Jacquie D’Alessandro: Who Will Take This Man?

“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-”