To her relief, Sir Charles shifted that enigmatic brown gaze from her to the gardens. Sally immediately sucked in a deep breath to feed her starved lungs. For some reason, she’d felt quite lightheaded when he stared into her eyes.
“There’s no doubt she’s happy.”
“Ecstatic,” Sally said drily. No point pretending anything different, she admitted. At least Sir Charles didn’t sound particularly put out to run a distant second to West’s most recent Derby winner in the girl’s estimation. “Have you managed to ferret out West’s art collection? You said you were looking forward to seeing it.”
“I visited the pictures in the long gallery the day after I arrived, although they deserve a second look. Have you seen them?”
His good-humored interest should put her at ease. But her heart still skipped around like a grasshopper, and she felt unaccountably nervy in his presence.
“Not recently. I must admit when I come to Shelton Abbey, I spend most of my time gossiping with Helena and her friends. We all live so far apart. It’s nice to have a chance to talk fashion and scandal and family news.” She made an apologetic gesture. “You’ll think I’m hopelessly frivolous.”
This visit, she’d avoided those cozy chats. She didn’t want to face questions about this restless mood she was in—and she knew both Helena and Caro had noticed that she wasn’t her cheerful, chatty self.
When he smiled, the kindness in his eyes made her think yet again what a nice man he was. “As long as you aren’t gossiping about horses, I have no criticism.”
It was her turn to laugh, surprised that it came out quite easily. “Meg and the boys have added a different flavor to the visit.”
“A whiff of hay and harnesses?”
“Exactly.”
He stood and presented his arm. “Would you like to go inside and wander through the West collection with me? We have the manor to ourselves—no children playing blind man’s buff in the gallery, no horse-mad youth, desperate to discuss fetlocks and snaffle bits.”
Over the weeks she’d known Sir Charles, they’d spent many enjoyable hours touring London’s galleries, public and private. Meg had accompanied them good naturedly, but without showing much interest in the art.
Lord Norwood had been a sporting gentleman who scorned his wife’s cultivated tastes. Sally had loved talking to someone intelligent and well informed, who shared her love of beautiful things. In truth, he was much more well informed than she was. And unlike many of the ton’s connoisseurs, he didn’t speak down to her as a mere woman. Her confidence had blossomed when he seemed genuinely interested in her opinions.
“I rather think I would.” She smiled up at him and rose to accept his arm. That odd little shiver rippled through her again, but this time she ignored it. The reaction must just be one more symptom of her recent distraction.
* * *
The next day, the weather changed for the worse, and everyone was confined inside, much to the chagrin of the horsier members of the party. In the afternoon, most of the guests played cards, or wrote letters, or joined in a riotous game of skittles with the children in the long gallery.
Charles had sought refuge in West’s library—as he’d predicted, well-stocked with books about horses. Now he stood at the window, watching the pouring rain and wondering where Sally was. Since their tour of the long gallery, she’d proven elusive. She wasn’t with the others. He’d hoped he might find her in here, but the room was empty.
These last days, she wasn’t acting like herself, and he was worried that it boded ill for his courtship. When he’d discovered her in the rose garden, she’d seemed unusually self-conscious and ill at ease.
For once, they’d been gloriously alone. Ah, if only she’d accept his advances, the setting had been perfect for romance. But some instinct had stopped him from kissing her. With every day, it became more difficult to hide his hunger, but he’d managed to resist temptation. Barely.
Sally moved through the world sheltered behind an oddly unbreakable shell of isolation. One might almost imagine she was a beautiful painting herself, and not warm, human flesh, ripe for a man’s touch.
If she hadn’t been married nearly ten years, Charles would almost call her lack of awareness innocence.
“Is this where you’re hiding, old man?” Silas Nash, Lord Stone, strode through the door with his usual energy, leaving it ajar behind him. Beneath the thatch of light brown hair, his features were alight with humor and intelligence.
Charles turned, grateful that someone interrupted his brooding. He liked Stone. He liked all the Nashes and their connections. And he positively envied Stone’s marriage to vivid, lovely Caroline. Eight years and four children had done nothing to cool the heat between them.
The nurseries upstairs were packed with the next generation of Nashes and Granges. Stone and Caro had brought their children, as well as Morwenna’s four-year-old daughter Kerenza, to Shelton Abbey to play with their three cousins.
“I came for a book to while away the afternoon.” And to track down one lovely Dashing Widow.
Stone joined him at the window and stared out at the gray landscape. “And to escape the horsey set, I’ll wager.”
Charles’s smile was wry. “That, too.”
“Nash offspring are flung onto their first pony before they can walk. But I must say even I have reached the limit of my interest in thoroughbred antecedents. Meg and West and the boys had gone back as far as the Byerley Turk, when I left the morning room in search of more sensible conversation.”
“I hope you’ve found it,” Charles said with a smile. “What are you working on at the moment?”