Page 17 of Charming Sir Charles
If he’d ever doubted that he loved her, the way he felt now when he saw her unhappy confirmed that he was irrevocably hers.
“I’m sure that’s it.” Sally went back to addressing Charles’s right shoulder. “However I think Meg would love to see the paintings. She has a great enthusiasm forchiaroscuro.”
Charles stifled a derisive retort. Not unless Chiaroscuro was the name of a racehorse, she didn’t. He waited for Meg to make some excuse.
To his surprise, the girl closed the magazine. “I’d love to.”
Good God, the world turned upside down. Charles remembered his manners in time to bow to Meg. “Capital. Shall we?”
He lifted a lit candelabra and offered his arm. Meg stood and curled her hand around his elbow. “We shall.”
“Have fun,” Sally said after them, and he could swear he heard a crack in her voice.
Puzzled, he glanced back as he and Meg reached the door. For the first time all evening, Sally was staring directly at him.
She was no longer pale. Instead she looked like she suffered a fever. She bit her lip, and her chin trembled. Growing up with four sisters told him she tried with all her might to hold back tears.
What the hell?
Then she realized he was looking at her, and she dredged up that careless smile, no more convincing than it had been earlier.
The memory of the strain in her piquant face haunted him as he left the drawing room with Meg at his side.
Chapter Six
Meg was uncharacteristically quiet as Charles escorted her into the shadowy gallery. They progressed past gilded frames and portraits mysterious in the candlelight to the first Caravaggio. Meg dutifully turned to face the huge canvas, although he’d wager a thousand guineas that the girl wasn’t remotely interested in the painting.
“Here it is.” He raised the candelabra to reveal the Madonna sorrowing at the foot of the Cross. Mary was lit with bright gold light, while the rest of the desolate landscape lay shrouded in darkness.
Meg studied the sublime painting with a disgruntled expression. “There are no horses.”
The response, while predictable, made him laugh. He’d felt so low when he’d left the drawing room, he was surprised that he could. He placed the candelabra on a side table. “You, Miss Meg, are a Philistine.”
Transferring her gaze to him, she shrugged. “Of course I am.”
He leaned one shoulder against the wall and surveyed her, wondering what she was up to. Because she was undoubtedly up to something.
“So why this sudden interest in West’s art collection?” It was a deuced pity that Sally hadn’t seen fit to come with him. The silence and isolation were just right for passionate declarations.
Charles stiffened in sudden horror. Good God, was this girl having similar thoughts?
“Dash it all, Miss Meg, you’re not expecting something to happen, are you?”
It wasn’t the most coherent of questions, but there was nothing wrong with Meg’s brain. She understood immediately, and gave a reassuringly contemptuous snort. “Like a proposal? Don’t be silly.”
He laughed again, too relieved to be offended, and folded his arms. “So why are we here?”
“Because I want to talk to you, and it’s almost impossible to get any privacy. Propriety is a devil of a pest.”
Charles heartily agreed. If only he’d got Sally alone tonight, he’d have winkled out the cause of her troubles. But as a single man unrelated to her, he had to behave circumspectly. Even here, among friends. “So what is it you want to say?”
Meg’s stare intensified. “Aunt Sally thinks you want to marry me.”
“What on earth?” Shock made him stand up straight and uncross his arms.
The girl studied him curiously. “Do you want to marry me?”
Biting back the urge to curse like a sailor at this unexpected turn, he shook his head. He felt so nonplused, his answer emerged with more frankness than tact.
