Drawing to a halt near the hearth, Philip said, “May I present my friend and colleague, Mr. Andrew Stanton. Andrew, my sister, Catherine Ashfield, Lady Bickley. ”

Catherine smiled and offered her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stanton, although I feel I already know you through Philip’s letters.”

Andrew said nothing for several seconds, then seemed to gather himself, and reaching out, he took her hand and formally bowed over it. “It is an honor, Lady Bickley. As Philip was kind enough to share snippets of your letters with me and often regaled me with stories of your childhood, I, too, feel as if we are already acquainted. The miniature of you he carried did not do you justice.”

“Thank you.” Catherine shot Philip an arch look. “Childhood stories? Oh, dear. You must not believe everything my brother tells you, Mr. Stanton.”

“I assure you he painted you in the most flattering light.” One corner of Andrew’s mouth lifted. “Usually.”

“Come, let us sit,” Philip said. “Miss Chilton-Grizedale isn’t expected to arrive for another hour, which gives us some time to catch up.”

“Yes,” Catherine agreed. “I want to hear about… everything.”

Once they were seated, Philip asked, “As neither Spencer nor Bickley joined us this evening, I take it that you traveled to London alone?”

A pained expression flashed in Catherine’s eyes, so quickly that if Philip didn’t know her well, he would not have recognized it as such. “Yes. Bertrand is immersed in his duties at Bickley Manor. I left Spencer in Little Longstone, under the care of Mrs. Carlton, his governess. Traveling is difficult for him, and he does not particularly care for London.” Then her face lit up with a look of deep, motherly love. “However, he is most anxious to meet his wildly adventurous uncle and made me promise to extract your promise to visit us in Little Longstone the instant you return from your wedding trip.” She reached out and clasped his hand. “I visited with Father earlier and he told me everything. I’m so sorry about your canceled wedding, Philip. But do not worry. The idea you wrote me of hosting a party is excellent. With the soiree Miss Chilton-Grizedale and I will arrange, we’ll find you a lovely bride in no time.”


Philip leaned nonchalantly against the marble mantel in the drawing room, ankles crossed, half smile in place, swirling a snifter of after-dinner brandy. Outwardly, he knew he appeared relaxed and composed. Inwardly, a mass of tense confusion writhed through him like snakes in a pit. As he had all during dinner-wildly unsuccessfully- he now again tried his damnedest to keep up with the conversation buzzing between Miss Chilton-Grizedale and Catherine, but his mind was not cooperating. No, he was far too preoccupied. With her-the annoying matchmaker, whom he was finding more annoying with each passing minute. More and more annoying because it was no longer her autocratic nature he was finding irksome- although there was no denying that still rubbed him the wrong way. No, it was this damnable attraction and awareness he was experiencing that was now the source of his mounting irritation. The excellent meal had done little to hold his attention, in spite of the fact that the Mediterranean influences in the courses indicated that Bakari had obviously gone to great pains to see to it that his very English cook, Mrs. Smythe, had prepared the food according to his tastes. Judging by the number of harrumphs Bakari had muttered, and Mrs. Smythe’s formidable demeanor, Philip judged this had been no easy task.

The delicately poached turbot had been lost upon him as he’d attempted to divert his gaze away from Miss Chilton-Grizedale-and failed utterly. She sat on his left, giving him an unimpeded view of her profile. Her dark hair was arranged in a Grecian-style knot, with a bronze ribbon that matched her gown woven through the shiny strands. His gaze touched upon her smooth skin, the curve of her cheek, the sweep of her lashes. With every sip from her wine goblet, his attention was drawn to her lovely mouth.

Every time she’d leaned forward to say something to Catherine, he’d desperately tried not to notice how the movement pulled the coppery-bronze silk of her gown just a bit tighter across the generous swell of her breasts. Every word she uttered to Catherine regarding this party they were planning with the precision of a military invasion provided him with another opportunity to enjoy her voice.

In fact, she was speaking to Catherine now, both women perched upon the brocade settee. A delicate blush colored Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s cheeks, and her eyes were alight with interest. She moved her hands in animated gestures as she spoke, punctuating her words. Her voice was rich and warm, with just a slightly husky timbre that made it sound as if she’d just awoken. From bed. His bed.

An image instantly formed in his mind, of them, together, naked, limbs entwined, her whispering his name in that husky voice… Philip… please, Philip…

“Philip… please. What do you think?”

Catherine’s voice snapped him back from his runaway thoughts like a cobra bite. He looked around and noted three pairs of eyes regarding him with varying degrees of quizzical expressions. Andrew, who sat on an overstuffed wing chair across from the ladies, bore an expression that appeared more amused than questioning. Heat crept up Philip’s neck. He adjusted his spectacles, then, convention be damned, he loosened his confining cravat.

“Afraid I was in a bit of a brown study. What were you saying?”

Catherine’s lips quirked upward. Alternating her gaze between Andrew and Miss Chilton-Grizedale, she reported in a teasing voice, “My brother has changed very little in the past decade, I see. His mind, always filled with thoughts of his studies, often wandered off during our conversations. I recall one time relating a fascinating story to him of a musicale I’d attended. After the fifth ‘That’s nice, Catherine’ he’d uttered, I said, ‘And then I jumped into the Thames and swam across to Vauxhall.’ He simply nodded. However, when I said, ‘The pyramids at Giza were built by Sir Christopher Wren,’ that comment quickly rewarded me with his attention-something you might both wish to remember the next time Philip’s mind wanders.”

“Thank you for the advice, Lady Bickley,” said Andrew. He turned to Philip. “Is that what you were contemplating just now, Philip? The beauty of the… pyramids?”

Philip shot Andrew a quelling look. Normally he enjoyed his friend’s irreverent sense of humor-but not now. Not when he felt so unsettled and undone. “No. I was merely… preoccupied.” Careful to avoid looking at Miss Chilton-Grizedale, he focused his attention on Catherine. “What do I think about what?”

“Holding the gathering here at your townhouse the evening after next, with me acting as hostess. Miss Chilton-Grizedale and I thought a dinner with dancing afterward would best suit our purposes.”

“Can you arrange something that quickly?”

“With the proper help and staff, a coronation could be arranged that quickly.” Sadness shadowed Catherine’s eyes. “And with father’s illness, time is of the essence.”

“To assist me in my search for a wife for you, it would help to know what sort of qualities you admire in a woman,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale said in that brisk, no-nonsense tone of hers.

Something that sounded suspiciously like a guffaw arose from Andrew. Philip shot his friend a frown, and when Catherine and Miss Chilton-Grizedale looked his way, Andrew started coughing. Waving his hand, Andrew reached for his brandy and gasped, “I’m fine. Really.” After taking a sip, Andrew grinned at Philip. “Yes, Philip. What sort of qualities do you admire in a woman?”

All eyes turned his way, and when Philip remained silent, Miss Chilton-Grizedale said, “I’m not saying I shall be able to meet all your criteria, Lord Greybourne, especially as time is short. However, it might prove helpful to know if there are any characteristics that you find particularly attractive or overly off-putting. In fact, if you wouldn’t object to loaning me the use of your desk and a piece of vellum, I’d like to jot down some notes.”

This was not a conversation he particularly wished to have, especially given the devilish gleam he recognized all too well in Andrew’s eyes. But since he couldn’t think of a way to refuse her request without reinforcing her belief that his manners were sorely lacking, he led the way to his desk. Extracting a piece of thick ivory vellum from the top drawer, he held out the maroon leather chair for her.

“Thank you,” she murmured, sitting down with fluid grace. Her bronze skirts brushed his breeches, and her delicious scent wafted into his head. Scones. Tonight she smelled like warm, freshly baked, buttered scones. Damn it all, he had a particular weakness for warm, freshly baked, buttered scones. He stepped quickly back from her.

“Philip harbors a fondness for willowy blondes,” Andrew said, rising to stand near the fireplace, “especially since he met so few during his travels. And if her features are those of a classic beauty, so much the better.” He made a Ming noise. “Too bad Lady Sarah ran off. Physically, she was exactly the sort he likes.”

“Classically beautiful blondes,” Miss Chilton-Grizedale repeated in a serious tone, making a note. “Excellent. What else, my lord?”

A scowl bunched Philip’s brows. Damn it all, as recently as two days ago he would have agreed with Andrew. But now…

“My brother enjoys music,” Catherine added, “therefore someone with a talent for the pianoforte, or a pleasant singing voice, would be preferable.” She turned toward him. “Don’t you agree, Philip?”

“Er, yes. Musical talent is nice.”

“Someone who has at least a passing interest in antiquarian studies would no doubt be helpful,” Catherine added. “For conversational purposes.”