Charming Sir Charles (Dashing Widows 5)

Because the devastating truth was that she wasn’t too old to fall in love. She loved Sir Charles more with every breath she took. He was everything she’d ever wanted in a man.

And he was completely out of reach.

She gulped in a huge breath of air and placed a shaking hand over her heaving stomach. She could cry now in private. But she must put on a brave face when the engagement was announced.

She should be used to maintaining a show, after her years with Norwood, acting as if everything was fine.

But somehow this was different. Worse. Far more painful, however miserable her marriage had been. This unwelcome, overwhelming love for a man she could never have must remain her secret.

She’d always valued the easy honesty of her dealings with Sir Charles. In the eight weeks since he’d been in London, they’d become friends. Now as a mere friend, she’d assume a cheerful air when he wed Meg. Who was a lovely girl and who deserved this paragon of a man.

No doubt they’d be terrifically happy.

The idea of that terrific happiness made her want to scream.

With a choked sob, she fumbled to lock the door. Her hands were all thumbs, but she managed it at last, thank heaven. Then she staggered across the carpet and collapsed into an armchair. Useless tears burned her eyes like acid, but right now, when she needn’t pretend to be anything but bitterly unhappy, she gave way to the luxury of a good cry.

Because she was doubly shut out of paradise. Even if Sir Charles didn’t want to marry Meg, he’d never court a barren widow several years his senior. He’d want someone young and sweet—and damn it, fertile. Any man would.

She could cry now, but once she left this room, she must gather herself up. She must act as if nothing was the matter, and she was delighted the man she loved was marrying her niece. After all, she’d promoted the match from the start. Pride, duty, and affection for Meg all mandated that she held her head high and smiled and smiled and smiled.

She clenched her fists against the chair’s arms. How in the name of all that was holy could she endure it?

* * *

Charles approached dinner, determined to stake his claim with Sally. Once formalities were done, he intended to take his beloved on a candlelit tour of the long gallery. A tour that he planned to end with kisses and joy and her promise to become his wife.

But from the moment everyone gathered in the drawing room, he noticed that Sally was different. Hard and glittering—and arch in a way he’d never seen her before.

He usually despised archness, but in Sally, the flirtatious gaiety just made him want her more than ever. He itched to give her a good shake and kiss her, until that coquettish expression melted into desire. And rip that spectacular silvery dress from her long slender body and plunge deep inside her until at last she saw him and nobody else.

Because however her behavior vexed him, he couldn’t deny she looked magnificent, with a hard sparkle that made him think of diamonds. While the gray dress inevitably reminded him of armor.

Just what did she need armor against? An unwelcome suitor called Charles Kinglake?

He couldn’t help thinking that was the answer. And that made him itch to smash something. Never once did she look in his direction. Even when he wished her good evening, she responded to a spot over his right shoulder.

He wasn’t alone in noticing something amiss.

“Sally, that’s a gorgeous dress, but it’s making the rest of us feel distinctly underdone,” Helena said from near the unlit fire, where she stood with her brother Stone. It was warm for May, and the French doors stood open to the fragrant evening. “Are we expecting a r

oyal visit I don’t know about?”

Sally laughed. Was Charles the only one to hear the edge of hysteria in the sound? “My modiste finished it last week, and I decided I couldn’t wait to wear it.”

Helena’s lips adopted a wry twist. “If I’d known we were going formal, I’d have worn my diamonds.”

“You don’t need diamonds to shine, my love,” West said. He and Caroline were chatting on a chaise longue against the wall.

“Oh, you should never say that to a lady,” Sally said with a flirtatious glance at her host. Meg, who as usual was talking about horses with Brandon and Carey, cast her aunt a glance weighted with concern.

Charles frowned. Something was horribly wrong, but he had no idea what the devil it could be. Sally was trying too hard to shine. Her natural vivacity turned to brittleness. She was noticeably a different creature from the woman he knew.

He wished everyone else in the room to Hades. Damn manners and propriety. He wanted to confront her and find out what had changed. But social rules made that impossible.

Yet again, his lack of status in Sally’s life stung. The unwelcome truth was that she could walk away from him tomorrow, and he’d have no right to call her back.

In the world’s eyes, they were mere acquaintances. Whereas in his eyes, she was the center of his world.