in place, he shook the gentleman’s hand

“Thank you for seeing me home, Lord Greybourne.
Are you certain I cannot offer you some refreshment before you leave?”

“No, thank you. However, I look forward to seeing you later this evening. Shall I send my carriage? Say at eight?”

“That will be fine.” She inclined her head in a regal fashion. “Good afternoon.”

Lord Greybourne bowed, then returned to his carriage. Albert stood on the porch and glared at him until the carriage was no longer in sight. Entering the foyer, Miss Merrie was handing Charlotte her shawl.

“So that bloke’s Lord Greybourne,” Albert said.

Meredith turned toward Albert’s stern voice, a tone she was not accustomed to hearing from him. His severe frown paused her fingers in the act of untying her bonnet. “That was Lord Greybourne, yes.”

“And ye’re seein’ him this evenin’?”

“Yes. I’m joining him and his sister and one of his antiquarian colleagues for dinner at Lord Greybourne’s townhouse.”

Albert’s brows collapsed even farther. “I’d watch myself with that one if I were you, Miss Merrie. He’s got designs on ye.”

Heat scorched Meredith’s cheeks, and she prayed neither Albert nor Charlotte would notice. “Good heavens, Albert, what a thing to say! Of course he does not. I’m trying to find him a bride.”

“Ye already found him one. But based on the way he was oglin’ ye, it appears he’s forgotten all about her.”

She barely kept herself from pressing her hand against her chest where her heart thudded. Was Albert correct? Had Lord Greybourne ogled her? Something that felt suspiciously like a smile tugged at her mouth, and she clamped her lips together. Good heavens, she should be outraged! Being ogled was highly uncouth. Certainly she should not feel…flattered. Nor be experiencing this rush of warm pleasure. No, of course she was outraged.

“What do you mean, ‘ogling’?”

“I saw the way he looked at ye. Like ye were a treat in the confectioner’s shop, and he were cravin’ a bit of sweet.”

Another unwanted, inappropriate, inexplicable wave of pleasure washed through her. Botheration, this was what happened when one did not get one’s proper rest. She’d make it a point to retire early this evening and sleep late tomorrow.

Adopting her most prim expression, she said, “He was doing nothing of the kind. His expressions are easy to misinterpret due to his thick spectacles.” When Albert appeared about to argue the point further, she quickly added, “I have some news.”

She quickly told Albert and Charlotte about the search for the missing stone, Lady Sarah’s marriage, and her plan to find Lord Greybourne another wife. “We shall discuss plans to meet that goal at dinner this evening.” Out of the corner of her eye she spied the pile of letters resting on the table. Putting on her bravest face, she smiled at both Albert and Charlotte. “I’m certain everything is going to be just fine.”

But she could see in their worried expressions that she’d failed to convince them.

Yet how could she hope to do so when she herself was far from convinced?

Philip paced in
front of the fireplace in the library, and stared once again at the mantel clock.

“You seem nervous,” Andrew remarked in an amused drawl.

“Not nervous. Filled with anticipation. I haven’t seen Catherine in ten years.” He watched Andrew tug his midnight-blue jacket into place. “Speaking of nervous, that’s the dozenth time you’ve straightened your attire.”

“Wouldn’t want your sister to think you’ve befriended a disreputable ne’er-do-well.”

“Ah. In that case you’d best leave before she arrives.” Ceasing his restless pacing, he stared into the flames dancing in the fireplace, childhood memories washing over him. “She always looked like an angel, but good God, she was a mischievous devil. Always sending the butler off on some false errand so we could slide down the curving banister at Ravensly Manor, or convincing me to join her on late night raids of the kitchens to filch biscuits.”

Yes, one year his junior, Catherine had been everything he was not as a child—fun-loving and playful. She taught him how to laugh and smile, how to take time for fun, coaxing him from his shyness, and accepted him exactly as he was—awkward, clumsy, diffident, serious, bespectacled, and pudgy.

“You’ve spoken of her so often over the years, I feel as
if I know her,” Andrew said. “You were fortunate to have each other.”

“She was my best friend,” he said simply. “When I left England, leaving her was the most difficult part. But she’d been recently married, and was expecting a child, and I’d been assured of her happiness.” His jaw clenched. “But as you know, her letters indicate that her cordial relationship with her husband changed drastically when she presented him with a less-than-physically-perfect heir.”

“Yes. It’s hardly the boy’s fault he was born with a clubfoot. The man should be happy he was blessed with a child.”

At Andrew’s sharp tone, Philip turned to his friend and offered a grim smile at his dark scowl. “I appreciate the outrage on Catherine’s behalf. Believe me, it cannot possibly match mine. I greatly look forward to engaging in a little private discussion with my swine of a brother-in-law.”

“Happy to participate in that ‘chat’ should you require any assistance.”

A knock sounded at the door. At his call to enter, Bakari opened the door. “Lady Bickley,” he intoned, then stepped aside.

Catherine stepped over the threshold, and a lump clogged Philip’s throat at the sight of her. Clad in a pale green muslin day gown, her shiny chestnut curls framing her lovely face, she looked very much like the image he carried in his mind and heart, only more so. More beautiful, more slim, more elegant. An air of regal serenity surrounded her—not unusual for a proper English lady. Yet it had always been the flashes of deviltry so often present in her golden brown eyes that were so unexpected. And endearing.

He walked slowly toward her, across the expanse of the Persian rug to where she remained framed in the doorway, like a stunning portrait. Before he’d taken half a dozen steps, however, her lips twitched in that infectious, engag
ing way of hers, and she ran toward him. He caught her up in his arms, swung her around in an exuberant manner, and was instantly inundated with her delicate floral scent, exactly the same as he recalled. No matter what sort of mischief Catherine had engaged in, she’d always smelled as if she’d just stepped out of the garden. After one final twirl, he set her down, then they held each other at arm’s length while giving each other a thorough look-over.

“You look exactly the same,” he declared, “only more lovely, if that is possible.”

She laughed, a delightful sound that filled him with nostalgia. “Well, I’m afraid
you
look completely different.”

“For the better, I hope.”

“For the
much
better.”

“Is that to insinuate my appearance was lacking before I went abroad?”

“Not at all. Ten years ago, you were a darling boy. Now you’re a—”

“Darling man?”

“Exactly.” She squeezed his shoulders. “And so strong,” she teased in the exaggerated way he so vividly recalled. “Clearly, living in rustic conditions agrees with you.” Her smile faded, and her eyes turned misty. A myriad of emotions flashed in her eyes, so quickly he couldn’t decipher them. Resting her palm against his cheek, she said, “It is so wonderful to have you home, Philip. I’ve missed you very much.”

Her voice hitched, and looking into her eyes, he realized that there were subtle changes. This was not the carefree girl he’d left behind. Shadows flickered in her eyes, shadows a casual observer wouldn’t notice, but he knew her very well. Clearly Father’s illness and her unhappy marriage had taken their toll on her vivacious spirit. He looked forward to speaking to her privately, to hear about her son and husband, things she wouldn’t confide to him in front of Andrew.

“And I’ve missed you, Imp.” She smiled at his use of her childhood sobriquet. Grabbing her hand, he kissed her fingers in his most gallant gesture, then offered her his arm. “Come, you must meet Andrew.”

They turned and made their way across the room to the fireplace where Andrew stood. Leaning his head toward Catherine, Philip whispered, making certain he spoke loud enough for his friend to hear, “Do not believe a word he says. He is an outrageous flirt and an accomplished mischief maker.”

Drawing to a halt near the hearth, Philip said, “May I present my friend and colleague, Mr. Andrew Stanton. Andrew, my sister, Catherine Ashfield, Lady Bickley.”

Catherine smiled and offered her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stanton, although I feel I already know you through Philip’s letters.”

Andrew said nothing for several seconds, then seemed to gather himself, and reaching out, he took her hand and formally bowed over it. “It is an honor, Lady Bickley. As Philip was kind enough to share snippets of your letters with me and often regaled me with stories of your childhood, I, too, feel as if we are already acquainted. The miniature of you he carried did not do you justice.”

“Thank you.” Catherine shot Philip an arch look. “Childhood stories? Oh, dear. You must not believe everything my brother tells you, Mr. Stanton.”

“I assure you he painted you in the most flattering light.” One corner of Andrew’s mouth lifted. “Usually.”

“Come, let us sit,” Philip said. “Miss Chilton-Grizedale isn’t expected to arrive for another hour, which gives us some time to catch up.”

“Yes,” Catherine agreed. “I want to hear about…everything.”

Once they were seated, Philip asked, “As neither Spencer nor Bickley joined us this evening, I take it that you traveled to London alone?”

A pained expression flashed in Catherine’s eyes, so quickly that if Philip didn’t know her well, he would not have recognized it as such. “Yes. Bertrand is immersed in his duties at Bickley Manor. I left Spencer in Little Longstone, under the care of Mrs. Carlton, his governess. Traveling is difficult for him, and he does not particularly care for London.” Then her face lit up with a look of deep, motherly love. “However, he is most anxious to meet his wildly adventurous uncle and made me promise to extract your promise to visit us in Little Longstone the
instant
you return from your wedding trip.” She reached out and clasped his hand. “I visited with Father earlier and he told me everything. I’m so sorry about your canceled wedding, Philip. But do not worry. The idea you wrote me of hosting a party is excellent. With the soiree Miss Chilton-Grizedale and I will arrange, we’ll find you a lovely bride in no time.”

Philip leaned nonchalantly against the marble mantel in the drawing room, ankles crossed, half smile in place, swirling a snifter of after-dinner brandy. Outwardly, he knew he appeared relaxed and composed. Inwardly, a mass of tense confusion writhed through him like snakes in a pit. As he had all during dinner—wildly unsuccessfully—he now again tried his damnedest to keep up with the conversation buzzing between Miss Chilton-Grizedale and Catherine, but his mind was not cooperating. No, he was far too preoccupied. With
her
—the annoying matchmaker, whom he was finding more annoying with each passing minute. More and more annoying because it was no longer her autocratic nature he was finding irksome—although there was no denying that still rubbed him the wrong way. No, it was this damnable attraction and awareness he was experiencing that was now the source of his mounting irritation.

The excellent meal had done little to hold his attention,
in spite of the fact that the Mediterranean influences in the courses indicated that Bakari had obviously gone to great pains to see to it that his very English cook, Mrs. Smythe, had prepared the food according to his tastes. Judging by the number of harrumphs Bakari had muttered, and Mrs. Smythe’s formidable demeanor, Philip judged this had been no easy task.

The delicately poached turbot had been lost upon him as he’d attempted to divert his gaze away from Miss Chilton-Grizedale—and failed utterly. She sat on his left, giving him an unimpeded view of her profile. Her dark hair was arranged in a Grecian-style knot, with a bronze ribbon that matched her gown woven through the shiny strands. His gaze touched upon her smooth skin, the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her lashes. With every sip from her wine goblet, his attention was drawn to her lovely mouth.

Every time she’d leaned forward to say something to Catherine, he’d desperately tried not to notice how the movement pulled the coppery-bronze silk of her gown just a bit tighter across the generous swell of her breasts. Every word she uttered to Catherine regarding this party they were planning with the precision of a military invasion provided him with another opportunity to enjoy her voice.

In fact, she was speaking to Catherine now, both women perched upon the brocade settee. A delicate blush colored Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s cheeks, and her eyes were alight with interest. She moved her hands in animated gestures as she spoke, punctuating her words. Her voice was rich and warm, with just a slightly husky timbre that made it sound as if she’d just awoken. From bed. His bed.

An image instantly formed in his mind, of them, together, naked, limbs entwined, her whispering his name in that husky voice…
Philip…please, Philip…

“Philip…please. What do you think?”

Catherine’s voice snapped him back from his runaway thoughts like a cobra bite. He looked around and noted three pairs of eyes regarding him with varying degrees of quizzical expressions. Andrew, who sat on an overstuffed wing chair across from the ladies, bore an expression that appeared more amused than questioning. Heat crept up Philip’s neck. He adjusted his spectacles, then, convention be damned, he loosened his confining cravat.

“Afraid I was in a bit of a brown study. What were you saying?”

Catherine’s lips quirked upward. Alternating her gaze between Andrew and Miss Chilton-Grizedale, she reported in a teasing voice, “My brother has changed very little in the past decade, I see. His mind, always filled with thoughts of his studies, often wandered off during our conversations. I recall one time relating a fascinating story to him of a musicale I’d attended. After the fifth ‘That’s nice, Catherine’ he’d uttered, I said, ‘And then I jumped into the Thames and swam across to Vauxhall.’ He simply nodded. However, when I said, ‘The pyramids at Giza were built by Sir Christopher Wren,’ that comment quickly rewarded me with his attention—something you might both wish to remember the next time Philip’s mind wanders.”

“Thank you for the advice, Lady Bickley,” said Andrew. He turned to Philip. “Is that what you were contemplating just now, Philip? The beauty of the…pyramids?”

Philip shot Andrew a quelling look. Normally he enjoyed his friend’s irreverent sense of humor—but not now. Not when he felt so unsettled and undone. “No. I was merely…preoccupied.” Careful to avoid looking at Miss Chilton-Grizedale, he focused his attention on Catherine. “What do I think about what?”

“Holding the gathering here at your townhouse the evening after next, with me acting as hostess. Miss Chilton-Grizedale and I thought a dinner with dancing afterward would best suit our purposes.”

“Can you arrange something that quickly?”

“With the proper help and staff, a coronation could be arranged that quickly.” Sadness shadowed Catherine’s eyes. “And with father’s illness, time is of the essence.”

“To assist me in my search for a wife for you, it would help to know what sort of qualities you admire in a woman,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale said in that brisk, no-nonsense tone of hers.

Something that sounded suspiciously like a guffaw arose from Andrew. Philip shot his friend a frown, and when Catherine and Miss Chilton-Grizedale looked his way, Andrew started coughing. Waving his hand, Andrew reached for his brandy and gasped, “I’m fine. Really.” After taking a sip, Andrew grinned at Philip. “Yes, Philip. What sort of qualities do you admire in a woman?”

All eyes turned his way, and when Philip remained silent, Miss Chilton-Grizedale said, “I’m not saying I shall be able to meet all your criteria, Lord Greybourne, especially as time is short. However, it might prove helpful to know if there are any characteristics that you find particularly attractive or overly off-putting. In fact, if you wouldn’t object to loaning me the use of your desk and a piece of vellum, I’d like to jot down some notes.”

This was not a conversation he particularly wished to have, especially given the devilish gleam he recognized all too well in Andrew’s eyes. But since he couldn’t think of a way to refuse her request without reinforcing her belief that his manners were sorely lacking, he led the way to his desk. Extracting a piece of thick ivory vellum from the top drawer, he held out the maroon leather chair for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, sitting down with fluid grace. Her bronze skirts brushed his breeches, and her de
licious scent wafted into his head. Scones. Tonight she smelled like warm, freshly baked, buttered scones. Damn it all, he had a particular weakness for warm, freshly baked, buttered scones. He stepped quickly back from her.

“Philip harbors a fondness for willowy blondes,” Andrew said, rising to stand near the fireplace, “especially since he met so few during his travels. And if her features are those of a classic beauty, so much the better.” He made a
tsking
noise. “Too bad Lady Sarah ran off. Physically, she was exactly the sort he likes.”