“Is that Miss Veivers over there with Lord Parry? I heard rumors of an offer in the wind.”
Without much interest, Charles glanced at the box opposite. “Surely not. He must be forty years older than she is.”
Sally shrugged. “It’s customary for the groom to be older than his bride.”
“Not that much older.”
“Her mother has pushed her at him, poor lamb,” Lady Kenwick said. “He’s a marquess, after all.”
“A marquess without two pennies to rub together,” Kenwick said flatly.
“She’s rich,” Lady Kenwick said.
“What an unholy alliance.” Charles felt genuinely sorry for the plain little girl in the over-decorated gown, sitting between a dissipated roué and a woman with a thrusting chin and a bosom like the prow of a ship.
Sally had been married young to a much older man. Had she, too, accompanied an unwelcome suitor, wearing just such a frozen, frightened look on her youthful features? She never said anything about her marriage, but Charles couldn’t help thinking that her set against another husband was rooted in her feelings about Lord Norwood.
Meg returned to the box, interrupting his reflections, and immediately began to chatter about a plan to picnic in Richmond tomorrow.
* * *
“Why on earth did you kick me like that?” Fenella whispered, as they made their way through the throng after the opera. Ahead of Sally and Fenella, Anthony and Sir Charles were discussing the performance. Out of earshot, fortunately, especially in this bedlam.
Still, Sally slowed her steps. “You said Meg was interested in horses.”
“She is.” Fenella’s expression indicated she thought Sally had lost her mind. It was unpleasantly reminiscent of Helena’s manner at Amy’s wedding.
Sally frowned and turned to check where Meg was. The girl lingered behind with Carey and Brand, but caught her aunt’s eye and nodded to indicate that she did her best to make headway. “But Sir Charles is interested in art.”
“Yes.”
Sally made a frustrated sound. “I don’t want him thinking she’s a countrified hoyden who spends her life in the stables.”
“He’s a clever man. I suspect he already knows.” Fen paused. “Well, not the countrified hoyden part. You’ve done a marvelous job teaching her how to go about in society. But the stables part is definitely true.”
“Fen, use your head. He won’t propose if he thinks her idea of bliss is mucking out a filthy stall.”
Fen still didn’t seem to understand. Which was odd. She was a smart woman. “But that is her idea of bliss.”
Sally bit back another growl. When Fenella’s daughter grew up and started looking for a husband, she’d understand. “I know that.”
“And she only likes art if it’s a painting of a horse.”
“She can learn.”
“I don’t think she wants to.” Someone pushed past them, and Fen used the moment to pull Sally into a corner. “Has Meg set her cap at Sir Charles?”
“I think it would be a good match—and he likes her.”
“Of course he does. She’s very likable. But he’s too old for her.”
“He’s less than ten years her senior. I was twenty years younger than Norwood when we married.”
Fenella’s expression remained unimpressed. “Well, we know how that turned out.”
“You’ve heard gossip?” Sally asked shakily. Feeling faint, she placed one hand on the wall beside her. She never confided in anyone about her unhappy marriage.
Norwood hadn’t been violent, but he’d been overbearing, uncouth, and perpetually unfaithful. Even as a girl, she couldn’t bear the idea of anyone feeling sorry for her. So through the whole humiliating experience, she’d done her best to pretend everything was fine.