Chapter Two

S ilas and Caroline hosted the wedding breakfast at their opulent house in Half Moon Street.

Sally paused for a moment near the ballroom’s French doors, open onto the lush spring garden. Even London’s capricious spring weather blessed today’s festivities. Around her, conversation buzzed, spiked with joyous laughter, making it difficult to hear the string quartet Silas had hired for the occasion.

“The ranks of the Dashing Widows are thinning,” Sir Charles said, coming up beside her and passing her a glass of champagne.

Sally turned from studying the jubilant newlyweds to bestow a wide smile on the tall man in perfectly tailored formal black. The day’s romantic atmosphere must be affecting even her prosaic soul. At the sight of him, her heart performed that odd little wobble again.

“Someone told you about our pact, did they?”

“I went out celebrating with Pascal, Kenwick and West last night.” He regarded his full glass with a lack enthusiasm that amused her. “In their cups, they gave me the story behind the nickname.”

She, Morwenna, and Amy had made a pact to have some fun in society and set aside old, unhappy memories. They’d taken as their example the first three Dashing Widows, Caroline, now Lady Stone, Fenella, now Lady Kenwick, and Helena. Eight years ago, all three women had put off their mourning and gone out to find love and new, fulfilled lives.

“I won’t mind at all if I’m the last Dashing Widow standing.” His easy manner settled her unsteady pulse and reminded her how remarkably comfortable she’d always felt with him. “I’d be delighted to see Morwenna find happiness, too.”

Sympathy turned his brown eyes velvety. “How long is it since her husband was lost at sea?”

“Nearly five years. At first, I wasn’t sure bringing her to London was a good idea, but lately she seems to be finding her feet and enjoying herself.”

Sir Charles took a sip of his champagne and tilted his eyebrows to where Morwenna stood talking to a dark-haired man in a blue coat. “Garson seems to be enjoying her.”

“I don’t think…” Sally said in shock.

Then she closed her mouth and studied her lovely black-haired friend, striking in a lavender gown that turned her blue eyes purple. Eyes that were once dull with sorrow, but which now sparkled as she laughed up at the tall man, looming over her with a rapt expression on his face.

“How on earth did you notice that and I didn’t?” She and Morwenna – and Amy until today – shared a house this season, but they didn’t live in each other’s pockets. Nonetheless if Morwenna had accepted Garson’s advances, surely Sally would have guessed.

Sir Charles shrugged, reminding her again of the imposing width of his shoulders. “You’ve been too busy chaperoning Meg to take note of your friends’ romances.”

Sally cast a fond glance to her pretty niece, who was deep in conversation with Vernon Grange, Lord West. If she knew Meg – and of course, she did – they were discussing equine bloodlines. West bred champion racehorses, and Meg had been horse mad since before she could walk. “Luckily she’s not much trouble.”

She returned her attention to Morwenna, who was no longer the wan, grief-stricken waif of a few months ago. Was it possible she’d taken Lord Garson as a lover? He was a good few years older than she was, but he was an attractive man. Anyway, Sir Charles was nearly ten years older than Meg, and Sally was in favor of that match.

“You know, I don’t think they’ve gone that far,” Sir Charles murmured in her ear. “Garson has his sights on Morwenna, but I believe he’s seeking a wife rather than a mistress.”

Sally flinched at how easily he’d guessed what she was thinking. She shot him a disapproving glance. “If you were any sharper, you’d cut yourself.”

He laughed. He had a nice laugh. He had a nice voice, low and deep. She couldn’t think of a better husband for Meg. His natural warmth boded well for a contented married life.

“So now Garson is pursuing Morwenna, I’d say the days of the Dashing Widows are definitely numbered.”

Sally tried her champagne, enjoying the crisp flavor with its hint of dryness. A little like Sir Charles’s conversation, in fact.

From the first, she’d liked talking to him. He was a sensible, intelligent man, qualities Meg mightn’t appreciate fully at this stage. But Sally, having lived with a man neither sensible nor clever, knew that in the long term, her niece would come to value Sir Charles’s good sense. “I’ll have to gather some more Dashing Widows together, so I can keep the tradition going.”

“Why on earth should you?” He settled that autumnal gaze on her, and his tone was thoughtful. “After all, you’ll be married again yourself.”

Sally jerked, and spilled a few drops of her champagne, luckily on the floor, not on her lovely bronze silk dress. She struggled to keep her voice from betraying how his words had sent a cold chill down her spine. “Oh, I’m well past marrying age.”

“Utter nonsense,” he said, with more emphasis than she thought her statement deserved.

Sally shook her head and smiled. “Oh, perhaps some old codger might take me on, to make his life comfortable and run his house. But where would be the fun in that?”

“There wouldn’t be any.” Sir Charles frowned at her. “You speak as if you’re pushing fifty. When anyone with eyes can see you’re an attractive woman in the prime of life.”

“Why, thank you, sir,” she said with an exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes. “You flatter me.”

He didn’t smile back. Which was odd. His sense of humor was another of the many things she admired about him. “Sally, I’m serious.”

Startled, she stared at him, while disquiet stirred in her stomach.

Sally? Surely they weren’t on terms where he should use her Christian name. She bit back a protest. If he was to marry Meg, she supposed she couldn’t insist on the letter of propriety.

Had he been standing quite so close before? She’d never been so conscious of his height and power. The urge to deliver another frivolous answer withered under the unusually somber expression in his dark eyes.

“I’m too old for romance, Sir Charles.” She placed a slight weight on his title. “And I have no other reason to marry. I’m well provided for. I have a lovely home. I have wonderful friends.”

“What about companionship?” Her assertions left him visibly unimpressed. “Specifically of the masculine variety.”

Her lips tightened. “A lover, you mean?”

He gestured with his champagne glass. “If you like.”

Good God. What an extraordinary conversation.

In the two months he’d been in London, she and Sir Charles had never ventured into such murky waters. If they’d discussed love, it was always in connection to mythical beings in a painting. Venus and Mars. Cupid and Psyche. Diana and Actaeon. A thousand cupids flitting across canvases heaving with carousing gods and goddesses. Sir Charles was a famous art collector.

She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other and wished to heaven that Helena or Caro would come and rescue her from this odd conversation. But they were both on the other side of the room, curse them. “You put me to the blush, sir.”

The tilt of Sir Charles’s eyebrow hinted that he heard the off-kilter note in her answer, and his smile held an unfamiliar grimness. “You’re too old to blush, Lady Norwood, if I paid one ounce of credence to this drivel you’re spouting.”

“Well, really,” she began hotly, smarting at his sardonic tone, but stopped before she said something unforgiveable. To her relief, Meg was heading in their direction.

“Aunt Sally, Brandon wants to show off his new bays. Can I go driving with him this afternoon?”

To Sally’s surprise, Sir Charles didn’t seem altogether pleased that Meg interrupted their increasingly awkward discussion. Unless as was more likely, his pique had nothing to do with Sally, and everything to do with Meg seeking another man’s company.

Blast him. If Sir Charles wanted a say over where Meg spent her time, he could damn well propose. He’d been dangling after the girl since he’d come to Town. Perhaps a little competition might bring him up to scratch.

He took a step back, and Sally sucked in a relieved breath. The intensity between them threatened to spoil the pleasant companionship she had come to rely upon.

When Sally was too distracted to answer immediately, Meg sent her a pleading look. “Please, Aunt. He’s just bought them from Tattersalls, and he says they’re magnificent steppers.”

“Of course you may,” Sally said, struggling to shake off her reaction to Sir Charles’s manner. And her own odd reaction to him.

She passed her half-full glass to a footman. That bizarre conversation about marriage had quite spoiled her taste for champagne.

“Thank you, Aunt.” Meg curtsied to Sir Charles. “It was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it, Sir Charles?”

“Delightful.” As he bowed, his expression softened with the mixture of amusement and fondness that encouraged Sally to hope a wedding lay ahead. And reminded her that this prickle she felt in his presence meant nothing in the larger scheme.

What mattered was that he liked Meg and would make her a wonderful husband. Still, she had to struggle to shift her mind from their disconcerting exchange to the progress of his courtship.

Love was definitely in the air today. Even a complete novice to the emotion like her felt it. Would Amy and Pascal’s nuptials inspire him to propose to Meg?

Sally couldn’t believe he was toying with her niece. That would be both cruel and unprincipled, and she was convinced Sir Charles was neither.

Clearly eager to finalize arrangements for the outing, Meg returned to Brandon Deerham and his best friend and foster brother, Carey Townsend.

“Meg and Brand are just friends. There’s nothing serious in it,” Sally found herself saying, despite her earlier impulse to let him stew, not to mention the opportunity Meg’s interruption offered to seek less demanding company.

“Of course there isn’t.” Sir Charles seemed surprised she’d felt the need to make the remark. “They’re both so young. Sir Brandon must only be twenty or so.”

Had Sally mistaken his resentment of Brand? Sir Charles mustn’t be the jealous type. Something else that forecast future happiness for his wife.

Her niece was bright and high-spirited, and a possessive husband might crush that vitality. Sally had bitter experience of a man who set out to turn a vivacious girl into a meek helpmeet.

“Too young for a gentleman to make a commitment, but not for a woman. I was married at seventeen.”

“It’s still too young.”

Was that why he delayed his proposal? If so, he was taking a risk. He wasn’t the only man in London to notice that her niece was pretty and good company. “Meg is eighteen, and much more levelheaded than I was at that age. I think an older man would steady her.”

An older man like you, she wanted to say.

Devil take him, it was time he stated his intentions. This was really too bad of him. If he wasn’t interested in marrying Meg this season, he should jolly well step aside and let some other eligible suitor step up.

“You’re looking very fierce,” he said, leaning closer with a welcome trace of his bantering manner. But she still couldn’t relax in his company.

They’d been talking alone too long for strict decorum, but at a gathering like this, nobody would mind. Still, Sally suddenly felt as if he cut her off from the crowd, the way a sheepdog edged out a particular ewe from the herd.

Before today, she hadn’t realized quite how tall he was. But right now, she felt like a mighty oak overshadowed her. She raised puzzled eyes to his face, taking in the chiseled features. The square-cut jaw and long, straight nose. The watchful eyes under thick dark brows.

Her heart took another unsteady dive. He looked like he was on the verge of saying something important.

What on earth was happening? Was he about to ask her permission to pay his addresses to Meg?

“Sally…”

“Sally,” she heard a voice say like an echo. “Amy is going upstairs to get ready to leave. Do you want to come and help her?”

At Helena’s interruption, exasperation flashed in Sir Charles’s dark eyes. For a fraught moment, Sally continued to stare into his face. Somewhere deep inside her, she wondered if she knew him at all. Today he wasn’t the amusing, informative companion whose presence had so enriched these last weeks.

She gave herself a mental shake. Of course she knew him. He was her good friend and the perfect match for Meg. Weddings often had a strange effect on people – and unless she’d completely lost her mind, she was sure Sir Charles was contemplating a wedding of his own.

“Of course,” she murmured, stepping past him toward Helena. She took her first full breath in what felt like hours. The chat had become rather oppressive, as if world-shaking revelations hovered close. “Will you excuse me, Sir Charles?”

He bowed. “I’ll see you tomorrow night at the opera.”

She smiled, surprised at the effort it took. “Meg and I look forward to it.”

Which was a lie. Meg found the opera a complete bore, although she enjoyed meeting her friends in the interval.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You two looked very chummy,” Helena murmured, as they made their way up to the rooms Silas had set aside for his sister’s use today.

Sally tried for a lighthearted tone, but her voice emerged unnaturally high. “I thought he was about to declare himself.”

Helena stumbled to a stop on the stairs and stared at Sally with bright black eyes. “Sally, really?”

Sally gave her friend a puzzled glance. “He’s been hanging after Meg for weeks. A proposal is well overdue.”

The light ebbed from Helena’s eyes, and she spoke in a flat voice. “Meg.”

Sally frowned. Everyone was acting peculiar today. First Sir Charles calling her Sally when they were mere acquaintances, then that strange, fractious conversation about things he really had no right to comment upon. Now Helena acted as if she doubted Sally’s sanity.

“Of course Meg,” she said curtly. “The man must have come to Town in search of a wife. He’s reached the age where he needs to set up his nursery. And Meg is perfect for him. He clearly agrees. In the last eight weeks, she’s hardly appeared at an event without him paying his attentions.”

“To Meg.”

Sally made a sound of annoyance. “Plague take you, I can’t see why you object. I thought you liked him.”

Helena’s laugh contained its usual sardonic edge. “Oh, I do. And I know you do, too.”

“Of course I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t want him to marry my niece. What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?”

Helena’s expression was disgusted. “There’s nothing wrong with me .”

And on that enigmatic note, she sailed into Amy’s boudoir and left Sally scowling after her in complete bewilderment.