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Authors: Who Will Take This Man

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BOOK: Jacquie D'Alessandro
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A golden shaft of morning sunlight gleamed through the window, capturing her in its glow. There was something very
vibrant
about this woman. Underneath her calm, decorous exterior, he sensed suppressed energy. Vitality. Passion.

And then there was her coloring. Shiny midnight curls contrasting with a porcelain complexion, properly pale except for twin brushes of peach staining her cheeks. All set off by those striking blue-green eyes whose color reminded him of the turquoise Aegean, not to mention her full, deep rose lips…

Everything about her seemed so very
vivid
. Colorful. Outstanding. Like a single spot of bright color painted upon an otherwise white canvas. She reminded him of a sunset in the desert—the rich, vibrant hues of the evening sun painting the sky a stunning contrast to the golden beige of the endless sand.

She shifted, and an image—a most unwanted and vivid image—of him stealing up behind her, touching his lips to the vulnerable skin on her nape, pressing his body against her feminine form, flashed through his mind, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

He shook his head to dispel the sensual image, shook it
so vigorously his spectacles slid down his nose. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He was normally not prone to such lascivious thoughts, especially when he was working. Of course, he had never worked in such proximity to a woman before. A woman whose skirts rustled with her every movement, inspiring thoughts of the curvaceous form beneath. A woman who smelled like she’d just stepped out of the damn confectioner’s.

A woman who was not his fiancée.

That thought brought him up short and blinked the remnants of the disturbingly provocative image from his mind. He grimly set his jaw. Yes, she was not his fiancée. Excellent. Now he was back on the correct path. He found this woman imperious and annoying. Her goal was to turn him into some simpering, dandified, ruffle-cuffed fop. Yes, yes, that was much better. She was the
enemy.

Yet, when he attempted to pull his gaze from the enemy’s enticing curves, he failed completely. He watched as she carefully lifted a wooden bowl from the crate and gently set it on the blanket spread on the floor. Turning, she made a notation in the ledger, affording him the opportunity to admire her profile.

Her nose tilted slightly upward, and her chin was set at an angle that could only be described as stubborn. She frowned, and worried her lower lip between her teeth, drawing his attention to her mouth. And bloody hell, what a lovely mouth it was. How could he not have noticed it before now? He couldn’t decide if it was more likely that those full, moist, delectable lips had been fashioned by an angel or by the devil himself. Miss Chilton-Grizedale portrayed the epitome of a proper lady, but there was nothing proper about that rosy, lush mouth, or the heated thoughts it inspired.

He closed his eyes and was overtaken by a vivid image of himself pulling her into his arms. He could almost feel her curves pressed against him. Lowering his head, he
touched his lips to hers. Warm. Soft. She tasted delicious…like a rich, luscious dessert. He deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into the heat of her mouth and—

“Is something amiss, Lord Greybourne?”

Philip’s eyes popped open. She was staring at him with quizzical concern. Heat crept up his neck, and he had to fight the urge to jerk at his already loosened cravat. He swallowed twice to locate his voice. “Amiss? No. Why do you ask?”

“You groaned. Did you hurt yourself?”

“No.” Aching was certainly not the same as hurting. As unobtrusively as possible, he shifted, moving his arm so the ledger he held shielded that which ached. Damn. This was a devil of an inconvenient time for his months of celibacy to catch up with him.

Ah! Yes, surely these uncharacteristic lustful urges she inspired were due to the fact that it had been months—
many
months—since he’d last had a woman. He grabbed on to that explanation like a mongrel with a bone. Of course, that was all this was. His body was simply reacting to her in response to his long abstinence. Why, he’d feel the same if confined in close quarters with
any
woman. The fact that this…
termagant
had inspired lustful thoughts just proved that theory.

He felt considerably cheered until his inner voice chimed in.
You spent over an hour alone with Lady Sarah—your fiancée—in the privacy of the dimly lit gallery, and not once did your thoughts stray to
that.

“Did you discover something?” she asked.

Yes. That you’re having the most unsettling, unwanted, uncharacteristic effect upon me. And I don’t like it one bit.
“No.” He forced a smile he hoped didn’t appear as tight as it felt. “Just a bit of a cramp from all the crouching.” Nodding toward the pile of artifacts carefully lined up on the blanket, he asked, “Anything interesting in your crate?”

“All of it is interesting. Fascinating, in fact. But nothing
even remotely resembling what we’re looking for.” She waved her hand in an arc encompassing the artifacts spread around her. “This is truly amazing. Incredible that you found all these things. Amazing that they were once held by people who lived centuries ago. You must have been filled with wonder every time you discovered something else.”

“Yes. Filled with wonder. That describes it exactly.”

“Did you actually dig these things from the ground?”

“Some of them, yes. Some were purchased with my own personal funds, others by funds allocated by the museum. And still others were bartered for English goods.”

“Fascinating,” she murmured. Reaching down again, she picked up a small bowl. “Who would barter away something this beautiful?”

“Someone who was starving. Someone who may have stolen it. Someone desperate.” Some perverse devil in him prodded him forward, almost as if daring his mind and body not to react to her, as if he required proof that the past few minutes were nothing more than an aberration. He stopped when only several feet separated them. “Desperate situations often force people to act in ways they might not otherwise.”

Something flashed in her eyes, something dark and pain-filled. In a blink that haunted look disappeared, and if it hadn’t been so stark and vivid, he would have thought he’d imagined it.

“I’m certain you’re right,” she said softly. She looked at the bowl cradled in her hand and ran a fingertip over the glossy inside. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It looks like flattened pearls. What is it called?”

“Mother of pearl. I estimate this piece hails from approximately the sixteenth century, and most likely belonged to a noblewoman.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mother of pearl comes from the inside of mollusk
shells and is associated with the moon and water, thus making it very feminine in nature. While not as valuable as pearls, mother of pearl was still costly and would have only belonged to someone of wealth.”

Her finger continued to slowly move over the smooth inside of the bowl, a hypnotic motion that riveted his attention in a way that dispelled his hope that his body would not react further to her. “There’s something so lovely, so magical about pearls,” she said in a soft, trance-like voice. “I recall as a child seeing a painting of a woman with long ropes of lustrous pearls wound through her dark hair. I thought she surely must be the most beautiful woman ever born. She was smiling in the portrait, and I knew the reason she was so happy was because she wore those pearls.” A wistful-looking smile touched her lips. “I told myself that someday I would wear pearls like that in my hair.”

He instantly imagined her with ropes of the creamy gems wound through her midnight curls. “And have you?”

She looked up and their eyes met. He could almost see the curtain fall over the glimpse into the past she’d taken as the memories were chased from her eyes. “No. Nor do I expect to. It was merely a childish yearning.”

“My mother was very fond of pearls,” Philip said. “They were once thought to be the tears of the gods. They are symbols of innocence; therefore, they are talismans for the innocent and are said to keep children safe.”

“Wouldn’t it be lovely, then, if every child could have one? To feel safe.”

“Indeed it would.” Something in her voice piqued his already overly inquisitive nature, and he wondered if she was speaking of any child in particular.

“Did you know,” he said, in an attempt to restart the conversation rather than simply gawk at her, “that the Greeks and Romans believed pearls were born in oysters when a drop of dew or rain penetrated between the shell?”
The instant the question crossed his lips, he wished he could snatch it back. Surely her eyes would glaze over with boredom at such a topic. He may not have been among Society in a great while, but he recalled—all too well—that stories of historical lore were not popular to discuss with ladies.

But her eyes instantly lit with unmistakable interest. “Really?”

“Yes, although the ancient Chinese adhered to an even more unusual theory. They believed that pearls were conceived in the brains of dragons. They were very rare gems, and therefore guarded between the dragon’s teeth. The only way for the pearl to be taken was to slay the dragon.”

“I’m certain the dragon had something to say about that.”

Looking at her, her eyes bright with amusement, he couldn’t suppress the grin pulling at his lips. She certainly didn’t seem such the autocratic termagant now, what with those streaks of dust in her hair. Indeed, he could not recall the last time he’d felt such an easy camaraderie with a woman, at least a proper Englishwoman. In his youth he’d always felt awkward and clumsy in their presence, as if he’d tied a knot in his tongue. Even as a young man, before he’d left England, he’d always lacked the smooth sophistication and charming finesse so many of his contemporaries displayed. Thankfully he’d outgrown his awkwardness and shyness as he’d matured during his years abroad, and been exposed to other cultures.

His gaze roamed her face, slightly flushed, no doubt from the overly warm air in the warehouse. A bit of dirt marked her cheek, and without thinking, he reached out to wipe it off.

The instant his fingers touched her smooth cheek he realized his error. Her skin was like velvet cream. So in
credibly soft. And pale. His hand looked dark and rough next to her complexion, as if it didn’t belong there. Which it most emphatically did not.

Feeling like a complete ass, especially given the way she’d gone perfectly still, except for her eyes, which widened to the size of saucers, he lowered his hand and stepped back. “There was a smudge of dirt on your face.”

She blinked several times, as if coming out of a trance, and hectic color stained her cheeks, enchanting him far more than it should have. Bloody hell, this…whatever it was…attraction, awareness, whatever name he assigned to it, was no aberration. And whatever had sparked this attraction, he consigned it to the devil.

A shaky-sounding laugh escaped her, and she, too, retreated several steps. “Quite all right. Heaven knows I don’t want to be going about with a dirty face.”

He desperately searched his mind for something, anything, to say, but damn it, the only thing he could focus on was horrendously inappropriate, even for him. He could hardly ask,
May I touch you again?
Gone was the ease he’d felt only moments before. In a heartbeat this woman brought back all the awkwardness he’d thought he’d conquered. Just another reason to dislike her. And he did dislike her. Didn’t he?

The fact that his fingertips still tingled where they’d brushed against her skin did not bode well for the disliking-her theory.

Just as it occurred to him that the growing silence was becoming oppressive, the sound of a door slamming startled him from his Miss Chilton-Grizedale-induced stupor. A deep voice called out, “Are you here, Greybourne?”

Philip drew in a shaky, relieved breath at the interruption, but then frowned. “That sounds like Lord Hedington.” Raising his voice, he said, “Yes, I’m here. Near the back.”

“Perhaps he brings word of Lady Sarah.” There was no missing her hopeful tone.

“Yes. Lady Sarah.”
Your fiancée. The mother of your future children. The woman who should be occupying your thoughts.

Meredith pressed her lips together and, leaning down, brushed at a bit of dust clinging to her gown in an effort to collect herself. She hoped Lord Hedington was here with news regarding Lady Sarah, but regardless of his reason, she thanked the stars above for his precipitous arrival.

Lord Greybourne had the oddest, most unwelcome effect on her. The mere innocent brush of his fingers across her cheek had heated her as if he’d set fire to her gown. Surely it was merely the result of being alone with him for such a prolonged period. Yes, that explained why, even while her attention was focused on cataloging the artifacts, she’d been intensely aware of him. Of his every movement. The sound of him removing items from the crate. The occasional heaving of a sigh.

She should have been discussing etiquette with him, but between her fascination with the artifacts and her preoccupation with him, all thoughts of manners had fled from her head.

Their eyes had met four times. And four times it had felt as if every particle of air had been sucked from the room. Four times he’d smile in his lopsided way, the way that creased that dimple in his cheek, then asked if she was all right. And four times she’d answered that she was fine.

But she’d lied four times. She was not fine. This man kindled feelings in her, longings, that confused and frightened her. And she did not like to be confused or frightened.

She could not overlook his obvious faults regarding his manners and outspoken nature, yet when it came to dis
cussing his work, he was proving himself—and she was finding him—intelligent, entertaining, and disturbingly attractive.

And that was very bad.

“There you are,” said the duke as he rounded the corner, a fierce scowl puckering his features. “I—” He halted at the sight of her, then, lifting his quizzing glass, he glared at her. “You!” he said.

“Miss Chilton-Grizedale is helping in the search for the missing piece of the stone tablet, your grace,” Philip said. “Have you any news?”

BOOK: Jacquie D'Alessandro
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