Jacquie D'Alessandro (14 page)

The dog paid absolutely no heed, dashing from one tree to the next, his tongue lolling in canine joy. A bandage still surrounded his hind leg, but obviously he’d suffered no permanent damage, for he was a whirling dervish of activity. And after being cooped up for the past several days in Bakari’s chamber, Philip didn’t have the heart to try to curb his enthusiasm today. The dog—whom he absolutely did need to name—caught sight of a colorful butterfly, and the chase was on. With a chuckle, Philip broke into a run. “Let’s go show that butterfly who’s faster,” he said. The dog needed no second invitation.

“A perfect day for the park,” Meredith said to Charlotte as they walked along the shady path in Hyde Park. Hope,
clutching her favorite doll, skipped several yards ahead.

“Perfect,” Charlotte agreed.

Yes, it was a lovely afternoon, the sun’s warmth tempered by a cool breeze that brought the scent of flowers and the rustling of oak leaves. Exactly the sort of afternoon to forget one’s worries for a little while by strolling through the park. So surely she would soon forget her worries.

Like the fact that in spite of Albert’s and Mr. Stanton’s presence in the warehouse, she’d remained painfully aware of Lord Greybourne. Surely she must have suffered some form of ear strain—if there were such a thing—from trying to catch bits of his conversations with Mr. Stanton. The deep timbre of his voice elicited a reaction in her she could not understand. How could the mere
sound
of him ripple pleasure down her spine?

“I’m sorry Albert did not feel up to joining us,” she said, desperate to direct her attention elsewhere. “I’m afraid all that standing he did at the warehouse tired his leg. It must be particularly paining him, to refuse a visit to the park. I feel terrible about it, as I’d asked him to accompany me to the warehouse.”

“He was happy to go, Meredith.”

A fond smile curved Meredith’s lips. “He is such a dear boy.” She chuckled and turned toward Charlotte. “I must remember to begin saying he is a dear
man
.”

Charlotte jerked her head in a nod. “Yes, he is.”

“It is nearly impossible to fathom that in only a few short months he will turn one and twenty. We must plan a special celebration for him.”

“Speaking of special celebrations, how are the plans for tomorrow evening’s party progressing? Did Lady Bickley say in the note she sent you this morning?”

Surprise filled Meredith at the almost desperate note in Charlotte’s voice, not to mention her uncharacteristic query regarding Meredith’s correspondence. Clearly she
wished to change the subject—but why? And why did she have to choose a topic that would only remind Meredith of the man she was trying desperately to forget?

“Lady Bickley wrote that the invitations were delivered this morning, and she’d already received two affirmative replies. I am confident that I shall soon find a suitable bride for Lord Greybourne and have him happily married off.”

An image rose in her mind’s eye, of him garbed in wedding attire, his eyes filled with warmth and desire as he lowered his head to kiss his bride. Jealousy hit her like a backhanded slap, and she heartily wished she could blindfold her cursed mind’s eye.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut to the count of five to erase the image, but when she opened her eyes, her attention was caught by the sight of a tall man running toward them, being pulled by a golden-haired puppy.

She halted as if she’d walked into a wall. Damnation! How could she possibly hope to forget the man when she saw him everywhere she went!

Lord Greybourne’s gaze settled on her, and his steps faltered. The puppy, however strained forward, and Lord Greybourne allowed himself to be led, albeit at a much slower pace, as if he were not anxious to come closer. There was, however, no way to avoid each other, therefore Meredith stiffened her spine, and affixed a smile upon her lips.

When they drew within speaking distance, she said, “Good afternoon, Lord Greybourne.” She’d intended to keep walking, to allow this meeting to result in nothing more than an exchange of greetings, but she’d forgotten about Hope—Hope, who adored dogs. Hope, who promptly squealed with delight at the energetic puppy. The child crouched down and was instantly bombarded with frantic puppy kisses all over her face.

“Thank heavens you happened along,” Lord Greybourne said, pausing beside her, “else that dog would have run me all the way to Scotland. I quite believe he thinks he’s a quarterhorse and I’m a plow to be dragged behind.”

His hair stood up at odd angles, no doubt from a combination of the breeze and his impatient fingers. His dark blue jacket was not only wrinkled, but bore numerous strands of golden puppy fur, as did his breeches. And no doubt his cravat would have been askew, if he’d been wearing one. Instead his bare throat rose from his rumpled shirt. He looked undone and thoroughly masculine in a way that had everything feminine in her melting.

Melting? Good heavens, she wasn’t melting! She was appalled at his attire. Of course she was.

Drawing herself up, she asked in her primmest voice, “Did your cravat fly off during a sudden freakish breeze, Lord Greybourne?”

“No.” The fiend shot her an unrepentant wink and smile. “Didn’t wear one.”

Lest she give in to temptation and actually return that infectious smile, she dragged her gaze away and looked down at the giggling Hope and the prancing, yipping, ecstatic puppy. She noticed the bandage on the dog’s hind leg, and something tickled her memory, and she looked at the dog more closely. He looked familiar. Her gaze shifted to Lord Greybourne’s walking stick. The silver head bore an unusual design….

The pieces suddenly clicked together in her mind. Her heart thumped in slow, hard beats as recognition hit her. Raising her gaze, she found him looking at her with a compelling expression that gave her the sudden urge to fan herself.

“You rescued this dog,” she said. “On Oxford Street.” She clearly remembered her reaction to the scene—the
odd flutter that had shivered through her, settling in her stomach. Vividly recalled thinking what a brave, extraordinary man. And that he moved like a swift, sleek, predatory animal. Graceful. Strong. Heroic. Wondering what he looked like.

Well, she need wonder no longer. That brave, extraordinary, heroic man stood not three feet away from her. Another flutter eased through her.
Oh, my
.

To her amazement, a dull red flush that was clearly embarrassment crept up his neck. Pushing his spectacles higher on his nose, he asked, “You were there?”

“I was inside the seamstress’s shop with Lady Sarah. I heard a commotion and looked out the window. I saw someone dispatch that giant of a man, but as I didn’t see the rescuer’s face, I didn’t realize that someone was you.” She pointed toward his walking stick. “I thought the design was familiar, but didn’t place it until I saw you with the bandaged puppy.”

“I did nothing more than anyone else would have done under the circumstances.”

Meredith did not argue the point, but she did not believe for an instant that almost anyone else would have behaved in a similarly brave fashion. No, she knew too much of human nature to credit that anyone—let alone a peer—would risk himself against that angry giant of a man to save a street mongrel. Indeed, a crowd had stood by and watched without raising a finger. Except Lord Greybourne. Their eyes met, and something warm spread through her, like honey on a summer day. Her breath caught in her throat, and it was all she could do to refrain from heaving out a gushing, feminine sigh.

“Miss Chilton-Grizedale, it seems that this time it is
you
who is remiss with your manners. May I be so bold as to request an introduction to your friends?” His smiling gaze bounced between Charlotte and Hope.

Consternation burned Meredith’s cheeks, and she pulled
herself together. “Of course. Lord Greybourne, may I present my dear friend Mrs. Charlotte Carlyle.”

Charlotte performed a quick, rather awkward curtsy. “Lord Greybourne.”

“A pleasure, Mrs. Carlyle.”

“And the little imp who appears to be your puppy’s new best friend is Mrs. Carlyle’s daughter, Hope.”

Lord Greybourne hunkered down to his haunches next to where Hope had seated herself on the grass. The puppy, clearly tired from his exertions, was curled up in the child’s lap, alongside Hope’s doll. The dog’s eyes drooped closed in canine bliss as Hope gently petted his golden fur.

“Hello, Hope,” he said with a smile. “It seems my dog likes you very much.”

“Oh, and I like him very much.” She smiled an angel’s smile at Lord Greybourne. “He’s very kissy. He kissed me
and
Princess Darymple,” she confided, nodding toward her doll.

“Yes, well, he’s quite fond of lovely young ladies
and
Princesses. He told me so.”

Charlotte reached down and touched Hope’s halo of bright yellow curls. “This gentleman is Lord Greybourne, Hope.”

“Hello. Are you a friend of my mum’s or Aunt Merrie’s friend?” she asked.

“I’m your Aunt Merrie’s friend.”

Hope nodded solemnly. “Is she going to marry you?”

Philip stilled, and stared at the child, taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s what Aunt Merrie does. She
marries
people.”

“Ah. I see. Well, in that case…yes, she is going to marry me.” He looked up at Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s flaming face, and with his gaze steady on hers, he added softly, “I hope.”

Feeling the weight of the child’s stare, he forced his at
tention back to her. Her gray eyes rounded to saucers. “Are you the cursed gentleman?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Reaching out, she patted his arm in what he assumed was meant as a comforting gesture. “There’s no need to worry. Aunt Merrie will help you. And if she can’t, Uncle Albert said he would wear a bridal gown and marry you himself.”

Philip wasn’t certain whether he should be horrified or amused. Amusement won, and he chuckled. “I hope it won’t come to that.”

“I hope not. Because I want Uncle Albert to marry—”

Hope’s words were halted when her mother touched her fingers to the child’s shiny hair. Damn. He very much wanted Hope to finish her sentence. Had she been about to say “Aunt Merrie”?

Crouching down next to her daughter, Mrs. Carlyle said softly, “Hope, do you remember what Mama said about listening to other people’s conversation?”

Hope hung her head. “Yes, Mama. Not s’posed to.”

“And if you do hear something…?”

“Not s’posed to repeat it.”

Mrs. Carlyle pressed a kiss to Hope’s tiny nose. “Good girl.” The woman stood, and Philip followed suit. Finding himself standing quite close to Mrs. Carlyle, Philip took his first good look at her. It was difficult to judge her age, for while she’d appeared youthful at a distance, he now noted the lines etched on her forehead. A faint scar bisected her left brow, then disappeared into her hairline near her temple. There was no missing the shadows of past sufferings lingering in her gray eyes. She was pretty, but in such an understated way, one would need to look twice to see it. Her speech pattern struck him as rather odd—she spoke well, but he heard an unmistakable trace of Cockney under her well-modulated voice.

“What is your dog’s name?” Hope asked.

“He doesn’t have one yet,” Philip admitted. “Actually, today is his first day out since being hurt. Do you have a suggestion for a name?” His glance included Miss Chilton-Grizedale and Mrs. Carlyle.

Miss Chilton-Grizedale looked down at the sleeping puppy sprawled, belly up, on Hope’s lap. “He really must learn to relax,” she murmured, her lips twitching.

Captivated by her mischievous grin, he chuckled. “Judging by the paces he put me through arriving here, he was due for a rest. I fear, however, that sleeping is not his natural state.”

“Therefore naming him ‘Sleepy’ wouldn’t do at all,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale said.

“I’m afraid not.”

“Something pretty,” said Hope. “Like Princess.”

“A good suggestion,” Philip said, “but perhaps better suited for a girl puppy.”

“Then Prince,” Hope said, nodding her head.

Philip thought for several seconds, then nodded. “Prince. I like it. It’s regal, and royal, and masculine.” He smiled down at the child, who beamed at him in return. “Prince it is. Thank you, Miss Carlyle, for your assistance.”

“You’re welcome. I’m very smart. I’m almost
five,
you know.”

“A very important age,” Philip said with a great deal of solemnity.

“Aunt Merrie is baking a cake for my birthday. She bakes yummy things. Every morning.”

He instantly recalled Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s scrumptious scent.
She smells like yummy things.
“You’re having a party, then?” he asked.

She nodded, her blond curls bouncing. “At our house.”

“And do you live near your Aunt Merrie?”

“Oh, yes. My bedchamber is just two doors away from hers.”

“Mrs. Carlyle and Hope live with me,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale broke in.

“And Uncle Albert, and Princess Darymple, too,” Hope added.

Philip digested this bit of news, his curiosity piqued about the Chilton-Grizedale household. Hope called her “Aunt Merrie.” What was Mrs. Carlyle’s relation to Miss Chilton-Grizedale? He could not see any family resemblance, but that did not mean they weren’t related. He and Catherine looked decidedly dissimilar. And what of “Uncle” Albert? Since his last name was Goddard, he obviously was not Mrs. Carlyle’s husband. Very curious. And just another bit of mystery surrounding her he unfortunately found fascinating—as if he needed anything else to further kindle his growing interest in her.

He turned toward Miss Chilton-Grizedale, not at all noticing how enticing she looked with the sunlight dancing over her. “Your niece is delightful.” His gaze bounced between Miss Chilton-Grizedale and Mrs. Carlyle. “Are you sisters?”

“Not in a blood-relation sense,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale said. “Mrs. Carlyle is a dear friend of long standing. She has lived with me since her husband passed away, just several weeks before Hope’s birth.”

It wasn’t what she said, but the way she said it, that caught his interest. As if she were reciting a memorized verse. Her expression gave nothing away—in complete contrast to Mrs. Carlyle, whose cheeks bore twin flags of bright color, whose hands were clenched together at her waist, and whose eyes were averted, her lips pressed together in a thin line. Because she recalled a painful time in her life? Perhaps. But her distress looked more like embarrassment than sadness.