Who Will Take This Man?

Twelve

It took several seconds for his meaning to penetrate through Meredith’s racing thoughts and budding panic. Then the full import of his words dawned. Damnation, what sort of game was he playing?

Raising her chin, she folded her arms across her chest and tapped her foot against the thick carpet. “No one else is coming?”

“No.”

“No one accepted your invitation?”

“No.”

Her toe-tapping ceased, her annoyance tempered by confusion and sympathy. “Good gracious, what is wrong with these young women? From all accounts the guests enjoyed themselves at your soiree. Perhaps the you know what problem was not solved as successfully as we’d thought?”

“I couldn’t say.”

Sudden suspicion narrowed her eyes. “Did you indicate your, er, dinner theme to them?”

“I did not.”

Perplexed, she pursed her lips. “Then I cannot imagine why they all refused. Perhaps one, or even two of them, but all six?”

“Actually, there’s a very logical explanation.”

“Indeed? And what is that?”

“They never received invitations.”

She simply stared. “You said you would write the invitations yourself.”

“And so I did.”

“Then how do you know they did not receive them?”

“I never sent them.”

“Never sent them! I-”

He stepped closer to her, effectively silencing her outraged reply with his disturbing nearness. She surreptitiously pressed her back more firmly against the door, but to little good. He settled one hand against the jamb, near her head, then leaned closer. So close she could see the subtle amber flecks in his eyes. So close she could feel the heat of his body surrounding her. She drew in what she’d meant as a slow, calming breath, but it did nothing but fill her head with his delightful scent.

“Do you want to know why I never sent the invitations, Meredith?” His warm breath brushed over her face, tingling all her nerve endings into instant awareness. The urge to touch him was so overpowering, she was forced to grip the sides of her gown to keep her hands to herself. When she didn’t reply, he whispered, “I didn’t send the invitations because I didn’t want anyone else to come. I only wanted you here. I did this for you. Only you.”

She swallowed, hard, and looked heavenward for strength. Dear God, where had her anger disappeared to? Why was she not appalled? Where was the outrage at his temerity for tricking her? She cast about in her mind, desperately trying to find some inkling of umbrage, a whiff of annoyance, a thimbleful of irritation, and failed. Utterly. Instead, the myriad emotions battering her were a disturbing combination she did not want to feel: Flattered and excited by the obvious thought and effort he’d gone to on her behalf. Curious and filled with anticipation to experience an evening with him in such lush, exotic surroundings.

And worst of all, relieved that his affections were not otherwise engaged. I did this for you. Only you.

A tremor shook her, a shudder she recognized as cold, stark fear. Fear, because she wanted, so very badly, to stay. Because she doubted her ability to resist him. And because she wanted, so very badly, not to resist him.

“Philip, I cannot stay.”

“Please don’t say that. I know this was presumptuous of me, but I wanted to share with you the flavors of the cultures I have known. I thought you would enjoy the food and atmosphere of a distant land.”

“I would, but-”

“Then stay. If not for me, then as a courtesy to Bakari, who went to a great deal of trouble to prepare the room and the meal. You have to eat.” He leaned closer, until his lips almost touched her ear. “Please.”

That single whispered word brushed against her ear, crumbling her already unsteady resolve. Her mind shouted a dozen warnings, reminding her that any relationship other than that of matchmaker and client was impossible with this man, that she needed to strongly discourage his obvious interest in her, admonishing her that this evening could result in consequences disastrous to both their reputations, but her heart refused to listen. To leave after such effort had been expended would be inexcusably rude, her heart rationalized. He’d shown kindness not only to her, but to Albert as well. She could not repay that kindness with ungraciousness. Besides, Bakari and no doubt numerous other servants remained in the house, so it wasn’t as if they were truly alone.

And really, while she found Philip undeniably attractive, it was ridiculous to imagine that she would not be able to control herself-should the need to even arise. Her inner voice made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an incredulous, Ha! She managed, with a great deal of effort, to ignore it.

He leaned back and looked at her. His dark brown gaze met hers-serious, and compelling. Yet it was the unmistakable flash of worry that pulled at her heart. Clearly he was afraid she would turn down his invitation. The fact that this strong, masculine, brave man would fear such a thing tugged at something deep and feminine inside her.

Offering him a smile that felt more wobbly than the confident, coolly impersonal effect she strove for, she said, “In view of the considerable effort made on my behalf, it would be churlish of me not to taste the food.”

Unmistakable relief relaxed his features, and he smiled. Clasping her hand, he led her toward the table. Warmth from where his palm pressed against hers seeped into her, and she involuntarily squeezed his fingers. He squeezed back, his smile growing broader. Indeed, his eyes practically glowed with such excitement, she could not help but chuckle.

“What is funny?”

“You. Your expression reminds me of the time when Albert, at age eleven, surprised me with a poem he’d composed in my honor. Even though I was the recipient of the gift, he was more excited than me-”

Her words cut off in dismay as she realized what she’d just inadvertently revealed-that she’d known Albert when he was a child. Except for Charlotte, she’d never told anyone how Albert had come to live with her. It was no one’s concern, and she had no desire to entertain questions on the subject, especially as they might lead to other topics she refused to discuss. Perhaps Philip had not noticed her slip of the tongue. Did her disconcertment show?

Clearly it did, for he gave her a searching look, then said, “It’s all right, Meredith. I know about Albert’s childhood as a chimney boy. And how you rescued him. How he’s lived with you ever since.”

A chill snaked down her spine. Dear God, how had he learned that? And if he knew about Albert, could he also know about her past as well? Her mind instantly conjured an image of Philip, with his inquisitive nature, unearthing information about her as he might dig up artifacts on an antiquarian expedition. Part of her deemed such a concern a stretch, but fear of someone finding out about her past was a worry that constantly lurked in the back of her mind, like a demon waiting to spring from the recesses of hell and pounce.

Forcing a calm into her voice she was far from feeling, she asked, “How did you happen upon that information?”

He appeared surprised by her question. “Albert told me.”

“He did?” She shook her head, relieved that he obviously hadn’t been making inquiries and didn’t know about her past, yet utterly stunned. Albert never spoke of the horrors of his childhood. “When? And why would he tell you something so… personal?”

“We spoke the other day at the warehouse. As for his reasons, he was motivated by his deep caring for you. He wanted me to understand exactly what sort of woman you are: Kind. Generous. Giving. Not the sort of woman to be trifled with.”

“I… I see.” Dear Albert. He’d shared something deeply painful to himself with a man who was all but a stranger to him, shared something that could easily make him the object of ridicule or pity. All in the name of protecting her. “I hope you won’t judge him harshly. He cannot help his unfortunate childhood.” None of us can.

“Is that what you think of me, Meredith? That I’m the sort of person who would look with disfavor on a young man because he was brutalized as child?”

The unmistakable hurt in his eyes and voice shamed her. If nothing else, Philip had proven himself to be a decent and kind man. A man of integrity. “No, I don’t think you would. But I’m sure you will agree that many people would not be so generous. And I am very protective of Albert.”

He squeezed her hand. “He is a fine young man, Meredith. I admire his loyalty and bravery. His inner strength. And while I appreciated him pointing out your finer qualities to me, there was no need. I already knew.”

His soft words, the compelling look in his eyes threw her emotions into chaos. Before she could recover, he smiled. “So what is this gift that eleven-year-old Albert gave you that somehow reminded you of me?”

She swallowed to find her voice. “When I first met Albert, he did not know how to read or write. After I taught him, his first effort was a poem he’d composed in my honor. He wore the same sort of unbridled, joyous expression as you when I told you I’d remain for dinner. And as I was then, I’m flattered.”

“I’d wager that you still remember the words to that poem.”

“Oh, yes. I still have it, tucked safely away with my most treasured possessions.” In her mind’s eye she could see each word, written with such painstaking care. “Would you like to hear it?” The instant she asked, she wondered what had prompted her unprecedented offer. She’d never shared Albert’s poem with anyone. Not even Charlotte.

“I’d be honored.”

Too late to renege on her offer now. Drawing a breath, she said, “It read: ‘About Miss Merrie. Her cheeks are like cranberry, her eyes like blueberry. Her smile glows like a luminary. She gave me sanctuary. No more am I solitary. ’”

Silence stretched between them for several seconds, a blessing, as a lump had formed in Meredith’s throat. Those simple words, penned in her honor by a broken, damaged boy, still wrenched her. And humbled her.

“A beautiful testimonial,” he murmured. “And very astute for an eleven-year-old. He managed to capture your very essence, your vividness, your nature, in only a few words. I can see that that poem is very important to you.” He reached out and gently trailed his fingertips over her cheekbone. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Heat suffused her cheeks. “You’re welcome.”

“Come. Let me introduce you to the delights of Mediterranean and Mideastern fare. Bakari is an excellent chef.” He led her toward the low table in front of the fireplace, then lowered himself to sit upon a plush maroon pillow, his long legs folded crosswise in front of him. Patting the pillow next to him in an inviting fashion, he looked up with a teasing grin. “I’m going to develop a dreadful crick in my neck if you remain standing.”

Meredith looked down at that pillow and doubts assailed her. If merely standing next to this man was problematic, reclining next to him certainly fell into the category of “most unwise.” She shifted her gaze to Philip, whose expression reflected amusement.

“You have my word I shall not bite you, Meredith.”

Suddenly feeling ridiculous for her hesitation, she gingerly lowered herself to the silk-covered emerald pillow.

“It might seem awkward at first,” he said, stuffing several more pillows behind her, “but after you’ve eaten like this, trust me, the formality of the dining room will lose all its appeal.”

Rising to his knees in a fluid motion, he turned his attention to the array of wares on the table, and she took the opportunity to shift about, arrange her skirts, and fold her legs in the same fashion as he had. Once she’d properly situated herself, she had to admit that this was far more comfortable than a hard wooden chair.

“May I offer you a drink?” he asked, extending a stemmed crystal goblet filled with a deep claret liquid.

“Thank you.”

With his gaze steady on hers, he touched the rim of his glass to hers, and the gentle chime of fine crystal rang in the air. “To a memorable evening.”

Afraid to trust her voice, she merely nodded, then sipped her drink. “Delicious,” she said, savoring the lingering lightly sweet, crisp flavor upon her tongue. “I’ve never tasted anything like it. It is like wine… but not. What is it?”

“In truth, I’m not exactly certain. It is a secret recipe of Bakari’s, one he fiercely guards. I once tried to watch while he made it, but he discovered me. And punished me.”

She raised her brows. “Punished you? How?”

“He refused to make the drink for a month. Never made that mistake again. I don’t know how he makes it. I simply enjoy it when he does.”

Setting his goblet aside, he lifted the cover off a small tureen. A delicious, savory scent unlike anything she’d ever smelled before wafted toward her on a puff of fragrant steam. Her stomach rumbled with hunger. Leaning forward, she watched him ladle out creamy soup into delicate porcelain bowls. “What is that?”

“Avgolemono. It’s a Greek egg-lemon soup.”

Her first spoonful had her eyes sliding closed in delight as the flavor slid over her palate. “Incredible.” By the time she’d finished her soup, Meredith’s trepidation and awkwardness had disappeared as she eagerly awaited the next course. He handed her a plate of delicate steamed fish, flavored with hints of aromatic spices she did not recognize, accompanied by steamed asparagus. After each bite, her eyes again drifted shut, and pleasure-filled mmmmm’s escaped her.

“You are clearly a woman of great passion, Meredith.”

Her eyes popped open, and she found him studying her over the rim of his wineglass with a half-amused, half-heated expression.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because only someone with a passionate nature could enjoy food with such abandon.”

Embarrassment scorched her. Good heavens, in these unfamiliar surroundings, she’d completely forgotten herself.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he said, his words and the fact that he’d so clearly read her reaction only serving to burn her cheeks further. “Your enthusiasm is a great compliment not only to Bakari, but to me as well. I am flattered that you feel comfortable enough with me to lower your guard.”

Comfortable? She nearly laughed. There was nothing comfortable about the heat and tremors, excitement and pulse-racing this man inspired. Yet, even as that thought entered her mind, she could not deny that in a completely different, difficult-to-define way, she did indeed feel comfortable with him. She enjoyed his company. The sound of his voice. His laugh and quick wit. She could not help but feel that if their situations were different, they might perhaps be… friends.

Friends? With the heir to an earldom? Dear God, she was a candidate for Bedlam.

“You’ve a most interesting expression,” he said. “Would you care to share your thoughts?”

She briefly considered not doing so, but then decided perhaps she should, if for no other reason than to remind him of their divergent stations. “I was thinking how very different we are.”

“Indeed? That is interesting, as I was just thinking how much alike we are.”

“I cannot imagine how you arrived at the conclusion that two people who hail from such different social upbringings are alike.”

“Perhaps our upbringings are not as opposite as you imagine. Why don’t you tell me about yours?”

Panic fluttered in her stomach, and her gaze flew to his. Nothing in his expression or tone indicated anything other than mild interest… or did it? Relax. It is not unusual he would ask. He is merely making conversation. Forcing a light laugh, she said, “You grew up in splendor, as an esteemed member of Society. The heir to an earldom. I’m afraid that is quite difficult to top.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. But wealth and social standing do not guarantee happiness.” Something in his voice indicated he spoke from experience, and although it pulled at her curiosity, caution kept her from pursuing this conversation that was leading toward questions she couldn’t answer truthfully. And for the first time in years, the thought of lying did not sit right with her.

Looking down, she noticed that a small section of the flounced hem of her gown rested upon his knee, the pale yellow muslin a splash of color against his dark trousers. The sight of her gown touching those fascinating, loose-fitting trousers was inexplicably intimate. Arousing. And stirred her in a way that arrowed heat straight to her core.

“What were you like, Meredith?”

She snapped her gaze back to his. He was looking at her through eyes that appeared far too watchful and full of speculation. “I beg your pardon?”

“As a child. What were you like? What did you enjoy doing? What was your family like?” One corner of his mouth lifted in a sheepish gesture, yet the expression did not quite reach those watchful eyes. “I find myself insatiably curious.”

Images she’d fought years to erase flashed through her mind, and she batted them away. She hated lying to this man. Yet, she had no choice.

Forcing aside the guilt, she uttered the same falsehood she’d told more times than she cared to admit. “My childhood was normal and happy,” she said, the fantasy she’d woven tripping off her tongue. “We were not wealthy, but comfortably off. Over the years, we lived in several places, resettling as my father’s livelihood as a tutor demanded. After my father died, my mother secured a position as a governess with a prominent family in Newcastle. I lived there with Mother until her death, at which time I came to London, and established myself as a matchmaker. I’d already had a number of successes which helped toward that end.”

“You have no brothers or sisters?”

“Sadly, no.” Anxious to swing the conversation away from herself, she offered him a smile. “Unlike you. You are most fortunate to have Lady Bickley. I always wanted a sister.”

“I am indeed blessed. My childhood would have been unbearably bleak without Catherine.”

Clearly her surprise showed, for he added, “Just because I was surrounded by material comforts does not mean I was happy, Meredith.”

Confusion and undeniable curiosity assailed her, along with sympathy, for there was no mistaking the pain in his eyes. What could have made him unhappy? She’d spent countless hours longing for what he’d had-a normal family, a respectable life, a decent home. Why had it not been enough for him?

“I… I’m sorry you were not happy, Philip.”

“And you’re very surprised that I was not. You’re wondering how I could grow up in surroundings like this”- his gestured to encompass the opulent room-“yet be sad.”

“I cannot deny I find it difficult to fathom.”

Setting aside his plate and wineglass, he leaned forward, propping his forearms on his knees. “Have you ever been lonely, Meredith? So lonely that you just… ached with it? Felt alone, even though you were surrounded by people?”

Memories, feelings she’d buried long ago rushed to the surface. Dear God, she’d spent most of her life feeling exactly that way. Unwilling to respond, yet unable to tear her gaze from the distress simmering in his eyes, she simply looked at him, praying he wouldn’t see the answer in her own eyes.

“As a child,” he said softly, “I always felt as if I were standing outside, looking through the window with my nose pressed to the glass. I was clumsy and awkward, shy and pudgy, forced to wear thick spectacles-all traits made even more glaring when I was in the company of my contemporaries, whom I viewed as everything I was not. I saw little of my father, as he spent much of his time traveling to his estates. My mother was very beautiful, but she suffered from fragile health. After her death, when I was twelve, my relationship with my father grew increasingly strained…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes took on a faraway expression filled with anguish.

Without thinking, she reached out and squeezed his hand. As if coming out of a trance, he looked down at her hand resting upon his. Then he raised his gaze, and her breath stalled at the utter, bleak despair in his eyes. “It was my fault,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion, in stunning contrast to the torment burning in his gaze. “I’d promised Father I’d stay with her, keep her occupied until he returned from an appointment with his solicitor. She was feeling better, as she sometimes did, and as always, when she had strength, she wanted to be outdoors. Father told me not to let her go out until he returned. I gave my word…”

He swallowed, then continued. “I gave my word, but then I… fell asleep.” He shook his head, a bitter sound escaping his throat. “Fell asleep while she read to me. She left the house to walk in the park. Got caught in the rain, and caught a chill. She died three days later.”

“Oh, Philip…” Sympathy crushed her heart as she imagined a young boy, blaming himself, and his father, doing the same. “You were a child-”

“Who did not keep his word.” He looked up from their joined hands and met her gaze. “If I’d kept my word, she wouldn’t have gone outdoors.”

“She was a grown woman who was the victim of an unwise decision-a choice she made.”

“A choice she would not have made if I’d kept my word.” His eyes seemed to burn into hers. “When my father learned that I’d failed, that she’d left the house, he told me that a man is only as good as his word. That a man who does not honor his word is nothing. I’ve never failed to keep my word ever since that day. I’ve failed in other ways, but not in that way. Nor do I intend to, ever again.”

And suddenly she understood his single-minded determination to solve the curse so he could marry before his father succumbed to his illness. It wasn’t simply a matter that he’d struck an agreement with his father-Philip had given his word to do so.

“Mother’s death drove a deep wedge between Father and me. He blamed himself and he blamed me. I blamed myself, and we couldn’t seem to breach the ever-widening chasm separating us. Catherine tried to help, reminding us that even before that fateful day, Mother’s illness had advanced beyond hope. Father and I both knew that, but we were both with her when she died, we both saw her suffering and struggling for each breath. She hadn’t had many more months to live, but she died sooner than she had to.”

He blew out a long breath. “With Father spending most of his time seeing to his estates, I spent mine with an array of disinterested private tutors. The situation grew worse when I was sent away to Eton, where I learned that boys, no matter how supposedly well-bred, can inflict great pain, not only with their fists, but with cruel words as well. The fact that I was a failure at school in every way- except academically-did not help the situation with my father. Seeing Catherine during my school holidays was the lone ray of sunshine during those dark years. Her, and the comfort I found in my studies, when I lost myself in the wonders of the past, in the lives of people I did not know.”

He paused for several seconds, then he appeared to shake off the remnants of the past and his gaze focused back on hers. “With both my father and I needing to escape the tension festering between us, he offered me the chance to further my studies abroad, and I grabbed the opportunity. We struck our bargain-that I would return to England and marry in exchange for his financial backing. As much as I desperately wanted to go, I was terrified to leave my home. I was painfully shy, still awkward and clumsy.”

The ghost of a smile touched his lips. “But once I departed England, no one knew me, or had knowledge of my past failures, and I reveled in the freedom this afforded me. The strenuous physical activity my travels required, along with the fresh air, all strengthened me, and for the first time in my life, I felt as if I belonged. I met Bakari, then Andrew, who is not only a keen pugilist, but an accomplished fencer. He taught me the finer nuances of pugilism and swordplay, and I taught him how to read ancient scripts. He was no more anxious to discuss his past than I was, and we became fast friends. Indeed, except for Catherine, Bakari and Andrew were the first real friends I’d ever had.”

His words faded, and silence surrounded them. She wanted to say something, but what could she say to a man who had just bared his soul to her? A man she’d fed nothing but a pack of lies to? Don’t be naive-honesty only works if you have nothing to hide.

Feelings bombarded her so quickly, and with such force, she couldn’t separate them, couldn’t bring one into sharp focus before it was shoved aside by another. Sympathy. Guilt. Compassion. Commiseration.

Deep, abiding affection.

The need to touch him, comfort him, overwhelmed her, and it took all her strength not to draw him into her arms. Instead, she merely squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry, Philip,” the inadequate words and gesture in no way expressing the depth of her jumbled feelings.

“Thank you.” A bit of the tension left his features. “Over the years, I corresponded regularly with Father. Our letters were stilted at first, but after a while some of the tension dissipated, as clearly we both found it easier to communicate through letters than face-to-face. But all the tension returned three years ago when he wrote, demanding my return to England, as he’d arranged a marriage for me. I refused. Partly because I was not yet ready to come home, but also because I’d become quite stubborn in my own right and I did not take kindly to such an autocratic order. As you can guess, our relationship suffered anew because of it. We still corresponded, but it was strained. And then I received his letter telling me he was dying. That, of course, made me realize it was time to come home. I’d hoped that my return to England and my marriage would heal the rift between us. But then I stumbled upon the Stone of Tears.”

Another wave of sympathy washed over her. “Yes. An extremely unfortunate bit of luck.”

“In some ways, yes, with Mary Binsmore’s death being the most tragic. But the curse has not brought only bad luck.”

Her brows shot upward. “How can you say that? The curse lost you Lady Sarah.”

Lifting her hand to his lips, he pressed a kiss to her fingertips, shooting a tingle up her arm. “Yes. But the curse led me to you.”