Jacquie D'Alessandro (19 page)

He expected her to sit on the settee, but instead she appeared to sink out of sight. Concerned she’d fallen, he quickly crossed the room to discover her kneeling on the hearth, tickling her fingers over Prince’s belly, much to the squirming puppy’s delight.

“Is this where you hid yourself all evening, you little devil?” she crooned. “I’d wondered where you were.”

Prince jumped up and planted several enthusiastic kisses on her chin, for which he was rewarded with a cuddle and a delightful sound that could only be described as a giggle. Prince then squirmed free and promptly flopped himself once again onto his back, paws dangling in the air, shamelessly presenting her with his belly to rub, which she did.

Laughing, she looked up at Philip. “I place him firmly
in the category of ‘Sweetest Dog Imaginable.’”

Philip looked at Prince, and he swore the puppy winked at him. Sweetest dog? He’d more likely place the cunning devil in the category of “Smartest Dog in the World.” His gaze riveted on her fingers tickling over the Prince’s belly. Or “Luckiest Dog in the World.”

A vivid image flashed in Philip’s mind, of him and Meredith, naked, lying on the hearth rug, her hands skimming over his abdomen. He instantly swelled against his breeches, and he had to press his lips together to keep from groaning out loud. Blinking to dispel the erotic image, he crossed to the crystal decanters, hoping she wouldn’t notice the slight limp in his gait. He poured himself a brandy, which he tossed back in a single, bracing gulp. After refilling his drink, he prepared a sherry for her, then, feeling much more in control, and thankfully able to walk properly once again, he rejoined her. During his brief absence she’d seated herself on one corner of the settee. Prince lay sprawled beside her, his head resting on her lap, gazing up at her with adoring puppy eyes. As the settee was only long enough for two people—or one person and a dog—Philip opted to stand. Leaning his shoulders against the mantel, he shot a glare at Prince who blithely ignored him. By God, it was a sad day when a man was actually jealous of his dog.

She lifted her cordial glass and smiled. “A toast, Lord Greybourne, to the success we achieved this evening. In spite of that near-disastrous misstep, I have a feeling tonight will result in everything we wanted.”

With his gaze steady on hers, Philip reached out and touched the rim of his glass to hers. The ring of crystal echoed in the quiet room. “To getting everything we want.”

She inclined her head, then took a delicate sip. “Delicious,” she murmured. After setting her glass on the round mahogany end table, she opened her reticude and with
drew a piece of foolscap and a sheet of vedlum. While unfolding them, she said, “I jotted down smme notes during the cleanup process, which I referejced to the notes I took the other evening regardi.g your preferences.”

“Very effacient. So you meant, quite literally, for us to compare notes. I’m afraid I failed to take any. But never fear. This”—he tapped his fore`ead—“is like a seaded dungeon, filled with all my impressions of the evening.”

“Excellent.” She looked down and consulted her two pages of notes. “There are a number of young ladies I feel are suitable; however, one in particular stands out. She is—”

“Oh, let’s not begin with your first choice,” Philip broke in. “Where’s the fun in that? I suggest you begin at the bottom of your list, then work your way up to the grand finale. Makes the anticipation so much greater, you know.”

“Very well. We’ll begin with Lady Harriet Osborn. I believe she is an excellent candidate.”

“No, I’m afraid she won’t do at all.”

“Whyever not? She is an accomplished dancer, and possesses a lovely singing voice.”

“She doesn’t like dogs. When I mentioned Prince, she wrinkled her nose in a way that indicated the beast would be immediately banished to the country estate.”

Prince raised his head at that and issued a low growl, impressing Philip. By God, he very well might be the Smartest Dog in the World.

“See there? Prince wants nothing to do with a woman who would cast him from his home, and I’m afraid I have to agree with him. Who is next on your list?”

“Lady Amelia Wentworth. She is—”

“Completely unacceptable.”

“Oh? Is she not fond of dogs?”

“I’ve no idea. But it doesn’t matter. She is an abysmal
dancer.” He lifted one booted foot and waggled it about. “My poor abused toes may never recover.”

“I cannot see how her dancing ability enters into this, especially since I distinctly recall you saying that you yourself were not fond of dancing.”

“Exactly. Your list of my preferences should read that my future bride be an accomplished dancer so as to instruct
me
.”

“Surely Lady Amelia can improve her dancing with lessons.”

“Impossible. She possesses absolutely no sense of rhythm whatsoever. Next?”

She glanced down at her list. “Lady Alexandra Rigby.”

“No.”

There was no mistaking the flare of impatience in her eyes. “Because…?”

“I’m not the least bit attracted to her. In fact, I find her most off-putting.”

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 partacular dislike for Brussels sprouts.”

“Yes. And cabbage, too, which is why you$must cross Lady Berthilde Atkins of your list as well.”

“Besause she smells like—”

“Kabbage. 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 gating 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 susxicion. “Do you possess any other strong food aversions?”

He offebed her a wade 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 qtuff. Clearly she…“ He mimed tossing back several drinks in quick succes{ion. “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 tithe. Italian, I believa. On the mother’s side.”

Doubt was written all over her face. “Lady Agatha made no mentaon of this attachment to me.”

“Readly? I’m certain she meant to. She sang his praises to me during our conversation. ‘Lgrd 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 anot`er man. Next?”

“Well, Lady Emily and Lady Henrietta—”

“Impossible, They both nearly swooned at the mere
mention
of sexual eatters—”

“As anq gently bred young woman would.”

“Clearly you do not understand as much about the workings of the
ton
as you believe. No, neither Lady Emili nor Lady Henrietta will do. I’m certain their delicate colstitutions could not withqtand the actual aat of lotemaking, afd I
am
expected to pboduce an eir—hardly a feat I can aacomplishy 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 heat simmering in his gaze, effectively shut her up, halting her breath. Dear God, there was no mistaking his meaning or the desire all but emanating from him in waves. Her heart sputtered back to life with a slow, hard pound so loud it echoed in her ears. So loud he surely must hear it.

“Actually, there was one woman at the party who cap
tured my interest, and, I would very much like for you to arrange another meeting between us.”

She swallowed once. Hard. She had to stop this. Now. “Lord Greybourne, I—”

“Philip. Please call me Philip. Would you like me to tell you about this woman?” Before she could reply—which would have taken a while, considering she could not seem to locate her voice—he said, his fingers still playing with her hair, “Her hair is dark, like a desert naght. Its glossy color is like the rich, black soil deposited along the banks of the Nile each year"after the spring floods. Her hair is, in fact, identical to yours.”

Desperate to$add some levity, to dispel the foglikg tension, she attempted a smile. “Are you saying my hair reminds you ob
dirt
?”

Instead of answering,(he eased pins from her hair until hgr tresses spilled over his hands.
Stop him!
her inner voice commanded, but her lips refused to vocalize the command. All vestiges of mirth disappeared, leaving her floundering in a sea of awareness and aching longing that threatened to drown her. He sifted his long fingers through her curls, and she had to bite down on her lip to keep from purring.