Sally fumbled for her handkerchief and avoided Morwenna’s gaze. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“Obviously there’s lots to tell, or you wouldn’t be crying. Don’t you trust me?”
Why the devil were people always asking her that? The only person she really didn’t trust was herself. “Of course I do.”
“Then?”
On a shuddering sob, Sally gave up the struggle. “It’s so hard to explain.”
“Try.”
She straightened and drew an unsteady breath. “Everything is a complete mess.”
“Let me guess.” Morwenna led her back to the sofa and sat beside her, holding her hand. “Meg and Sir Charles were caught in a compromising position, and he refuses to do the right thing and restore her reputation.”
Sally’s brief laugh was devoid of amusement. “No, it’s much worse than that.”
“Worse?”
“Yes. It turns out I had everything wrong, from the very beginning. He doesn’t want to marry Meg, and she doesn’t want to marry him.”
Morwenna sighed with relief. “I’m glad. To me, they never seemed right together. In fact, you and Sir Charles always seemed a better fit.”
For one horrified moment, Sally stared at her friend. Then she released a choked breath and burst into the tears that had hovered all day.
How humiliating. Where was the proud woman who had kept up appearances all through her awful marriage? Love had turned her into a complete wreck. She buried her wet face in her shaking hands and struggled to control this outburst, but it was impossible.
“Oh, Sally, I hate to see you so miserable,” Morwenna said, passing her a handkerchief.
Her friend’s sympathy finally shattered Sally’s reticence. In confused, broken sentences, she confessed the events of that trip back from Leicestershire, with the exception of her fall from grace on the chaise longue.
Sally wiped her stinging eyes and dragged in a broken breath. When she bit her lip, she tasted the salt of her tears. “So you can see why I have to send Meg away.”
Morwenna’s gaze was searching. Something in her expression hinted that she’d guessed more than conversation had taken place in the isolated hunting lodge. “She’s behaved disgracefully, I agree. But on the other hand, you’d never have given Sir Charles the chance to declare himself if Meg hadn’t taken a hand.”
Sally stiffened and tried to summon her anger, but crying had left her weary to the point of exhaustion. Crying, and barely a wink of sleep over the last week. Whenever she drifted off, her mind returned to those rapturous, heartbreaking moments when Charles had moved inside her. She’d rather spend the night staring up at the ceiling and calling herself every name under the sun for her stupidity than revisit that passionate interlude.
“I didn’t want him to declare himself,” she muttered. She tore savagely at the lace handkerchief between her hands.
“Why not?” Morwenna cast her an unimpressed glance. “You’re head over heels in love with him. Aren’t you glad that he loves you, too?”
“I’m not…” She hadn’t confessed her feelings for Charles either, but Morwenna knew her too well. Her shoulders slumped. “Oh, all right, yes. I do love him. But it’s completely out of the question.”
Morwenna shook her head in disbelief. “Sally, I think you’re a lunatic.”
Sally stood up and began to pace. “Didn’t you listen to me? I’m older than he is.”
“Only a few years. Not enough to matter. You’ve convinced yourself you’re past the age of romance—I think because you can’t bear the thought of being hurt again, after the hell Norwood put you through.”
Sally stiffened. She hated to hear people refer to her failure as a wife. “His lordship was all that was correct.”
Morwenna made a dismissive noise. “I didn’t know Lord Norwood. But everything I’ve heard tells me he was a narrow-minded bully, too beef-witted to appreciate the wonderful wife fate placed in his care.”
“I don’t want to marry again,” Sally said, too upset to call up any stronger defense of her late husband. Anyway, Morwenna was right.
“I can understand you feel like that. But you need to start looking at the facts. Sir Charles isn’t anything like Norwood. For a start, Charles loves you.”
“Stop saying that.”
Morwenna stood up and faced her. “Why? It’s true.”
“He can’t marry me.” Sally stopped her restless marching about and scowled at her friend. “I’m barren.”
Morwenna shrugged. “You said when you told him that, he wanted you anyway.”
“I clearly said far too much.”
Disgust weighted Morwenna’s sigh. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Sally Cowan. Right now I’m ashamed to own you as my friend.”
Sally stepped back, startled at this sudden severity. “What?”
Morwenna made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “You’re acting like a craven coward—when something I always admired about you is your indomitable spirit. You want that man, and he wants you. Yet you’re too lily-livered to reach out your hand and seize your happiness. Instead you’re wallowing in endless excuses. You’ll end up drowning in them before you’re done. And meanwhile, poor Meg goes home under a cloud, and Sir Charles packs up his broken heart and trudges around Florence and Venice, trying like the devil to forget you.”
Sally’s hands clenched at her sides. “What right have you to criticize me?”
Morwenna’s face went pale, and the gloss of happiness melted away. Sally realized with a sick feeling that was all her friend’s gaiety had ever been—a gloss hiding a wound that would never heal.
“Because real love is a gift beyond price and it’s worth every risk. Because you’ve got a chance at finding happiness, and you’re turning your back on it, without recognizing how inordinately lucky you are.” Morwenna’s voice trembled with overpowering emotion. “Because I had real love and I lost it, not because of anything I did, but just because that’s the way the world turns. Honestly, Sally, I could give you a good slap.”
Sally, jolted out of her self-centered dejection, stared aghast at Morwenna. “I’m so sorry. I hoped…”
“That I’d recovered from Robert’s loss?” Morwenna’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “I know that would make life more comfortable for everyone. Probably for me, too. But you don’t forget a man like Robert Nash, and real love doesn’t easily let you go. If at all. Think about that, Sally, as you turn your back on Sir Charles.”
Sally curled her hand over Morwenna’s. Her friend was shaking with the force of her feelings. “But you and Lord Garson—”
“Get along well.” She mustered a smile. Not a very convincing one. “He’s a kind and good man, and I like him.”
“I’d hoped you might find happiness again. These last weeks…”
Morwenna drew away and squared her shoulders. To her mortification, Sally acknowledged that the only truly courageous person in this room was Morwenna Nash.
“If Lord Garson asks me to marry him, I’ll say yes. Kerenza needs a father, and I’m lonely and seeking a purpose beyond bringing up my daughter alone. I’d like more children. I’d like companionship and a man in my life. Nobody will ever replace Robert. But he’s been gone more than four years, and I’m still young. I need to keep living. For Kerenza’s sake, if nothing else.”
Tears rose to Sally’s eyes, and she pressed Morwenna’s hand. “Your bravery puts me to shame.”
Morwenna’s eyes sharpened. “I hope so. Because having had love ripped away from me, I can’t abide seeing you blithely tossing your chance to the side.”
“I’m not…I’m not doing anything blithely.”
Morwenna’s expression softened with compassion. “I know, Sally.”
The butler appeared at the door. “Lord Garson has called for Mrs Nash, my lady.”
Morwenna’s lips tightened, and she spoke in a low tone so the butler wouldn’t hear. “Stop letting past miseries rule you, Sally. You’re
scared, I know, but fear makes for a cold bedfellow.”
She tugged on her long satin gloves and mustered a smile when Garson came in and bowed to both of them. But as Sally watched her friend flirting with her openly bedazzled admirer, she couldn’t help but play Morwenna’s words over and over in her head.
Real love was worth every risk.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
“A lady to see you, Sir Charles,” his butler said from the library doorway.
Charles glanced up, an exquisite octavo edition of Petrarch’s sonnets in his hand. He was sorting through the books he was sending on to Venice where he planned to rent a palazzo.
It was late, past midnight, but he wasn’t sleeping much these days. The week had been hell. Giving up on his heart’s desire made a man poor company.
“What lady?” he asked impatiently.
“She wouldn’t say, sir. And heavy veils prevented me from assaying her identity.” The butler cleared his throat. “She appears very eager to speak with you.”
Brief curiosity surfaced, then sank back into the mire that his life had become lately. He put the Petrarch in a box and picked up another book.
“I don’t have time for ladies right now,” he said in a flat tone. “Tell the wench, whoever she is, to go away. I’m surprised you didn’t tell her yourself, Willis. You know I’m leaving in the morning.”
“She asked me to give you this note.”
With an irritated sigh, Charles put down the leather-bound book and lifted the scrap of paper from the salver Willis extended toward him.
Swiftly he unfolded the paper. He didn’t know the writing, but what he saw made his heart swell with an emotion he hadn’t felt since he’d left Leicestershire.
Sir, I have no right to your consideration, but I’d appreciate a moment of your time. S.
A cryptic message. Good news or bad?
Hope rushed through him and set his blood pumping. Was Sally here to tell him she carried his child?
As quickly as anticipation rose, it crashed again. No, surely not. It was too soon.
“Sir Charles?” Willis prompted, and he realized he was still staring at the note.
He looked up to meet his butler’s impassive gaze. Willis could convey all the animation of a block of wood, when he wanted to. “You haven’t left her on the step, have you?”
“No, sir. I showed the lady into the drawing room.” He added with purpose, even if his expression didn’t change. “Nobody else observed her entrance. I was in the hall when she arrived.”
“Good man.” Charles suddenly smiled at his butler. “Remind me to raise your salary.”
Willis blinked at this sudden change to cheerfulness in a master who had been like a bear with a sore head all week. “Yes, sir. Thank you. Shall I show the lady in here?”
“No, Willis. I’ll go to her. You and the rest of the staff may retire for the night. I won’t require anything more, and I’ll be happy to show my visitor out, once our business is concluded.”
He hoped to hell he wasn’t lying about being happy. Although given Sally had delivered his marching orders a week ago, he couldn’t imagine what she was doing here unless she’d changed her mind about accepting his proposal.
“Yes, Sir Charles.” Willis bowed. “Good night.”
“Good night, Willis.” He paused. “And thank you.”
Was that a glint in his butler’s gimlet eye? “My pleasure, sir.”
What the devil did this unexpected visit mean? Charles’s gut churned with an unsettling mixture of expectation and trepidation.
Had Sally come to accept his offer of marriage? Or had she called to say a final goodbye?
No, by God, he wouldn’t let that be so. He shouldn’t have given up on her—although the woman who left Sans Souci had been locked away behind an impenetrable wall of ice, thicker than ever after her lapse of control.
Well, ice could melt, and there was a key for every lock. Sally had met her match, even if she didn’t know it yet.
Once he was alone, Charles sucked in a deep breath as he ran his hands through his hair in an attempt to settle its wild disorder. In the last week, he’d barely picked up a comb, and he was wearing an old shirt, definitely not suitable for receiving company. But be damned if he’d waste time going upstairs to tidy himself up.
With a purpose that had deserted him during these vile days of yearning and despair, he marched out of his library, across the shadowy hall, and into the drawing room.
He paused in the open doorway and took in the tall, slender woman swathed in black veiling. It had only been a week since he’d seen her, but the immediate power of Sally’s presence struck him like a blow from a mallet.
His heart crashed against his ribs and every drop of moisture dried from his mouth, so it was an effort to speak. “How the devil you can see an inch in front of your face with all that falderal floating around you is beyond me.”
She lifted away the funereal bonnet, and he stepped forward to take it from her and place it on a chair. She was pale and resolute, and her eyes were huge in her thin face. He couldn’t read her expression as she stripped off her black kid gloves, but he didn’t sense any hostility. “I didn’t have to come far.”
She didn’t sound upset at his unloverlike greeting. He was beyond hedging his questions. “So why did you come?”
“I needed to talk to you.”
“Just talk?”
The look she sent him was guarded. “I wasn’t sure you’d see me. I’ve been horrid to you.”
So perhaps not just to talk. It was a good sign that she avoided his question.
He curled his hands into fists and fought the urge to seize her and demand she tell him that she was coming back to him. “I’ll always welcome you, Sally. Don’t you know that yet?”
“So you forgive me for being so cruel?” She linked trembling hands at her waist, and he realized she was nervous.
He shrugged. “It’s forgotten.”
Charles meant it. With her here, old resentment found no place in his heart.
He read the signs of recent strain in her face. A tightness around her mouth, and blue shadows under her eyes. Was it too much to hope that over these last days, she’d suffered just as he had?
“You’re so generous, Charles. When I don’t deserve your kindness.”
He stepped further into the room and shut the door behind him. Had this lovely, spirited, fragile creature come to entrust herself to him? He prayed it was so. But he remained careful. He’d come so perilously close to losing her once. He didn’t want her running away again.
Because if she did, this time it would be forever.
“Did you only come here to ask my forgiveness? You could have done that in a letter.”
“I…” She swallowed, and the hands she raised to undo the long line of buttons on her pelisse were shaking so badly, they fumbled. “I heard you were going to Italy.”
“I couldn’t see any point in staying in England,” he said somberly, then with sudden impatience, stepped closer and brushed her hands aside. “Let me do that. You’ll be there until Doomsday.”
“Yes, Charles,” she said, with a docility that he’d never heard from her before.
Quickly and efficiently, he released the buttons and helped her out of her coat. Then he stood back, awe-struck. “Good God, I’m glad Willis didn’t see that dress, or he’d have had a heart attack.”
Sally glanced down at the bright red silk gown and made an apologetic gesture. “It seemed a gown a scarlet woman would wear.”
He paused to admire the sight of her lean, graceful form in the scandalously low-cut dress. The vivid color made her skin look like new cream. It had been difficult enough keeping his hands off her before. Now she stood before him dressed for seduction, it was nigh impossible.
He swallowed and strove to keep his tone light, when all he wanted was to sweep her into his arms and kiss all the nonsense out of her. “It’s certai
nly scarlet.”
“I…I didn’t want you mistaking my motives,” she muttered, a delightful blush staining her slanted cheekbones.
Shock slammed into him, along with a huge wave of desire. And a renewed surge of hope.
But he’d learned the hard way that they needed to establish some rules before he rushed her into bed. They wanted each other, but passion wasn’t their problem, trust was.
He drew himself up to his full height and fought to steady his voice. “Just what are your motives, Sally? A quick tupping, then goodbye, and me off for Italy in the morning? Or something…else?”
“Is something else still an option?” Her expression was searching and she bit her lip. “Or has my behavior proven that you’re better off making for the hills and never seeing me again?”
He inhaled to feed his aching lungs. The damnable thing was he kept forgetting to breathe. “I told you—there’s no blame.”
“There should be.” She went back to twisting her hands together. “I hurt you.”
What was the point of lying? Without looking, he dropped her pelisse over a chair. “Yes.”
With a remorseful gesture, she spread her hands. “I can’t bear that.”
He frowned. “So you’re here as a way of apologizing?”
“Yes. No.” She sucked in an audible breath. “Oh, Charles, will you really make me say it?”
“It depends what you have to say, doesn’t it?” He folded his arms and regarded her with unwavering attention. “We’ve had too many misunderstandings already. It’s time to be frank. What do you want from me, Sally?”
Her shuddering breath threatened to send her bosom overflowing from that daring dress. Then she stiffened her spine, and the nervously twisting hands dropped to her sides.
“You. I want you.”
Another jolt of desire. The words sizzled through him like flame. But he remained chary about seeing only what he wanted to see. He’d done that at Sans Souci and paid an agonizing price.
“Tonight? Or forever?”
Charming Sir Charles (Dashing Widows Book 5) Page 12
