Her heart brimming with elation for Amy and regret that such a transformative love had forever passed her by, Sally firmed her hold on her bouquet of violets and lily-of-the-valley. She took her place in front of Silas and Amy. Helena and Morwenna lined up behind the bride. A flourish of music from inside the church, and they moved forward.
The church was crowded, too. Sally glanced around the elegant congregation and saw so many people who had become important to her over recent years. Lord and Lady Kenwick and their family. Caroline, Lady Stone, who had banned her husband from his horticultural experiments this morning. Sally’s dear niece Meg, her protegée this season. A few pews back, Meg’s handsome suitor, Sir Charles Kinglake.
Sir Charles looked breathtaking in a black coat that emphasized his broad shoulders and impressive chest. Admiration made Sally’s heart skip a beat. What a fine figure of a man Meg had caught for herself—if the chit could just bring the elegant baronet to the point of proposing.
When he
noticed Sally looking at him, he sent her an approving smile. A dimple appeared in his lean cheek and laughter lines deepened around his dark eyes.
She so appreciated how he always acknowledged her as a person in her own right. After all, as Meg’s widowed aunt and chaperone, most men would consider her an inconvenience. Gratitude for his exquisite manners made her silly heart perform another leap. Even for a woman past the giddy age, it was a thrill to have all that masculine appeal focused on her.
Sir Charles was all that a girl could wish in a husband. Kind, sophisticated, rich. And madly attractive as well. Rich brown hair the color of strong coffee. Deep brown eyes. Tall and strong and vigorous. And an exceptionally nice smile.
Sally found herself smiling back at him as she walked up the aisle in front of Amy.
Meg was such a lucky girl.
Perhaps once Meg was safely married, Sally would revive her plan to extend her experience beyond her husband’s inept fumblings. She might be too old to make a love match, but she wasn’t too old to enjoy an amorous adventure or two, by heaven.
Norwood had been hopeless in bed, on the rare occasions when he joined her there at all. Whereas something about Sir Charles’s air of effortless self-assurance hinted that he knew just what to do when he had a woman in his arms.
Today’s wedding confirmed her decision. Why should Amy have all the fun? Soon, she’d choose a first lover who was just like Sir Charles. A good man, but not so good that he didn’t know how to pleasure her. It was time she discovered just what put that spark in Amy’s hazel eyes when she looked at her bridegroom.
Sally ought to be blushing. These profane thoughts weren’t appropriate in a church.
At the altar, she stepped aside and watched Amy present her hand to Gervaise Dacre, Lord Pascal, who today definitely lived up to his reputation as London’s handsomest man. His golden good looks were extraordinary, nor could anyone mistake the glow of adoration in his deep blue eyes when he looked at his bride.
Amy was a lucky girl, too.
Well, once she’d married Meg off to Sir Charles, Sally intended to be another lucky girl. The only man who had shared her bed was unworthy of the honor. The next man she chose would show her just what she’d been missing all these years.
* * *
Chapter Two
* * *
Silas and Caroline hosted the wedding breakfast at their opulent house in Half Moon Street.
Sally paused for a moment near the ballroom’s French doors, open onto the lush spring garden. Even London’s capricious spring weather blessed today’s festivities. Around her, conversation buzzed, spiked with joyous laughter, making it difficult to hear the string quartet Silas had hired for the occasion.
“The ranks of the Dashing Widows are thinning,” Sir Charles said, coming up beside her and passing her a glass of champagne.
Sally turned from studying the jubilant newlyweds to bestow a wide smile on the tall man in perfectly tailored formal black. The day’s romantic atmosphere must be affecting even her prosaic soul. At the sight of him, her heart performed that odd little wobble again.
“Someone told you about our pact, did they?”
“I went out celebrating with Pascal, Kenwick and West last night.” He regarded his full glass with a lack enthusiasm that amused her. “In their cups, they gave me the story behind the nickname.”
She, Morwenna, and Amy had made a pact to have some fun in society and set aside old, unhappy memories. They’d taken as their example the first three Dashing Widows, Caroline, now Lady Stone, Fenella, now Lady Kenwick, and Helena. Eight years ago, all three women had put off their mourning and gone out to find love and new, fulfilled lives.
“I won’t mind at all if I’m the last Dashing Widow standing.” His easy manner settled her unsteady pulse and reminded her how remarkably comfortable she’d always felt with him. “I’d be delighted to see Morwenna find happiness, too.”
Sympathy turned his brown eyes velvety. “How long is it since her husband was lost at sea?”
“Nearly four years. At first, I wasn’t sure bringing her to London was a good idea, but lately she seems to be finding her feet and enjoying herself.”
Sir Charles took a sip of his champagne and tilted his eyebrows to where Morwenna stood talking to a dark-haired man in a blue coat. “Garson seems to be enjoying her.”