The duke’s words echoed in the silent warehouse. Meredith’s heart seemed to stall, but she knew her pulse was beating, for she could feel it thumping, no, pounding, in her ears. From the corner of her eye, she saw Lord Greybourne go perfectly still.
“Apparently the idea came to her after your conversation in the gallery,” the duke fumed. “Seems the chit has carried a tendre for Weycroft for years, but knowing it was her duty to marry in accordance to my wishes, she agreed to the match with you.” His gaze swung to Meredith, nearly freezing her with the arctic blast. “A match you arranged. A match you assured me would be beneficial to my family and to my daughter.”
He focused his attention on Philip once again. “According to her letter, when she finally met you, she found herself not at all drawn to you, a fact which made her realize exactly how strongly she felt for Weycroft. Your talk of curses and falling and headaches frightened her, convincing her that if she married you, she would indeed die. But of course, she also knew I would not agree to dissolve the betrothal.
“The morning after meeting with you, she wrote to Weycroft, explaining everything. Apparently Weycroft carried a tendre for Sarah as well. Unwilling to allow her to come to harm by marrying you, he procured a special license. He came for her yesterday, under the guise of escorting her to her wedding at St. Paul’s. They were married and are now on their way to the continent for an extended wedding trip.”
The irate duke swiveled his attention back to Meredith, and leveled her with a look filled with utter disgust. “The scandal attached to this will cast a black mark upon my family, and I hold you personally responsible, Miss Chilton-Grizedale. I shall make it my personal crusade to ensure that you never again foist your matchmaking ‘skills’ upon anyone.” He turned to Lord Greybourne. “As for you, the only bright spot in this entire disaster is that my daughter did not marry an imbecile such as yourself, whereupon she would have given birth to a future generation of imbeciles. Although, rumor has it that you wouldn’t have been able to give her a child anyway.”
Meredith could not suppress her gasp at the duke’s unmistakable implication. She risked a glance at Lord Greybourne. His lips were pressed together and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
Lord Greybourne took one step forward, every line of his body taut with obvious tension. “You may say what you wish to me, but you will recall there is a lady present. You are about to cross a line that, I assure you, you’ll regret crossing.” His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was no mistaking the menace emanating from him.
“Are you threatening me?” the duke asked, the bravado in his voice lessened by his hasty backward step.
“I am warning you that my patience with you is about to end. Now, unless there is something else in Lady Sarah’s note that you wish to tell me, I believe there is nothing more to say.” He nodded to the left. “The exit is that way.”
Favoring them both with one last scathing look through his quizzing glass, the duke turned on his heel and stalked away. The sound of his boots against the wooden floor faded, then a door slammed closed and the warehouse was silent.
Meredith forced herself to take long, deep, calming breaths. A half sob, half laugh rose in her throat, and she pressed her hands to her lips to contain it. Dear God, she hadn’t thought this situation could get any worse, but now with Lady Sarah married, this situation was indeed very much worse. It was, in fact, a complete debacle.
Lord Greybourne stepped in front of her. Behind his spectacles, his brown eyes simmered with anger, although there was no mistaking his concern. Reaching out, he gently grasped her shoulders. “I’m sorry you were subjected to such inexcusable rudeness and crude innuendo. Are you all right?”
Meredith simply stared at him for several seconds. Clearly he believed she was distraught due to the duke’s remark regarding Lord Greybourne’s… manliness. Little did Lord Greybourne know that thanks to her past, very little shocked Meredith. Nor could she fathom that anyone could so much as look at Lord Greybourne and have a doubt regarding his masculinity.
Lowering her hands from her mouth, she swallowed to find her voice. “I’m fine.”
“Well, I’m not. I’d have to place myself firmly in the category of ‘vastly annoyed.’ ” His gaze roamed over her face and his hands tightened on her shoulders. “You’re not going to faint again, are you?”
“Certainly not.” She stepped back, and his hands lowered to his sides. The warm imprint from his palms seeped through her gown, shooting tingles down her arms. “You may place me firmly in the category of ‘females who do not succumb to vapors. ’”
He cocked a brow. “I happen to know that is not precisely true.”
“The episode at St. Paul’s was an aberration, I assure you.”
While he did not appear entirely convinced, he said, “Glad to hear it.”
“You came to my defense in a very gentlemanly way. Thank you.”
“I’m certain you don’t mean to sound so surprised.”
Indeed, she was surprised-stunned, actually-although she had not meant to sound as if she were. But she’d have to reflect upon that later. Right now there were other, bigger issues to contemplate.
Unable to stand still, Meredith paced in front of him. “Unfortunately, with the duke’s news, we must now recategorize our situation from ‘bad’ to ‘utterly disastrous.’ Your bride is well and truly lost, ruining our plan for you to marry on the twenty-second, and my reputation as a matchmaker is in tatters. And with your father’s ill health, time is short. There must be a way to somehow turn this situation around. But how?”
“I’m open to suggestions. Even if we are successful in finding the missing piece of stone, my marrying is out of the question without a bride.” A humorless sound escaped him. “Between this curse hanging over my head, the unflattering story in the newspaper, and the gossip Lord Hedington alluded to circulating about my ability to… perform, it seems that the answer to the question posed in today’s issue of The Times is yes-the cursed viscount is the most unmanageable man in England.”
Unmarriageable. The word echoed through Meredith’s mind. Damnation, there must be a way-
She swung around to face him. “Unmarriageable,” she repeated, her drawn-out pronunciation of the word in direct contrast to her runaway thoughts. “Yes, one might very well christen you the Most Unmarriageable Man in England.”
He inclined his head in a mock bow. “A title of dubious honor. And one I’m surprised you sound so… enthusiastic about. Perhaps you’d care to share your thoughts?”
“Actually I was thinking you exhibited a moment of brilliance, my lord.”
He walked toward her, his gaze never wavering from hers, not stopping until only two feet separated them. Awareness skittered down her spine, and she forced herself to stand her ground when everything inside her urged her to retreat.
“A moment of brilliance? In sharp contrast to all my other moments, I suppose. A lovely compliment, although your stunned tone when uttering it took off a bit of the shine. And brilliant though I may be-albeit only for a moment-I’m afraid I’m in the dark as to what I said to inspire you so.”
“I think we can agree that Lady Sarah marrying Lord Weycroft places us both in an awkward situation.” At his nod, she continued, “Well then, if you are the Most Unmarriageable Man in England, and it seems quite clear you are, the matchmaker who could marry you off would score an incredible coup. If I were successful in such an undertaking, you would gain a wife, and my reputation would be reinstated.”