“Really? I’m certain she meant to. She sang his praises to me during our conversation. ‘Lord 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 another man. Next?”
“Well, Lady Emily and Lady Henrietta-”
“Impossible. They both nearly swooned at the mere mention of sexual matters-”
“As any gently bred young woman would.”
“Clearly you do not understand as much about the workings of the ton as you believe. No, neither Lady Emily nor Lady Henrietta will do. I’m certain their delicate constitutions could not withstand the actual act of lovemaking, and I am expected to produce an heir- hardly a feat I can accomplish by 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 captured 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 night. 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 foglike tension, she attempted a smile. “Are you saying my hair reminds you of dirt?”
Instead of answering, he eased pins from her hair until her 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.
“Dirt? No. Your hair… her hair… is vibrant. Silky. Glossy. Lovely.”
He slowly traced his fingertips over her face. Every nerve ending tingled, and her eyes slid closed at the sheer pleasure of his touch. “This woman who has captured my interest… she is not a classic beauty. Her features are too stark and angular.”
The feathery caress of his fingertip tickled over her lips, and her eyes flew open. His gaze was fixed on her lips with a compelling intensity that sizzled heat straight to her core. “Her mouth is too wide and mobile, her lips too rosy and plump. Yet it is the sort of mouth that inspires sensual fantasies, and distracts me from all the other things I should be thinking about.”
Breathless, heart thumping, she listened, as if in a trance, while his fingers continued their exploration of her face. “Her nose is a shade too wide, and her jaw far too stubborn. Yet she attracts me like no classic beauty ever has. Her smile is enchanting, and illuminates her entire face. She has a tiny dimple, just there”-he skimmed the pad of his thumb over the corner of her mouth-“that winks when she grins. Her skin is like velvet cream stained with peach that deepens and pales in the most fascinating way depending on her mood. And her eyes… her eyes are extraordinary. The same vivid aqua as the Aegean, just as deep, just as fathomless. They are expressive, yet they hide things as well, which only serves to intrigue and bewitch me further. Her features are, in fact, identical to yours.”
He stepped closer to her, drawing her into his arms. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to slip her arms around his waist. He pulled her closer, until their bodies touched from chest to knee. His hardness pressed against her, flooding her with heat that settled between her thighs. Her nipples hardened, and she knew her cheeks flamed bright, knew her eyes and expression and flushed face gave away everything she was feeling. Still, she could not look away from him. From his eyes, the want and need in them magnified all the more by his spectacles. From the muscle jerking in his cheek, a testament to his fight for control-the same fight waging in her, and a battle she very much feared she was on the brink of losing.