Meg stood and smoothed the skirts of her yellow silk gown. “I’m sorry we made you come and fetch us, Lady West.”
Helena shrugged. “I don’t mind. But it’s getting late.”
“Has everyone retired?” Charles asked.
“Silas and my husband are in the library emptying the brandy decanter and reliving boyhood exploits. Caro has gone upstairs to check on the children. I think Brand and Carey are still playing billiards.”
“With your permission, I may linger with the Caravaggio.”
“Certainly. Meg?”
“I might go and see how the billiards are progressing,” she said and curtsied to Charles. “Good night, Sir Charles.”
“Good night, Miss Meg,” he said, and hoped she heard his fervent gratitude. By God, he’d been fighting his battle for Sally blindfolded. Now at least he knew what he was up against.
Charles watched the girl leave with Helena, then raised his eyes to the painting before him. But for once, art, however magnificent, couldn’t compel his attention. Instead his mind turned over every aspect of that infuriating, astonishing, enlightening discussion with Meg.
He understood so much that had confused him. Sally’s curious mixture of confidence and insecurity. The air of innocence, incongruous in a widow in her thirties. Her unwillingness to speak about her marriage.
Poor, poor Sally, trapped in such an uncongenial union. If heaven granted him the privilege, Charles would do all he could to ensure that her second marriage was more to her taste.
If there was a second marriage.
Meg seemed to think he could persuade Sally to marry him. So did Stone. And tonight at dinner, Helena had offered encouragement.
He hoped to hell all of them were right. Hungering after Sally in London had been bad enough. Living with her under one roof, however vast, threatened to drive him out of his head with frustration.
Perhaps he should take Meg’s advice. It might be time to… pounce.
* * *
Chapter Seven
* * *
Sally woke late the next morning to the horrid feeling that an unidentified doom was about to crash down over her.
Then she remembered.
Last night, Sir Charles and Meg had gone alone into the long gallery. It was the perfect opportunity to propose.
Her stomach lurched with misery, and she groaned and turned over to bury her head in the pillows. She didn’t want to face the world. She didn’t want to act pleased for the bride, when instead she wanted to be the bride.
No matter how impossible that was, even had Meg not been his choice.
Bitter tears stung eyes dry and red after a sleepless night. She’d only fallen into a heavy slumber as dawn broke. Last night during the endless hours of darkness, this bed had felt like a torture chamber. This morning she’d pay over her entire fortune to avoid the necessity of ever leaving it.
Her early tea on her nightstand was cold on its tray. She hadn’t heard the maid come in, although the girl must have also stayed to stoke the fire blazing merrily in the hearth.
At least something in this room was merry, Sally thought sourly, as she poured cold tea into her cup. She stared at the unappetizing brew, without making any attempt to drink it.
She knew she indulged in a massive attack of self-pity, but that cold tea seemed like an omen for the rest of her life.
A knock at the door, and Caro Nash appeared, bearing another tray. “Good morning, Sally. I’m wondering how you are.”
Sally blinked away silly, futile tears, but suspected she wasn’t quick enough. “Much better, thank you,” she said in a muffled voice. “You didn’t have to come up.”
Caro gave a dismissive tsk and approached the bed. “I was worried about you last night. Do you still have the headache?”