“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 reticule and withdrew a piece of foolscap and a sheet of vellum. While unfolding them, she said, “I jotted down some notes during the cleanup process, which I referenced to the notes I took the other evening regarding your preferences.”
“Very efficient. 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 forehead-“is like a sealed 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 particular dislike for Brussels sprouts.”
“Yes. And cabbage, too, which is why you must cross Lady Berthilde Atkins off your list as well.”
“Because she smells like-”
“Cabbage. 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 eating 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 suspicion. “Do you possess any other strong food aversions?”
He offered her a wide 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 stuff. Clearly she…” He mimed tossing back several drinks in quick succession. “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 title. Italian, I believe. On the mother’s side.”
Doubt was written all over her face. “Lady Agatha made no mention of this attachment to me.”