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interested in increasing his holdings? Not lured by the appeal of Society’s trappings? Either he thought her a gullible fool or the years he’d spent gathering artifacts under the desert sun had greatly depleted his mental acuity.
    He adjusted his glasses, and Meredith noticed his hands. Large, well-formed, long-fingered hands, browned by the sun. Hands that had massaged hers only moments ago. They looked strong and capable and manly in a way that stirred her in an odd, unfamiliar manner.
    “Honor dictates I marry—and I need to do so before Father succumbs,” he said, his voice dragging her gaze back to his. “So you see, as far as I’m concerned, whomever you chose, diamond or not, would not much matter. I’m not necessarily particular about the bride, so long as she is not overly off-putting—in which case, Lady Sarah is acceptable.”
    Being a practical person herself, Meredith couldn’t find fault with his logic. Still, it irked that he appeared less than bowled over by her coup of snaring the much-sought-after Lady Sarah for him.
    “What if you are unable to undo this curse of yours, Lord Greybourne?”
    “Failure is simply not an option I will consider, Miss Chilton-Grizdale.”
    Since she wished to postpone thinking about the dreadful ramifications should he fail, she asked, “How long doyou estimate it will take you to search through your crates?”
    He frowned and considered. “With help, perhaps a fortnight.”
    The wheels in her head whirred. “That should give us ample time to come up with a contingency plan.”
    “And what sort of plan do you suggest, Miss Chilton-Grizedale? Believe me, I am open to suggestions. But I fail to see any, as the facts are quite irrefutable: If I do not break the curse, I cannot marry. And I must marry. However, with this curse hanging about my neck, I would risk the life of any woman I married—something I am not willing to do. And I cannot imagine any woman being willing to do so.”
    Unfortunately, Meredith was hard-pressed to immediately name anyone who would want to marry even the heir to an earldom, only to risk expiring two days later. “But surely—”
    “Tell me, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, would you be willing to take such a risk?” He stepped closer to her, and suddenly the room seemed to shrink significantly. “Would you want to risk losing your life by becoming my bride?”
    Meredith fought the urge to back up, to fan herself to relieve the heat creeping up her neck. Instead she lifted her chin and faced him squarely. “Naturally I would not wish to die two days after my wedding, if I were to believe in such things as curses. Which, in spite of your compelling arguments, I am still inclined to regard as a series of unfortunate coincidences. However, the point is moot, my lord, as I have no desire to ever marry.”
    Surprise flickered behind his spectacles. “That places you in a category of females that I believe you might be in all by yourself.”
    “I have never objected to solitude.” She tilted her head and studied him for several seconds, then asked, “Do you normally place people into ‘categories’?”
    “I’m afraid so. Almost instantaneously. People, objects, most everything. Always have. A trait quite common among scientists.”
    “Actually, I tend to do the same thing, yet I am not a scientist.”
    “Interesting. Tell me, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, what category have you placed me in?”
    Without even thinking, she blurted out, “The ‘not what I expected’ category.”
    The instant the words passed her lips, mortification suffused her. Heavens, she hoped he wouldn’t ask what she meant, for she couldn’t very well tell him that she’d been expecting an older version of the pudgy, toady youth in the painting, and he was so very much… not that.
    He regarded her with an intensity that filled her with the urge to fidget. “That is very interesting, Miss Chilton-Grizedale, for that is the precise category I placed you