“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 at least ten 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 enjoyed 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 stomac
h.
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.”