“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 in.”

Feeling uncharacteristically unnerved by his regard, Meredith stepped away from him and adopted her most brisk tone. “Now that we are all categorized, let us get back to our present dilemma.” Her brain raced, trying to cast the situation in the best light. “Today is the first of the month. I believe the best plan is to reschedule the wedding for, let us say, the twenty-second. That should give you more than enough time to search your crates.” And give me ample time to polish you into more marriageable material so no one will doubt what a brilliant match I’ve made. “We’ll plan something small and private this time, in your father’s drawing room, perhaps.” In her mind’s eye she envisioned the placement of the flowers, and the complimentary, effusive announcement in The Times the following day, praising her skills, reestablishing her reputation. “We’ve only to convince Lady Sarah that this is the best course. Do you think you can uncurse yourself by then?”

“That is certainly my intention.”

A tiny flicker of hope coughed to life in Meredith’s breast. Yes, perhaps this could possibly be salvaged.