Sally stifled a bleak huff of laughter. If only Caro knew how far she was from the truth. “He’s been courting her for weeks. I thought last night he might at last offer for her.”
Caro looked surprised. “I didn’t realize.”
“He’s been in constant attendance.”
“Yes, but he’s always talking to you. Meg’s away chattering about horses with the boys, or talking about dresses with her friends.”
“He’s only being polite because I’m Meg’s aunt.”
“Do you think so?” Caro looked unconvinced. “I thought he’d set his sights on you.”
Oh, this hurt. It hurt so much. Sally struggled to keep her voice bright, but she clenched her hand, crumbling the roll to pieces. “Don’t be silly. I’m too old for him.”
Caro’s expression didn’t lighten. “Rubbish.”
“Now you’re trying to be tactful.”
“Me? Never.” Caro’s lips quirked with self-deprecating humor. “But if you’re positive he’s interested in Meg, I suppose you know your business best.”
Could her fears be groundless? At least as far as an engagement last night was concerned. Now she thought about it, Sir Charles would be likely to ask her permission before he proposed. “Are you sure they’re not engaged?”
Caro took another bite of her roll. “I saw them both at breakfast, and they said not a word about a wedding.”
“Perhaps they’ve decided to wait until Sir Charles has gained my consent.”
“Hmm. I still didn’t notice any air of conspiracy. If they’ve agreed to wed, I’m sure I would have picked up something.”
Of course she would. It seemed Sally had no need to lurk in her room to avoid news of a betrothal. Pointless to be so relieved. After all, the fact that Sir Charles hadn’t proposed last night didn’t mean he wouldn’t propose later. But Sally swallowed the rest of her coffee and poured another cup, then set to work on her eggs.
“They’ll be cold,” Caro protested. “Let me ring for some more.”
“They’re fine,” Sally said. She was hungry. She’d barely choked down more than a few mouthfuls of last night’s dinner.
* * *
Charles was determined to tell Sally that he harbored no romantic interest in her niece. Then he’d move on to proving that he harbored romantic intentions toward her instead.
But as the house party headed toward its end, it seemed Sally was equally set on avoiding his company. He learned to curse the sprawling pile of Shelton Abbey. It was too easy for his quarry to elude him.
Her continuing coldness made him want to snarl. From the first, they’d shared an easy companionship. Now if he entered any room she was in, she found some reason to leave. She could barely endure addressing a few words to him. And when he cornered her into speaking to him, she persisted in addressing the invisible fellow over his right shoulder.
It was all very well for Meg to counsel pouncing. But a man needed to get within arm’s length of the lady before he could take action.
He’d led a fortunate life. Everything he wanted fell to him without undue effort. Born the only son to an adoring family with four older sisters. An assured and extravagant fortune. Clever enough to thrive at school. Strong. Athletic. Cultivated. Confident in society.
The only prize that hadn’t tumbled into his hands merely for the asking was the only person important enough to make every other blessing seem insignificant. Damn it all to hell and back.
When he’d decided he wanted Sally Cowan, he’d assumed getting her would be quick and uncomplicated. Now several months into his pursuit, he could almost laugh at his delusions. If he wasn’t so devilish unhappy, and thwarted, and bewildered.
And time, which had seemed so plentiful a couple of months ago, became his enemy. The season had only a few weeks left to run. Then as most of the ton did, Sally returned home for the summer.
The house party was at an end. Charles stood with Sally and Meg on Shelton Abbey’s front steps, waiting for the carriages to be brought around. West and Helena stood arm in arm behind him, ready to farewell the last of their guests. Caro and Stone and the children had left an hour ago. Brandon and Carey had just ridden away to another house party, a county away in Northamptonshire.
But instead of Sally’s carriage rolling into view, her coachman rushed up.
“What is it, Barton?” Sally asked, stepping down to the gravel to meet him. The small group of servants waiting to return to London craned their necks to see what was happening.
“My lady, I’m sorry, but the right front wheel has splintered. Be blowed if I know how it happened. I checked everything last night, and it was right as rain.”