Lord Borthrasher harrumphed. "And you, Carmichael? What is your opinion?"

"It is a father's right and duty to have his daughter marry as he sees fit," said Mr. Carmichael.

Andrew tensed. Before he could stop himself, he asked softly, "And if the daughter disagrees with her father's choice of groom?"

Mr. Carmichael turned toward him with a measuring look. He raised his hand to stroke his chin, and the diamond on his ring flashed. "She would be wise not to. Interfering with such arrangements is begging for disaster."

"Well, I'm hopeful my brother-in-law will be able to marry off those three silly chits of his," the duke said. "The sooner the better, I say."

A movement across the room caught Andrew's attention, and he turned. Dr. Oliver was heading toward Lady Catherine. "If you gentlemen will excuse me?" With a nod, he stepped out of their circle. Before he crossed the room, however, he leaned behind Lord Nordnick and said quietly, "I have it on the best authority that Lady Ophelia holds a fondness for tulips."

Satisfied that he'd done what he could for Nordnick's courting attempts, it was time to see to his own. As he made his way across the room, his gaze raked over Dr. Oliver in critical a.s.sessment. He'd hoped the doctor would prove old, decrepit, and frail. Bald. With a hideous paunch. And brown teeth. Or better yet, no teeth. With a countenance that resembled that of a hound. An ugly, no-tooth, paunchy, bald hound.

Unfortunately the doctor was tall, robust, and certainly not much over thirty, if he were that old. Andrew watched grimly as Dr. Oliver's face-his d.a.m.ned good-looking face-lit up like a b.l.o.o.d.y candle as he approached Lady Catherine. His grin displayed a set of perfectly even white teeth. Andrew felt a strong urge to uneven those teeth.

"A word with you Oliver?" he asked, strategically waylaying the man before he reached the fireplace.

Dr. Oliver halted and nodded at Andrew. "Of course. Didn't have much of a chance to speak with you when we were introduced earlier. Pleasure to meet the explorer fellow who's starting the museum with Lady Catherine's brother. Tales of your exploits with Lord Greybourne have provided many hours of entertaining conversation between Lady Catherine and myself."

"Have they indeed?" Andrew said silkily. "Did she tell you the legend of the unfortunate suitor?"

Dr. Oliver frowned, then shook his head. "I don't believe so."

"Very sad tale. A misguided young man-who oddly enough was a physician-set his sights on the object of another man's affections. As the lady was extremely lovely, the man-who was a very reasonable gentleman-understood the physician's fascination with her and decided he would give the physician fair warning. He looked the physician straight in the eye, and said, 'The lady regards you as nothing more man a friend, and you'd be wise to remember that. If you make any further advances toward my woman, I'll be forced to hurt you.' " Andrew shook his head sadly. "Frightfully barbaric lot, those ancient Egyptians."

Understanding slowly dawned in the doctor's gaze, and his jaw tightened. "You don't say. So what did the doctor do?"

"According to the legend, he backed away. A most intelligent decision."

They stared at each other for several seconds, then Dr. Oliver said, "I'm certain that if the physician backed away, it was because he realized that the lady did indeed regard him only as a friend. Not because he was a coward." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Because if the lady had given the physician any indication that her regard was deeper than friendship, well, then, I think the other gentleman would have had a fight on his hands."

Andrew kept his expression impa.s.sive, but he mentally applauded the doctor. If not for Lady Catherine, he might actually like this man. "I think we understand each other."

"Yes, I believe we do. If you'll excuse me, Mr. Stanton..."With a curt nod, the doctor left him and headed toward the punch bowl.

Excellent Another suitor taken care of. Andrew glanced around and when his gaze settled on Lord Kingsly, his eyes narrowed. Clearly Kingsly, as well as several other gentlemen, would do well to hear the tale of the unfortunate suitor.

Catherine stood alone at the fireplace, sipping her sherry, awaiting Genevieve's return. When Genevieve had excused herself for a moment, Catherine had actually been relieved. For the first time in their long acquaintance, she'd had difficulty following her friend's conversation. She'd been forced to say "pardon?" three times, and it was all his fault.

This evening was not going at all as she'd intended. Oh, the avoid portion of her plan was working splendidly- shortly after arriving she'd left Mr. Stanton in the company of the duke and several other gentlemen, then had joined Genevieve. It was the ignore portion of her plan that was failing miserably. She knew every time Mr. Stanton moved about the room. Every time he spoke to someone new. Every trip he made to the punch bowl. In desperation she'd finally maneuvered herself so that her back was to the room, but then she found herself straining her ears for the sound of his voice and stealing quick peeks over her shoulder to ascertain his whereabouts.

Never in her life had she been so excruciatingly aware of someone. Never in her life had she found it so completely impossible to ignore someone. It was an unsettling, confusing sensation, and she was quite sure she did not like it one bit.

Genevieve rejoined her, and said in an undertone, "Darling, I just overheard the most fascinating conversation."

"Oh? Between whom?"

"Your Mr. Stanton and Dr. Oliver."

Warmth rushed into Catherine's cheeks. "He is not my Mr. Stanton, Genevieve."

"Based on what I just heard, I rather think he is whether you want him or not. He's just staked his claim to Dr. Oliver, very cleverly I must say, under the guise of a tale called 'the legend of the unfortunate suitor. '"

"Staked his claim? What do you mean?"

Catherine listened intently as Genevieve related the conversation she'd overheard. When she finished, Genevieve heaved a delighted sigh. "That man is simply divine, Catherine."

Heat scorched Catherine, and she tried to convince herself it was the heat of embarra.s.sment. Of outrage at Mr. Stanton's temerity. Yet as much as she wanted to, she couldn't deny the almost primitive feminine thrill racing through her.

"Oh, to be desired like that again..."A slow, devilish smile curved Genevieve's lips. "If not for my hands, I believe I would offer you some compet.i.tion for Mr. Stanton."

A swift, strong, and undeniable shot of jealousy pulsed through Catherine. "You are welcome to him," she said stiffly.

Genevieve laughed. "Darling, if only you meant that, and my hands were not crippled, and the gentleman not so thoroughly enamored of you-" She cut off her words and leaned closer to Catherine to whisper, "Here he comes."

Before Catherine had a chance to draw a deep breath, Mr. Stanton stood before her. "May I join you ladies?"

"Certainly, Mr. Stanton," said Genevieve, with a beaming smile. "This is a delightful party, is it not?"

"Indeed it is. I'm enjoying myself immensely."

"You've been very social, Mr. Stanton," Catherine said, pleased her voice sounded so cool in contrast

to the heat singeing her. "I believe you've spoken to everyone in the room."

"Just trying to spread a little cheer."

"We were just speaking about compet.i.tion," Genevieve said, her blue eyes filled with innocent warmth.

Catherine's belief that her cheeks couldn't grow any hotter was proven incorrect, and she shot her friend

a repressive look-a look Genevieve blithely ignored.

"Compet.i.tion?" Mr. Stanton repeated. "In regard to sporting events?"

Genevieve shook her head. "In regard to matters of the heart. Would you care to share your opinion?"

Mr. Stanton's gaze shifted to Catherine, and the compelling look in his dark eyes stilled her. Then he

turned his attention to include Genevieve in his answer. "Identify the compet.i.tion," he said, "then outmaneuver it."

"Excellent advice," Genevieve said, nodding in an approving manner. "Don't you agree, Catherine?"

Catherine had to swallow twice to locate her voice. "Er, yes."

"The music is about to begin," said Genevieve. "Do you know how to do our country dances, Mr.

Stanton?"

"Pa.s.sably well."

"Waltz?"

Mr. Stanton smiled. "Extremely well."

"Excellent. I'm certain you won't lack for partners." Genevieve leaned forward and lowered her voice in

a conspiratorially manner. "The duke's nieces have taken a keen interest in you."

"What?" Mr. Stanton and Catherine said at the same time.

"The duke's nieces. They're quite smitten."

Catherine's gaze shot over to the trio of young ladies. Three fascinated gazes were fastened on Mr.

Stanton as if he were a new species of exotic animal. An unpleasant, unwelcome cramp Catherine was beginning to recognize all too well squeezed her.

The string quartet played a series of arpeggios, then launched into their first selection, a waltz.

Mr. Stanton turned toward Catherine and offered a formal bow. "As we were unable to share a dance at your father's birthday party, may I request the honor now?"

Common sense indicated that dancing with him, being held in his arms, did not fit in at all with her avoid-and-ignore plan. But everything female in her longed to accept his offer. It had been so long since she'd danced. And she wanted so very much to dance with him...

"I'd be delighted," she said.

Lightly resting her fingers on his proffered forearm, they made their way to the dance floor. He turned her to face him, and her breath caught at the expression in his eyes. Before she could decipher that look, however, her hand was engulfed in his, his palm settled firmly at the base of her spine, her hand rested on his broad shoulder, then... pure magic.

The room swirled by in a rainbow blur as he led her expertly around the gleaming floor. Warmth spread through her from where his hand touched her back, encompa.s.sing her in a heated glow as if she stood in a ray of summer sunshine. She could feel the supple strength of his shoulder beneath her fingertips, and pleasurable tingles radiated up her arm from between their clasped palms. His scent, that pleasing mixture of clean linen, sandalwood, and something else that belonged to him alone, filled her head, rendering her almost giddy.

She felt as if she were soaring, flying in his strong arms as everything, everyone, faded into the background except this man whose gaze never left hers, whose rapt expression somehow made her feel womanly and beautiful. Feminine and exciting. Young and carefree. Invigorated, her heart pounded with exhilaration, infusing her with a sense of freedom such as she'd never known, forcing her to call on all her breeding so as not to throw her head back in a most unladylike manner and simply laugh with pure and utter delight.

When Mr. Stanton led them to a stop, she hadn't even noticed that the song had ended. For the s.p.a.ce of several heartbeats, neither moved, standing as if locked in a motionless dance. Erratic breaths puffed from between her parted lips, although whether her labored breathing was due to the exertions of the dance or the man still touching her, she couldn't tell. Gazing at him, it seemed as if his dark eyes held hundreds of secrets, thousands of thoughts, and she suddenly found herself desperate to know each and every one of them.

Applause for the musicians roused her from her stupor. He slowly released her, and she instantly mourned the loss of his warmth and strength. After forcibly gathering her wits, she clapped politely and smiled at him. "You do indeed waltz extremely well, Mr. Stanton."

"My lovely partner inspired me."

"I fear I am frightfully out of practice."

"You gave no indication of it, but please consider me at your disposal should you wish to hone your skills."

The temptation to spend hours indulging in the delicious sensation of whirling around the dance floor with him nearly overwhelmed her.

No, to dance with him again would be most unwise. And prove yet another failure to her avoid-and-ignore plan. Yet she had no desire to dance with anyone else present.

The sound of feminine laughter caught her attention, and she turned. The duke's three nieces were descending upon them, their gazes riveted on Mr. Stanton, each girl clearly hoping for an invitation to dance.

And Catherine realized, quite unsettlingly, that not only did she have no desire to dance with anyone else save Mr. Stanton, but she did not desire Mr. Stanton to dance with anyone other than she. His earlier words echoed through her mind: Identify the compet.i.tion, then outmaneuver them.

Looking up at him she said softly, "I fear I'm feeling a bit... overheated. Would you mind terribly if we went home?"

Instant concern flashed in his eyes, p.r.i.c.king her conscience, although she felt, in truth, quite overheated. "Of course not. We'll leave immediately."

She tried, very hard, to ignore the glow of pleasure suffusing her at his agreement as it boded very poorly indeed for her avoid-and-ignore plan.

She tried, but she failed.

Chapter 11.

Every so often fate smiles, presenting Today's Modern Woman with the rare and precious opportunity to obtain her hearts most secret desire. If she should find herself in such a fortunate, glorious circ.u.mstance, she should heed those wise words, Carpe Diem, and not hesitate to seize the day, as it may be her only chance. Be a woman of action, not a woman of regret, for it is those things we do not do that bring us sorrow.

A Ladies' Guide to the Pursuit of Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment by Charles Brightmore Andrew paced the confines of his bedchamber, alternating between staring into the low-glowing embers in the grate, and looking out the window into the moonlit garden below. He stalked past the bed, shooting the navy blue counterpane a dark scowl. Comfortable as the bed looked, there was no point in lying down, for he knew all too well sleep wouldn't come. His mind, his thoughts, were too full. Of her.

Catherine. With a groan, he paused in front of the glowing embers in the grate and dragged his hands down his face, vividly recalling her exhilarated expression as they'd waltzed this evening. The exquisite feel of her in his arms, her beautiful eyes glowing with delight, her delicate floral scent filling his head. It had required every ounce of his self-control not to simply yank her against him and profess his love in front of the entire a.s.semblage of guests.

While tonight's pleasant carriage ride and waltz had afforded him a flicker of hope regarding his wooing campaign, that light had been all but extinguished when they'd arrived back at Bickley cottage and she'd immediately excused herself and retired.

One week. He had one b.l.o.o.d.y week to court her. Make her fall in love with him. Change her mind about wanting to marry again. Convince her that they belonged together. That in spite of his nonn.o.ble birth, he would be a worthy husband to her and a good father to Spencer. That he loved her so much he ached.

He squeezed his eyes shut as dread suffused him. One week-for unless something drastic happened, he strongly sensed she wouldn't invite him to remain longer, and in any event, he needed to return to London to oversee the museum. No, in one week's time, he'd return to his life in Town, and she'd remain here.

One week. Even if he were, by some miracle, able to accomplish all those seemingly impossible tasks, managed to convince her to share their futures, he couldn't ignore what might happen when he revealed his past. Would she reject him when he confessed to her the secrets he'd never told anyone? The circ.u.mstances that had forced him to leave America?

Opening his eyes, he stared into the fire, futilely seeking answers in the dancing orange flames. His conscience fought the same battle it waged every time he mulled the daunting question of whether or not to reveal his past. He hated the thought of lying to her, of there being any secrets between them. Liked to think if the time should ever arise that he'd tell her.