Chapter Three

S ir Charles Kinglake was a fellow who appreciated the finer things in life. So usually a performance of “The Marriage of Figaro,” featuring a famous Italian soprano, would have him alert to every note.

Instead he was too busy gnashing his teeth over the marriage of Charles Kinglake to give a fig for anyone else’s nuptials, even Figaro’s. He didn’t pay Signora Strozzi’s talents the attention they deserved.

He sat between Sally Cowan and her niece in his box at the Italian Opera House. Just behind him sat his other guests, the charming Lady Kenwick and her rough diamond, but brilliant husband. Sublime music flowed around him, but it might as well be tomcats yowling.

Charles felt rather like a frustrated tomcat himself. For the past two months, he’d existed in a lather of balked desire for a woman who persisted in thinking of him as a friend not a lover.

Right now, Sally’s gloved hand draped over the edge of the box, mere inches from his. His hand curled against the chair arm as he fought the urge to reach out and touch her. She sat close enough for him to catch the enticing drift of her subtle perfume, flowers and lovely woman.

Yet for all the attention she paid to him as a potential husband, she might as well be in far Cathay. He bit back a growl. What the devil was wrong with Sally Cowan?

Sadly the answer to that question, on most levels, was not a thing.

She was absolutely delightful. Clever. Funny. Vivid. Stylish. Good-hearted.

He could fill a deuced three-volume novel with praise of her qualities.

Her expressive face with its bright green eyes and pointed chin might fall short of classical standards of beauty. Her long, thin nose might be a little off-center. Her mouth might be a tad wide to fit her features, although it provided a pleasing hint of a passionate nature. A passionate nature he desperately hoped to discover before he reached his old age.

But he found the quirks in her appearance more appealing than mere prettiness could ever be.

And nobody could criticize her figure. Long and graceful and lissome. He spent feverish nights dreaming of what she looked like naked. He’d wager her legs were a work of art to rival anything in his famed collection of old masters.

Not, by God, that he knew.

Apart from a dance, or taking her hand to help her into or out of a carriage, he hadn’t touched her. Damn and blast it.

He’d known the minute he saw her across a crowded ballroom that she was the one for him. Nothing in his previous discreet liaisons had prepared him for this ferocious desire.

But even in the grip of this compulsion to have the lovely widow whatever it cost, he remained a perceptive man. He’d swiftly realized that beneath Sally’s air of confidence and good cheer, she was vulnerable. A pursuit too ardent was likely to frighten her away rather than win her.

So much against his masculine impulses, he reined in his immediate urge to claim and conquer. Instead of sweeping Sally off her feet and into his bed, and talking marriage once they’d assuaged their appetites, he’d launched a more conventional courtship.

By now, his patience should be reaping rewards. Yet despite his constant attendance, the woman still refused to respond to his overtures.

It was as if she didn’t even realize he was courting her. Worse, she treated him like a junior, when at most there must only be three or four years between them.

Sally seemed to suffer from a curious blindness when she looked at him. Even that revealing discussion, at times veering toward the combative, at the Pascal wedding hadn’t alerted her to how much Charles Kinglake wanted her.

When he’d been a whisker from ignoring their audience and snatching her up in his arms and kissing her until she saw only him.

Several times he’d verged on declaring himself, but Sally remained so unaware of him as a man – of herself as his future bride – that he’d held back. A rash declaration was likely to shatter the friendship they’d established. She might even decide to send him away.

Hell, he’d never been afraid of anything, but he was bloody terrified at the thought of not seeing her every day.

Because while she’d blithely disregarded his every effort to deepen the connection, he’d just fallen more in love with her. Now the idea of living without her was beyond bearing.

What an infernal mess.

A burst of applause crashed through his brooding. For the sake of appearances, he clapped, too.

“Thank you so much for inviting us, Sir Charles.” Sally turned to him, her eyes alight with pleasure. She looked particularly pretty tonight, in a stylish rose pink silk gown and with her dark blonde hair dressed with pearls. “Isn’t Strozzi marvelous?”

“Yes, marvelous,” he said, although he hadn’t heard a note. He stared deep into Sally’s eyes, seeking some sign, even the smallest spark, that mirrored the inferno devouring him.

A futile quest, damn it. It always was.

“I still don’t understand why they don’t speak English so a body knows what they’re caterwauling about,” Anthony Townsend, Earl of Kenwick, said in his thick Yorkshire accent from the chair behind Charles.

“You confessed last week you enjoyed the opera.” Kenwick’s delicate wife, Fenella, cast him a wry glance. “You’re laying the yokel act on a little too thick, my love. I can hear the thud of hobnail boots marching down the cobbles toward us.”

Kenwick was an imposing cove – Charles worried about the long-term health of the spindly chair he sat in – so his sheepish expression looked incongruous on his large, blunt features. “Well, aye, a bloke has a certain reputation to uphold.”

Everyone in London knew that the Kenwicks adored each other. Charles hoped –not with any great optimism, given his current progress – that he and Sally might one day be as happy.

“As a Philistine?” his wife asked sweetly.

“As a man’s man, my darling.”

Fenella barely contained a snort of disdain, while Charles turned to Meg. If he looked at Sally right now, he didn’t trust himself not to grab her. These opera boxes were deuced constricted when a man had to keep his hands to himself. “Are you enjoying the opera, Miss Ridgeway?”

“Yes, thank you, Sir Charles,” she said politely.

Despite his turmoil, his lips twitched at her lukewarm enthusiasm. “But you’d rather be driving Brandon Deerham’s bays.”

“Rather.” As always at the mention of horses, Meg brightened. “They’re the most dashing high steppers and respond like angels to the reins.”

“Meg,” Sally said in reproof. “That’s hardly well mannered, when Sir Charles has arranged this treat for you.”

Meg’s glance at her aunt indicated that her idea of a treat was a little off target. Charles thoroughly approved of Meg, who was cheerful and sensible and clearly loved her aunt. Loving Sally was a major point in her favor, in his admittedly biased opinion. She was a very pretty girl, and much more in the conventional style than her aunt. Rich mahogany hair, large blue eyes shining with life.

Meg was awake to his intentions, even if her aunt wasn’t. During their outings, she offered unspoken cooperation in stepping back to allow him to talk to Sally. And he appreciated the girl’s willingness to attend concerts and art exhibitions that she had no interest in, so that Sally and he had at least a whisper of a chaperone.

Not that he’d managed to lure Sally into anything improper. More was the blasted pity.

“I’m sorry, Sir Charles,” Meg said dutifully, then turned to welcome a party of her friends, including Carey Townsend and Sir Brandon Deerham, who entered the box. This lively crowd was much more Meg’s style than Mozart. The footman who arrived with a tray of champagne had trouble making his way through the chattering young people.

“Take your frolics outside into the corridor, Brand and Carey,” Kenwick told his stepson and nephew, his deep voice effortlessly cutting through the hubbub. “You lot are noisier than that blasted screeching female we’ve had to endure for the last hour.”

After Meg and her friends had retreated behind a closed door, Charles accepted a glass of champagne. He turned back to Sally who had shifted her chair so she could talk to the Kenwicks.

“Are you still engaged for the few days in the country next week?” Devil take it, he hoped so.

“Yes, Meg and I will be there.”

Thank God. Charles wasn’t the only man in the ton to notice that the widowed Lady Norwood was a gem. So far there was some consolation in knowing that while he’d had no success capturing her interest, neither had any of the rest of her swains.

Charles lived in fear that some other blockhead might reach Sally in a way he’d never managed. He didn’t want to be out of Town for a week with Lord and Lady West, while she remained behind at the mercy of London’s eligibles.

“Meg is in alt at the prospect of spending a couple of days in the Wests’ stables,” Lady Kenwick said, sipping her champagne.

Charles noticed Sally shoot her friend a repressive glance, although why she was annoyed, he couldn’t imagine. It wasn’t as if Meg’s penchant for all things equine was any secret.

“She’ll have time to play the young lady, too,” Sally said. “This craze for horses is something most girls grow out of well before they become wives and mothers.”

“I reckon the lass is more stalwart than that, Sally,” Kenwick said. “She’s not a bairn who wants a pony on a whim. She’s the only person I’ve ever met whose knowledge of bloodlines and track form vies with West’s. Is this your first visit to Shelton Abbey, Kinglake?”

“Yes. I’m very much looking forward to seeing Lord West’s collection of Italian masters,” Charles said.

A previous Baron West had returned from his grand tour with a ship hold packed with Utrillos and Bronzinos and Caravaggios. Perhaps Charles might persuade West to part with one or two. Like Meg, the current Lord West was more interested in saddle horses than Salvatore Rosas.

“Meg has learned a great deal about art since she’s been in London, Sir Charles,” Sally said, with more of that blasted easy friendliness. “Largely thanks to you.”

Lady Kenwick regarded Sally with disbelief. “Not as far as I can see. She mistook Silas’s Botticelli for a Gainsborough yesterday. Oh!”

Lady Kenwick started in her seat and spilled champagne over her pretty blue gown.

Charles regarded her in consternation. “Are you well, Lady Kenwick?”

As she fumbled for her handkerchief and batted off Kenwick’s attempts to help, she shot Sally a killing glance. The fierce expression didn’t fit her gentle features. “Yes, quite well, thank you.”

“Anyone can make a mistake when it comes to paintings,” Sally said staunchly, pulling her handkerchief from her reticule and passing it to her friend to soak up the few drops. “Why, just the other day, Meg was begging me to take her back to the Royal Academy.”

That surprised Charles. From what he’d seen, the girl found pictures as dull as opera. “Actually if she’s developed any fondness for art, it’s due to you, Lady Norwood. You have such interesting and perceptive opinions.”

“Thank you,” she said. “Love of art runs in the family.”

“Sally…” Lady Kenwick began, but Sally spoke over her.

“Is that Miss Veivers over there with Lord Parry? I heard rumors of an offer in the wind.”

Without much interest, Charles glanced at the box opposite. “Surely not. He must be forty years older than she is.”

Sally shrugged. “It’s customary for the groom to be older than his bride.”

“Not that much older.”

“Her mother has pushed her at him, poor lamb,” Lady Kenwick said. “He’s a marquess, after all.”

“A marquess without two pennies to rub together,” Kenwick said flatly.

“She’s rich,” Lady Kenwick said.

“What an unholy alliance.” Charles felt genuinely sorry for the pretty little girl in the over-decorated gown, sitting between a dissipated roué and a woman with a thrusting chin and a bosom like the prow of a ship.

Sally had been married young to a much older man. Had she, too, accompanied an unwelcome suitor, wearing just such a frozen, frightened look on her youthful features? She never said anything about her marriage, but Charles couldn’t help thinking that her set against another husband was rooted in her feelings about Lord Norwood.

Meg returned to the box, interrupting his reflections, and immediately began to chatter about a plan to picnic in Richmond tomorrow.

* * *

“Why on earth did you kick me like that?” Fenella whispered, as they made their way through the throng after the opera. Ahead of Sally and Fenella, Anthony and Sir Charles were discussing the performance. Out of earshot, fortunately, especially in this bedlam.

Still, Sally slowed her steps. “You said Meg was interested in horses.”

“She is.” Fenella’s expression indicated she thought Sally had lost her mind. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of Helena’s manner at Amy’s wedding.

Sally frowned and turned to check where Meg was. The girl lingered behind with Carey and Brand, but caught her aunt’s eye and nodded to indicate that she did her best to make headway. “But Sir Charles is interested in art.”

“Yes.”

Sally made a frustrated sound. “I don’t want him thinking she’s a countrified hoyden who spends her life in the stables.”

“He’s a clever man. I suspect he already knows.” Fen paused. “Well, not the countrified hoyden part. You’ve done a marvelous job teaching her how to go about in society. But the stables part is definitely true.”

“Fen, use your head. He won’t propose if he thinks her idea of bliss is mucking out a filthy stall.”

Fen still didn’t seem to understand. Which was odd. She was a smart woman. “But that is her idea of bliss.”

Sally bit back another growl. When Fenella’s daughter grew up and started looking for a husband, she’d understand. “I know that.”

“And she only likes art if it’s a painting of a horse.”

“She can learn.”

“I don’t think she wants to.” Someone pushed past them, and Fen used the moment to pull Sally into a corner. “Has Meg set her cap at Sir Charles?”

“I think it would be a good match – and he likes her.”

“Of course he does. She’s very likable. But he’s too old for her.”

“He’s less than ten years her senior. I was twenty years younger than Norwood when we married.”

Fenella’s expression remained unimpressed. “Well, we know how that turned out.”

“You’ve heard gossip?” Sally asked shakily. Feeling faint, she placed one hand on the wall beside her. She never confided in anyone about her unhappy marriage.

Norwood hadn’t been violent, but he’d been overbearing, uncouth, and perpetually unfaithful. Even as a girl, she couldn’t bear the idea of anyone feeling sorry for her. So through the whole humiliating experience, she’d done her best to pretend everything was fine.

“You’ve gone as white as a sheet.” Fenella, always sensitive to others’ feelings, reached out to take her gloved hand and squeeze it. “No, I haven’t heard anything.”

“Then why did you say that?” Sally tugged free.

Compassion softened Fen’s gaze to misty blue. “Sally, I’ve watched your face when people mention your husband. It speaks volumes to anyone with the eyes to see.”

“Well, you’re mistaken,” Sally said sharply. As usual when she recalled her ten years of marriage, shame as heavy as lead crashed down on her.

She’d failed to bear Norwood a child. She’d failed to make him happy. She’d failed to keep him away from other women’s beds.

She’d just…failed.

“I’m sure,” Fen said, but that damned compassion remained.

Sally swallowed and returned to the principal subject of discussion. “Meg and Sir Charles will be wonderful together.”

“In worldly terms, perhaps. But they have nothing in common.”

Sally bristled and wished she could kick Fenella again. “He clearly doesn’t agree. Or else he wouldn’t have dangled after her these last weeks.”

“Sally…” Then surprisingly Fenella fell silent.

Sally went on before Fenella could raise any more fiddling objections. “He’s kind and steady, and his manners are lovely. And he’s handsome enough to set any girl’s heart fluttering. He turns heads wherever he goes.”

“Yes, he does.”

“So Meg would be lucky to catch him.”

“Do you think she’s in love with him?”

Sally frowned. “She should be.”

Fen sighed. “Life doesn’t work that way, Sally. Affection falls where it will. ‘Should’ is a word the heart doesn’t understand.”

“Well, it should,” Sally said crossly.

To her surprise, Fenella laughed. The silvery sound floated above the chatter and attracted Anthony’s attention.

He turned back to see what was delaying his wife and her friend. He was so massively tall that he towered over the surging crowd and found them without difficulty. When he sent his wife a rueful smile brimming with unspoken love, Sally’s heart twisted with envy. It was painful to witness the Kenwicks’ happiness so soon after the reminder of her wretched marriage.

“Sally, you’re hopeless,” Fenella said with such fondness in her voice, it was difficult for Sally to cling to her annoyance.

Still, her tone was cool as she replied. “Pardon me for trying to set my niece up with a good man.”

“You mean well, I know.”

“How much more patronizing can you be, Fen? Don’t you like Sir Charles?”

“Of course I do.” Fenella didn’t take offense at Sally’s quarrelsome response. “He’s charming.”

“So?”

“So nothing at all. Meg and he would be a complete disaster together.”

“I don’t agree,” Sally said, stiff-lipped with anger. And a niggling worry she didn’t want to acknowledge.

Dear heaven, what if Fen was right? She hadn’t taken the trouble to ask her niece how she felt about Sir Charles – she didn’t want to arouse expectations when he still might fall from the saddle before the last fence.

Oh, no, now she started to sound like horse-mad Meg.

Fenella, always more inclined toward peacemaking than conflict, said calmly, “You know your niece better than I do, of course.”

“Yes, I do.”

But she wasn’t totally convinced. She and Meg got along, and she loved the girl. But Meg was unusually independent and even at this age, tended to play her own game. She and her aunt didn’t indulge in intimate cozes, where Meg poured out her heart and sought her elder’s advice.

In fact, although Sally would never admit it aloud, she sometimes wondered if her niece was more worldly wise than she was.

Ridiculous.

But as she moved back into the bustling crowd and checked behind her to make sure Meg was following, she pondered. Did Meg love Sir Charles? He was all that the world admired in a gentleman. And the girl had never expressed any dislike for him.

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.

Meg must want 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.