Jacquie D'Alessandro (4 page)

He turned toward her. The greenish hue had left her skin. She studied him through serious, aqua-blue eyes, and he mentally approved her calm outward demeanor. Imperious though she was, she was obviously not the frail sort of female who flew into the boughs at the slightest provocation, and her thought processes were clear and concise. He could see why his father considered her a good strategist.

“I do not know if there is a way to break the curse,” Phillip admitted. “There often is. Unfortunately the Stone of Tears itself is broken, so if there is a remedy to the curse, it is missing. I am, however, hopeful that the other portion might be amongst the artifacts and items that either sailed on my ship or on the second ship which departed several days before mine. I’ve learned that that ship, the
Sea Raven,
has not yet docked—most likely due to weather or repair delays—but I am expecting it any day now. And even before it arrives, there are dozens of packed crates to unseal and examine.”

“Wouldn’t you remember finding such a piece of rock?” she asked.

Philip shook his head in frustration. “I do not recall seeing any such stone. However, that does not mean that it is not amongst the artifacts. I did not see every item that was packed away. It is quite possible that it was sent back to
England on a previous shipment and is already awaiting me in the British Museum. Rest assured I will devote myself to the search. But in the meantime, we must deal with the situation at hand.”

“Which is the bride’s absence at your wedding,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale murmured.

“And your refusal to marry,” Philip’s father added in a tight voice.

He turned to his father and met glacial blue eyes. “Yes. At least I refuse until such time as I discover a way to break the curse, assuming there is a way. If I am able to find a way to break the curse, I shall not hesitate to marry Lady Sarah.”

“And if there isn’t a remedy? Or you cannot discover it?”

“Then I cannot marry. Anyone. Ever.”

Father’s lips narrowed into a tight line. “You gave me your word.”

“But that was before—”

“Before nothing. Promises were made. Agreements struck. I shudder to think of the social and financial consequences should you not marry Lady Sarah.”

“The financial consequences will be substantial, I assure you,” Lord Hedington broke in, his tone ominous.

“Good God, if this ridiculous curse story gets out,” his father fumed, “the scandal will ruin us all. People will believe you are insane.”

“Is that what you think? That I’ve gone mad?” Father’s reaction was exactly what he’d expected, yet it was impossible to suppress the hurt and frustration from his voice.

Color suffused his father’s pale cheeks. “I would almost prefer that to believing you’ve made up this asinine excuse to sidestep your duty and promise. Again.”

“You once told me that a man is only as good as his
word.” A long look passed between them, fraught with memories of a dark day standing over Mother’s casket. “It is advice I took to heart. I give you my word that avoiding my duty is not what I am doing.”

His father squeezed his eyes shut for several seconds, then met Philip’s gaze. “If I were to pretend to believe all this rubbish, I’d say that clearly
you
believe very strongly in this curse. However, that belief is misguided, and, for all our sakes, you must put aside these…notions and attempt to correct this debacle you’ve created. You’ve spent too many years away from civilization, immersed in ancient customs that simply do not apply in today’s modern world.”

“There is no mistaking the words scripted on the stone.”

“They are
words,
Philip. Nothing more. From what you’ve told me, they are the ramblings of a jilted, jealous man. They have no power—unless you insist upon giving power to them. Do not do so.”

“I’m afraid I cannot oblige you, Father, other than to assure you that I shall devote myself to the search for the missing piece of stone.”

Lord Hedington harrumphed. “As I’m not certain at this moment what to believe or make of this curse story, I have to agree with Ravensly that no word of it is to leave this room.” His scowl encompassed the entire group. “Agreed?”

Everyone nodded and murmured their assent.

“And I want to find my daughter.”

“Both excellent plans, your grace,” Philip agreed. “However, I believe the more pressing matter at the moment is the hundreds of guests waiting in the church.” He dragged his hands down his face, his gaze alternating between Father, Lord Hedington, and Miss Chilton-Grizedale. “Since we’ve agreed for now not to mention
the curse, we shall have to agree upon another excuse, for I’m afraid we can no longer delay a formal announcement that today’s wedding will not be taking place.”

Grim-faced, Lord Hedington and Father headed toward the door. Just as Philip fell into step behind them, a low moan, followed by a thud, sounded behind him. He looked over his shoulder and froze.

Miss Chilton-Grizedale lay sprawled in a heap on the floor.

Meredith came awake slowly. Someone was massaging her hand in the most delightful manner. She forced her heavy eyelids open and suddenly found herself staring up into Lord Greybourne’s bespectacled brown eyes. The instant their gazes met, his expression filled with relief. She blinked. He did not look at all like a frog. He looked scholarly, but in a disheveled sort of way. Eminently masculine and strong. And he smelled delightful. Like sandalwood and freshly laundered linen. Yes, he looked most decidedly un-frog-like. And suddenly puzzled.

“No, of course there are no frogs here, Miss Chilton-Grizedale.”

Heavens, had she spoken out loud? Surely not. A buzzing commenced in her ears, and she stared into his face. He seemed like a decent man….
announce that today’s wedding will not be taking place…not taking place.

And he’d just ruined her life. Dear God.

“Glad you’ve finally come around,” he said. “Had thought you were made of sterner stuff, but clearly I was mistaken.”

A frown pulled down her brows. “Come around? What do you mean?”

“You swooned.”

“I did no such thing. I am not prone to the vapors.”
Good heavens, what was wrong with her tongue? It felt thick and foreign in her mouth.

He smiled. A crooked half smile that creased a dimple in his cheek. “Well, for one not prone to the vapors, you sunk like a papyrus brick tossed in the Nile. Do you feel well enough to sit up?”

Sit up? She cast her gaze about and realized with no small amount of chagrin that she was lying on her back on a sofa. And that Lord Greybourne sat perched upon the edge of the sofa, his hip pressed against hers, her one hand clasped between his wide palms, which continued to gently caress her skin. Heat radiated up her arm, spreading warmth through her entire body—warmth that had nothing to do with the consternation suffusing her. He was entirely too close, and she was entirely too…prone.

Good heavens, she
had
swooned! The reason for her vapors came rushing back in a wave. Lady Sarah…no bride…no wedding…cursed groom—who was indeed rough around the edges, in ways she’d never imagined.

Snatching her hand from his, she lifted her head, but the movement served no purpose other than to accentuate the odd floating sensation behind her eyes. A low moan passed her lips.

“Take some deep breaths,” Lord Greybourne said, and demonstrated by drawing in a mighty breath that puffed out his chest, then slowly exhaling. His warm breath tickled the curls surrounding her face.

“Do you think I don’t know how to breathe?” She hadn’t meant to sound quite so testy, but this disastrous debacle coupled with his closeness to her person had clearly tossed her off kilter.

“I’m not certain. I
do
know that you won’t require a demonstration on how to swoon. You already know how to do that.”

Good heavens, he was nothing short of insufferable. Here they were, faced with utter travesty and social ruin, and he was making jokes! Closing her eyes, she took a half dozen deep breaths. Feeling considerably better, she again attempted to sit up, but discovered she couldn’t move. “You’re sitting on my gown, Lord Greybourne.”

He shifted, then, grasping her shoulders, lifted her in a no-nonsense fashion into a sitting position, all but plopping her onto her bottom. Embarrassment, combined with a healthy dose of irritation—directed at herself or him, she wasn’t certain—pricked her. “This may come as a shock, my lord, but I am not a sack of potatoes to be hauled about.” The jarring movement knocked a long curl loose from her carefully arranged coiffure, and the lock flopped over her eye.

Pushing aside her hair with impatient fingers, she realized she no longer wore her bonnet.

“I removed it,” he said, before she could question him. “I thought perhaps the ribbon tied beneath your chin might restrict your breathing.” A half smile touched his lips and he tugged at his cravat. “God knows this thing constricts my airflow. You might also want to fix your gown.” He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of her neck.

Dipping her chin, she realized with chagrin that her fichu was loose and pulled askew, exposing an expanse of skin that, while not indecent, was certainly far more of her bosom than normally saw the light of day.

She sizzled him with an outraged glare, but his lips curved upward in a patently unrepentant grin. “Didn’t want a choking female on my hands.”

Any gratitude she may have harbored for his assistance evaporated. “I merely felt
light-headed,
my lord—”

“Happy to hear you admit it.”

“—and as such, it was hardly necessary for you to make so free with my attire.”

“Ah. Then I suppose I shouldn’t have straightened your garters.”

Her eyes goggled, and the ill-mannered lout had the audacity to
wink
at her.

“I am teasing you, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. I merely wanted to bring some color back into your pale cheeks. I would not dream of touching your garters without your express permission. Probably.”

Heat raced up her neck. This man was beyond insufferable—he was incorrigible. Uncouth. “I can assure you, you shall never receive such permission. And a gentleman would never say such a scandalous thing.”

Again that dimple in his cheek flashed. “I’m certain you are correct.”

Before she could fashion a reply, he rose. Crossing to a ceramic pitcher resting on the desk, he poured water into a crystal tumbler. He moved with lithe grace, and the knowledge that he’d untied and removed her bonnet, loosened her fichu, that his fingers had surely brushed over her throat, touched her hair, rushed heat through her—a fiery warmth that felt like something decidedly more than mere embarrassment.

Returning to her, he handed her the glass. “Drink this.”

She somehow resisted the urge to toss the contents into his face. The tepid liquid eased her dry throat, and she assimilated the fact that she’d swooned—for the first time in her life. He clearly thought her some weak-willed twit. In her eight and twenty years she’d suffered worse things, recovered from worse, without succumbing to such missish nonsense. But dear God, this situation was a disaster.

Lady Sarah had abandoned Lord Greybourne at the altar—certainly a circumstance rife with scandal. But one made all the worse, from Meredith’s point of view, because the wedding in question—the most talked-about, anticipated wedding in years—was one Meredith had
arranged. And as much as she might wish it otherwise, every member of Society would remember
that
snippet of information. Remember it, and revile her because of it. Blame her for arranging such an unacceptable match, just as Lord Ravensly and Lord Hedington had done.

All her grand plans for her future evaporated like a trail of steam escaping a teakettle. Her reputation, her respectability for which she’d fought so hard, worked so tirelessly to establish, teetered on the edge of extinction. And all because of him.

Her gaze wandered around the room, and for the first time she realized that she and Lord Greybourne were alone. Just another facet of this debacle that could result in disaster. “Where are your father and Lord Hedington?”

“They went to announce to the congregation that Lady Sarah had taken ill and therefore the wedding could not take place today.” He exhaled a long breath. “Isn’t it odd how two statements that are both true can still somehow be a lie?”

“Not a lie,” Meredith said, hastily adjusting her fichu and straightening her dark blue skirts. “I prefer to call it an omission of certain pertinent facts.”

He cocked his head and studied her. “A definition that sounds very much like that for ‘lie.’”

“Not at all,” Meredith said briskly. “A lie is making false statements. ’Tis not a lie to simply not tell everything you know.”

“Actually, I believe that is called a ‘lie of omission.’”

“It appears you possess an overactive conscience, Lord Greybourne.” At least she could be grateful that he
had
a conscience—dusty relic though it most likely was.

“More a case of liking my facts and definitions to be neatly aligned.”

“Must be your scientific nature.”

“Yes.” The low hum of muffled voices drifted into the
room. Lord Greybourne rose and walked to the window. His lips flattened. “People are leaving the church. Clearly the announcement has been made.” For several seconds he appeared lost in a brown study, then suddenly his eyes focused directly on her. “It has just occurred to me that this episode no doubt bodes poorly for you and your matchmaking enterprise.”

Meredith stared at him, grimly noting that his position by the window bathed him with a golden halo of light—quite a feat for a man she regarded as the devil himself.

“Bodes poorly?” She nearly laughed at his understatement. “Ruination of gargantuan proportions more aptly describes the future of my matchmaking enterprise.” She did not bother to voice the obvious—that this entire mess was his fault—him and his wretched curse. Surely there must be a way to fix this? She chewed on her bottom lip for several seconds, and a possible solution sprang to mind.

“I’m certain we can agree that the cancellation of today’s ceremony is problematic, not just for me, but for everyone involved,” she said. “If, however, you and Lady Sarah were to marry at a future date, preferably soon, that would dispel any scandal, and everyone would see that I did indeed make a wonderful match.”