* * *
Sally would rather have all her teeth removed with pliers than spend two days on the road, struggling to hide her feelings from Sir Charles.
Curse that broken wheel, however it had occurred. She hadn’t had her carriage out in the week since she’d arrived, so it must have been damaged on the drive to Shelton Abbey. Which was odd in itself. Barton always did a thorough check on the vehicle once it reached its destination.
As they covered the miles to London, the day was beautiful and fragrant with late spring. A luggage coach followed with Sir Charles’s valet and Meg and Sally’s maids, but it couldn’t hope to keep up with a natty yellow and black curricle built for speed.
To save them all being squashed onto one seat in the open carriage, Sir Charles rode his gray horse beside them, while Meg took the reins. Heavens, he must be in love with the girl, to trust her with his high-strung horses. Sally almost wished he’d hurry up and propose to her niece. This was like waiting for the ax to fall.
Meg was so busy driving that she didn’t try to engage Sally in conversation. Which was a huge relief. Even if her silence left Sally’s mind too free to gnaw over the insuperable problem of falling in love with the wrong man.
Over the last days, she’d tried telling herself that she suffered from a passing madness. But so far, while it was definitely a madness, it showed no signs of passing. Since that agonizing moment when she’d heard Sir Charles declare his intentions to marry another woman, she’d done her best to belittle her feelings, to crush them to nothing.
To no avail.
Nor had she been prepared for her physical reaction to his presence, now she’d acknowledged her feelings. The merest sight of him, even in the distance, set her heart racing like one of West’s champion thoroughbreds. She felt hot and cold, and tingly and lightheaded. This wicked, rapacious desire was a fever eating her up from inside.
No woman of her mature years should be struck dumb at the sight of a handsome man. But when Sir Charles was near, her hands itched to explore that tall, powerful body. She trembled with forbidden excitement, and her stomach churned with unacceptable impulses. The sound of his deep voice made every nerve tighten with longing.
She’d become so terrified of someone noticing her turmoil that she’d done her best to avoid Sir Charles’s company. But being away from him didn’t calm the raging storm of need inside her.
She bit back a groan, fortunately muffled by the rattle of the wheels and the creak of the harness. When he married Meg, Sally would have to present a joyful face to the world. She owed it to her niece. Heavens, she owed it to herself. She had some pride.
Now she faced the awful prospect of a future where Meg and Sir Charles joined in family events. And all the time, Sally would have to pretend that he meant nothing more to her than her niece’s husband.
Most of Sir Charles’s lands were in the west, in Shropshire. There was some small consolation in that. Sally lived on the estate outside Portsmouth that had been set aside as her widow’s portion. With Meg blissfully ensconced on the Welsh borders and Sally licking her wounds in the south, at least she wouldn’t often see the couple.
That should make her feel better. But her traitorous heart ached at the idea of him so far away, even if he was married to another woman.
Curse this love. There was no logic to it. Just pointless suffering.
Perhaps she should consider retiring to a convent. Or emigrating.
No, she wasn’t going to run away. Her yen for Charles Kinglake would not conquer her. She would master this weakness.
But not today…
Her gaze strayed to where he rode ahead. With no risk of him seeing her yearning and with Meg concentrating on the road, she yielded to the dangerous temptation to stare her fill. Even as she knew it was fatal to feed her appetite, she couldn’t help thrilling to what a magnificent sight he presented.
He rode as if born to the saddle, with the easy, unflashy competence he devoted to everything in his life. His hat perched at a jaunty angle on his thick coffee-brown hair. The shoulders in the exquisitely cut blue coat were straight and strong.
Her hand clenched on the side of the carriage, and she blinked back tears, despite this morning’s strictures to herself to waste no more time crying over this mess.
* * *
After several hours, Sir Charles drew back to ride beside the carriage. “I’ve arranged to change the team at the next inn. We can stop for a meal, too.”
Sally bent her head, hoping her bonnet hid her strained expression. “Excellent.”
“I’ll also send a boy ahead to engage some rooms for you tonight at the Angel in Woburn. It’s a fine hostelry, and I’ve already reserved a bed for myself.”
“You’re very kind,” Sally said after a pause, wondering what the devil was wrong with Meg. The privilege of handling these superb horses seemed to have left her speechless.
“Not at all,” he said, and urged his horse to a fast canter that took him ahead once more.
At the coaching inn, Sir Charles arranged for a cold collation to be served in a private parlor. Sally picked at her meal, while he and Meg discussed the finer points of driving his pair.
He’d stabled a change of horses here for the return journey, and Meg was voluble in her excitement about trying them, too. Whatever had kept her silent must no longer matter. Sally hardly paid attention, until she heard Sir Charles mention her name.