Jacquie D'Alessandro by Who Will Take This Man

her friends, but her heart felt heavy. Dear God, how many times could she go somewhere new and start again? She was so tired of doing that.
    Unfortunately, she suspected it was exactly what she was going to have to do. But maybe, just maybe, everything would be all right.
     
    Sitting at the breakfast table the next morning, Meredith opened The Times. The bold newsprint headline stared back at her: Is Cursed Viscount the Most Unmarriageable Man in England?
    Any hope that her announcement of the wedding being rescheduled for the twenty-second would avert gossip dis-integrated. Her heart plummeted to her feet, dragging her cramped stomach along for the tumultuous journey as she quickly scanned the words, her dread increasing with each paragraph. Three entire pages, not to mention the entire left column of the front page, were devoted to the story.
    Her gaze scanned over the words, each one burning into her mind, incinerating any foolish hopes she might have harbored that perhaps her reputation could somehow remain partially intact. Every detail, from the curse, to Lord Greybourne’s bargain with his father, to speculation regarding Lady Sarah’s mysterious “illness,” was printed for all to read.
    Heavens, with the accuracy of his story, one had to wonder if the reporter had been secreted behind the curtains while Lord Greybourne had told his tale of the curse. The entire incident was detailed, from his finding the stone, to the death of his friend’s wife, to his vow to somehow break the curse. Meredith read the final lines of the article with dread.
    Is this curse real, or just a ploy concocted to dissolve a betrothal that Greybourne or Lady Sarah—or perhaps both of them—realized they did not want after they’d met? Was Lady Sarah merely ill, as her father stated—or did she cry off rather than risk dying two days after her marriage? Many women would give a great deal to marry the heir to an earldom—but would they be willing to die for it? I rather think not. The wedding has been rescheduled for the twenty-second, but will it actually take place? One cannot help but suspect this rescheduling is naught but a ploy for Greybourne and Miss Chilton-Grizedale to save face. And all this begs the questions—if the curse is real, how will Lord Greybourne honor his vow to marry? Indeed, should the curse prove real, one must wonder, who will take this man? Should Lord Greybourne discover a way to break this curse, will he and Lady Sarah still marry? If not, perhaps he can again engage Miss Chilton-Grizedale’s matchmaking services to aid him in his quest for a bride. Certainly no one else will be hiring her after this debacle.
    Meredith’s gaze riveted on that last line, each word reverberating like a death knell. She squeezed her eyes shut and wrapped her arms around her middle in a fruitless effort to contain the pain seizing her. Damn it all, this could not be happening to her.
    Hot tears pressed behind her eyes, and she gritted her teeth to stem the moisture. Tears were futile signs of weakness, and she was not weak. Not any longer. Mama’s voice tickled her memory. Stop running, Meredith. You cannot escape your past.
    Yes, I can, Mama. I did escape. I did not give up as you did. I fought hard for what I have —
    Had. What she’d had . Because now it was gone.
    The bottom dropped out of her stomach, and she pressed her fingertips against her temples in a vain attempt to temper the rhythmic pounding in her head. No. It wasn’t gone. Not yet. And by damn, she wouldn’t give it up without a fight.
    “Are you all right, Miss Merrie?”
    At the deep-voiced question, Meredith’s eyes popped open. Albert stood in the threshold, a look of concern pinching his dark brows. She instantly noted the vellumladen salver he held.
    Forcing a wan smile, she said, “I’m fine, Albert. Just a bit tired.”
    Albert didn’t smile in response. Indeed, his dark eyes flashed, and he planted his free hand on his hip and glared at