Page 10 of Charming Sir Charles
But did she love him?
Surely she did. If Sally had been an eighteen-year-old girl, and such a wonderful man showed an interest in her, she’d have been in alt.
But Fenella understood people. And Fenella had sounded so certain when she dismissed the idea of Sir Charles and Meg making a happy match. Sally’s responsibilities as an aunt had never weighed so heavy.
From the first, she’d done her best to promote Sir Charles’s suit. But if there was no hope of it reaching its proper end, had she neglected the girl’s other matrimonial chances?
Meg was only eighteen, and her parents weren’t desperate for her to wed yet, especially when Sally bore the season’s expenses. But still…
If Sir Charles wasn’t Meg’s choice, did she prefer another suitor? She liked Brand and Carey, but Sir Charles was right when he’d said the boys were too young to marry. Sally’s instincts were that the trio were friends, rather than anything more romantic.
But now it seemed her instincts about her niece were radically opposed to Fenella’s.
She looked ahead to where Sir Charles and Anthony waited near the entrance. The light shone down on Sir Charles’s rich brown hair and illuminated his classic profile. With a strange little shiver, Sally thought again how attractive he was. Dressed formally for the opera, he was a man to take a girl’s breath away.
Megmustwant to marry him.
As if he sensed her attention, he glanced up and smiled. She loved watching the way his features softened and those dimples appeared in his cheeks. How could Meg resist him?
Despite her disquiet, she returned his smile and felt her certainty flow back. Good heavens, she was worrying about nothing. There was no reason to doubt herself.
Fenella was wrong. Meg liked Sir Charles. Sir Charles liked her. Sally knew that, if for no other reason than that he took the trouble to be nice to her aunt. Within the next few weeks, he would propose, and Meg would end her season in triumph.
Which meant Sally, free of her responsibilities to her niece, could go on to fulfilling a few plans of her own. Perhaps buying a permanent home in London. Taking a lover. Returning to her charity work.
The fact that, right now, all of those things seemed vilely empty was neither here nor there.
Chapter Four
Since meeting Morwenna on the committee of a naval charity in Portsmouth, Sally had stayed several times at Shelton Abbey, Lord West’s beautiful estate in the Leicestershire countryside. In recent years, her friendship with Morwenna had expanded to encompass all the Nashes and their circle. She loved each of them, especially the original Dashing Widows, Silas’s wife Caroline, gentle Fenella, and sardonic, brilliant Helena, her hostess this week.
When Helena invited Sally and Meg to stay as a brief respite from the whirl of the season, she’d been quick to accept. Even more delightful, Helena included Meg’s suitor, Sir Charles Kinglake in the party.
Perhaps in a smaller, intimate gathering away from London’s distractions, he’d finally offer for her niece. He must have courtship in mind, or else why accept the invitation? While he got along well with Helena and West – she’d observed he got along well with most people – they weren’t particularly close.
Sally had approached the house party, anticipating both her own enjoyment and a happy outcome for Meg and her beau.
But so far, four days into the visit, Shelton Abbey’s charms had failed to work their usual magic on her spirits. Sally felt discontented and unsettled. And the worst of it was that she wasn’t sure why.
Oh, the causes behind some of her grumbles were obvious. Sir Charles hadn’t yet proposed. Even if he did, he’d need to seek Meg in the stables, because the girl had devoted much more attention to Lord West’s thoroughbreds than to her future husband.
Sally hadn’t been sleeping well, and when she did sleep, odd dreams tormented her. Shaking and breathless, she’d open her eyes to darkness, with vague memories of running down endless corridors in search of something she never found. Last night, Caro had commented on her uncharacteristic distraction.
Now she sat on a red lacquer bench in the charming Chinese pavilion, trying to puzzle out the source of her fretfulness, a fretfulness that had started with Amy’s wedding nearly a fortnight ago.
Mercifully she was alone. The rest of the party, including eight energetic children, had taken an excursion to a local beauty spot. But she’d cried off, saying she had letters to write. This urge for her own company wasn’t her usual style either.
Generally she was an even-tempered creature, willing to make the best of circumstances. Through charity work, she’d even managed to find some purpose through the endless years of her marriage. She was someone who held her head high through any storm.
Except now there was no storm, and she had no real troubles. Yet yesterday, when she’d broken a vase in her room, she’d burst into tears like a hysterical girl.
“So you dodged the trip to the castle ruins with the children, too?”
The deep voice startled her, made every nerve tighten. Sally straightened and surreptitiously wiped away the few tears she’d shed, watching the late afternoon light over the lovely rose garden before her.
For a sensible, equable lady past first youth, she was acting more like a dizzy adolescent than Meg ever did. Even as a girl, she couldn’t remember crying over a sunset like a sappy heroine in a Minerva Press novel.
“Sir Charles, you caught me unawares.” As she cursed the husky edge to her voice, she tried to read his expression. But even in the wilds of Leicestershire, Sir Charles Kinglake’s perfect urbanity remained impenetrable.
