It was a rare moment when silence fell on a gathering of Smythe-Smith cousins, but that was exactly what happened after Lord Hugh gave a polite bow and exited the drawing room.

The five of them—the four Pleinsworth sisters and Honoria—remained mute for several seconds, glancing at each other as they waited for a suitable amount of time to pass.

You could almost hear them all counting, Sarah thought, and indeed, as soon as she reached ten in her own head, Elizabeth announced, “Well that wasn’t very subtle.”

Honoria turned. “What do you mean?”

“You are trying to make a match of Sarah and Lord Hugh, aren’t you?”

“Of course not!” Honoria exclaimed, but Sarah’s negative howl was considerably louder.

“Oh, but you should!” Frances said with a delighted clap of her hands. “I like Lord Hugh very much. It’s true that he can be a little eccentric, but he’s terribly clever. And he’s a very good shot.”

All eyes swung back to Frances. “He shot Cousin Daniel in the shoulder,” Sarah reminded her.

“He’s a very good shot when he’s sober,” Frances clarified. “Daniel said so.”

“I cannot begin to imagine the conversation that revealed such a fact,” Honoria said, “nor do I wish to, this close to the wedding.” She turned resolutely back to Sarah. “I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Please say it does not involve Hugh Prentice.”

“It involves Hugh Prentice,” Honoria confirmed. “I need your help.”

Sarah made a great show of sighing. She was going to have to do whatever Honoria asked; they both knew that. But even if Sarah had to go down without a fight, she was not going to do so without a complaint.

“I am very much afraid that he will not feel welcome at Fensmore,” Honoria said.

Sarah could find nothing objectionable about that statement; if Hugh Prentice did not feel welcome, it was hardly her problem and nothing more than he deserved. But she could be diplomatic when the occasion warranted, so she remarked, “I think it is much more likely he will isolate himself. He’s not very friendly.”

“I find it more likely that he’s shy,” Honoria said.

Harriet, still seated at the desk, gasped with delight. “A brooding hero. The very best kind! I shall write him into my play!”

“The one with the unicorn?” Frances asked.

“No, the one I’ve just thought of this afternoon.” Harriet pointed the feather end of her quill toward Sarah. “With the heroine who is not too pink or green.”

“He shot your cousin,” Sarah snapped, whipping around to face her younger sister. “Does no one remember that?”

“It was such a long time ago,” Harriet said.

“And I think he’s sorry,” Frances declared.

“Frances, you are eleven,” Sarah said sharply. “You are hardly able to judge a man’s character.”

Frances’s eyes slitted. “I can judge yours.”

Sarah looked from sister to sister, then back at Honoria. Did no one realize what an awful person Lord Hugh was? Forget for the moment (as if one could) that he had nearly destroyed their family. He was horrid. One had only to speak with him for two minutes before—

“He does often seem uncomfortable at gatherings,” Honoria admitted, breaking into Sarah’s inner rant, “but that is all the more reason for us to go out of our way to make him feel welcome. I—” Honoria cut herself off, looked about the room, took in Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances, all watching her with great and unconcealed interest, and said, “Excuse me, please.” She took Sarah’s arm and steered her out of the drawing room, down the hall, and into another drawing room.

“Am I to be Hugh Prentice’s nanny?” Sarah demanded once Honoria had closed the door.

“Of course not. But I am asking you to make sure that he feels a part of the festivities. Perhaps this evening, in the drawing room before supper,” Honoria suggested.

Sarah groaned.

“He’s likely to be off in a corner, standing by himself.”

“Perhaps he likes it that way.”

“You’re so good at talking to people,” Honoria said. “You always know what to say.”

“Not to him.”

“You don’t even know him,” Honoria said. “How terrible could it be?”

“Of course I’ve met him. I don’t think there is anyone left in London I haven’t met.” Sarah considered this, then muttered, “Pathetic though that seems.”

“I didn’t say you hadn’t met him, I said you do not know him,” Honoria corrected. “There is quite a difference.”

“Very well,” Sarah said, somewhat grudgingly. “If you wish to split hairs.”

Honoria just tilted her head, forcing Sarah to keep talking.

“I don’t know him,” Sarah said, “but what I’ve met of him, I don’t particularly like. I have tried to be amiable during these last few months.”

Honoria gave her a most disbelieving look.

“I have!” Sarah protested. “I wouldn’t say I’ve tried very hard, but I must tell you, Honoria, the man is not a sparkling conversationalist.”

Now Honoria looked as if she might laugh, which only fueled Sarah’s irritation.

“I have tried to speak with him,” Sarah ground out, “because that is what people do at social functions. But he never replies how he ought.”

“How he ought?” Honoria echoed.

“He makes me uncomfortable,” Sarah said with a sniff. “And I’m fairly certain he does not like me.”

“Don’t be silly,” Honoria said. “Everyone likes you.”

“No,” Sarah said, quite frankly, “everyone likes you. I, on the other hand, lack your kind and pure heart.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Merely that while you look for the best in everyone, I take a more cynical view of the world. And I...” She paused. How to say it? “There are people in this world who find me quite annoying.”

“That’s not true,” Honoria said. But it was an automatic reply. Sarah was quite sure that given more time to consider the statement, Honoria would realize that it was quite true.

Although she would have said the same thing anyway. Honoria was marvelously loyal that way.

“It is true,” Sarah said, “and it does not bother me. Well, not very much, anyway. It certainly does not bother me about Lord Hugh, given that I return the sentiment in spades.”

Honoria took a moment to wade through Sarah’s words, then rolled her eyes. Not very much, but Sarah knew her too well to miss the gesture. It was the closest her kind and gentle cousin ever came to a screaming fit.

“I think you should give him a chance,” Honoria said. “You’ve never even had a proper conversation with him.”

There had been nothing proper about it, Sarah thought darkly. They had nearly come to blows. And she certainly hadn’t known what to say to him. She felt ill every time she recalled their meeting at the Dunwoody engagement fête. She’d done nothing but spout clichés. She might have even stamped her foot. He probably thought her an utter imbecile, and the truth was, she rather thought she’d acted like one.

Not that she cared what he thought of her. That would ascribe far too much importance to his opinion. But in that awful moment in the Dunwoody library—and in the few brief words they’d exchanged since—Hugh Prentice had reduced her to someone she didn’t much like.

And that was unforgivable.

“It’s not up to me to say who you will or will not get on with,” Honoria continued after it became clear that Sarah was not going to comment, “but I’m sure you can find the strength to endure Lord Hugh’s company for one day.”

“Sarcasm becomes you,” Sarah said suspiciously. “When did that happen?”

Honoria smiled. “I knew I could depend upon you.”

“Indeed,” Sarah muttered.

“He’s not so dreadful,” Honoria said, patting her on the arm. “I think he’s rather handsome, actually.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s handsome.”

Honoria leapt on that. “So you think he is handsome.”

“I think he’s quite strange,” Sarah shot back, “and if you are trying to play matchmaker...”

“I’m not!” Honoria held up her arms in mock surrender. “I swear it. I was merely making an observation. I think he has very nice eyes.”

“I’d like him better if he had a vestigial toe,” Sarah muttered. Maybe she should write a book.

“A vestigial—what?”

“Yes, his eyes are perfectly nice,” Sarah said obediently. It was true, she supposed. He did have very nice eyes, green as grass, and piercingly intelligent. But nice eyes did not a future husband make. And no, she did not view every single man through the lens of eligibility—well, not very much, and certainly not him—but it was clear that despite her protestations, Honoria was casting her thoughts in that direction.

“I will do this for you,” Sarah said, “because you know I would do anything for you. Which means I would throw myself in front of a moving carriage if it came to that.” She paused, giving Honoria time to absorb that before continuing with a grand sweep of her arm. “And if I would throw myself in front of a moving carriage, it stands to reason that I would also consent to an activity that does not require the taking of my own life.”

Honoria looked at her blankly.

“Such as sitting next to Lord Hugh Prentice at your wedding breakfast.”

It took Honoria a moment to take that in. “How very... logical.”

“And by the way, it’s two days I must suffer his company, not one.” She wrinkled her nose. “Just to be clear.”

Honoria smiled graciously. “Then you shall entertain Lord Hugh this evening before supper?”

“Entertain,” Sarah repeated sardonically. “Shall I dance? Because you know I’m not going to play the pianoforte.”

Honoria laughed as she headed for the door. “Just be your usual charming self,” she said, poking her face back in the room for one last second. “He will love you.”

“God forbid.”

“He works in strange ways...”

“Not that strange.”

“Methinks the lady—”

“Don’t say it,” Sarah cut in.

Honoria’s brows rose. “Shakespeare certainly knew what he was talking about.”

Sarah threw a pillow at her.

But she missed. It was that kind of a day.

Later that day

Chatteris had arranged for target shooting that afternoon, and as this was one of the few sports in which Hugh could still participate, he decided to head down to the south lawn at the appointed time. Or rather, thirty minutes before the appointed time. His leg was still annoyingly stiff, and he found that even with his cane to aid him, he was walking more slowly than usual. There were remedies to ease the pain, but the salve that had been put forth by his doctor smelled like death. As for laudanum, he could not tolerate the dullness of mind it brought on.

All that was left was drink, and it was true that a snifter or two of brandy seemed to loosen the muscle and suppress the ache. But he rarely allowed himself to over-imbibe; just look what had happened the last time he’d got drunk. He also tried his best to avoid spirits until nightfall at the earliest. The few times he’d given in and gulped something down, he’d been disgusted with himself for days.

He had so few methods with which to measure his strength. It had become a point of honor to make it through to dusk with only his wits to battle the pain.

Stairs were always the most difficult, and he paused at the landing to flex and straighten his leg. Maybe he shouldn’t bother. He hadn’t even made it halfway to the south lawn and already the familiar dull throb was pulsing through his thigh. No one would be the wiser if he just turned around and went back to his room.

But damn it, he wanted to shoot. He wanted to hold a gun in his hand and raise his arm straight and true. He wanted to squeeze the trigger and feel the recoil as it shook through his shoulder. Most of all he wanted to hit the bloody bull’s-eye.

So he was competitive. He was a man, it was to be expected.

There would be whispers and furtive looks, he was sure. It would not go unnoticed that Hugh Prentice was holding a pistol in the vicinity of Daniel Smythe-Smith. But Hugh was rather perversely looking forward to that. Daniel was, too. He had said as much when they’d talked at breakfast.

“Ten pounds if we can make someone faint,” Daniel had declared, right after he’d done a rather fine falsetto imitation of one of Almack’s patronesses, complete with a hand to the heart and a stellar collection of just about every expression of feminine outrage known to man.

“Ten pounds?” Hugh murmured, glancing at him over his cup of coffee. “To me or to you?”

“To both,” Daniel said with a cheeky grin. “Marcus is good for it.”

Marcus gave him a look and turned back to his eggs.

“He’s getting very stuffy in his old age,” Daniel said to Hugh.

To Marcus’s credit, all he did was roll his eyes.

But Hugh had smiled. And he had realized that he was enjoying himself more than any time in recent memory. If the gentlemen were shooting, he was damn well going to join them.

It took at least five minutes to make his way down to the ground floor, however, and once there, he decided that it would be best to cut through one of Fensmore’s many salons instead of taking the long way round to the south lawn.

Over the past three and a half years, Hugh had become remarkably adept at ferreting out every possible shortcut.

Third door on the right, then in, turn left, cross the room, and exit through the French doors. As an added benefit, he could take a moment to rest on one of the sofas. Most of the ladies had gone off to the village, so it was unlikely that anyone would be there. By his estimation he had a quarter of an hour before the shooting was due to start.

The drawing room wasn’t terribly large, just a few seating arrangements. There was a blue chair facing him that looked comfortable enough. He couldn’t see over the back of the sofa that sat opposite it, but there was probably a low table between them. He could put his leg up for a moment, and no one would be the wiser.

He made his way over, but he must not have been paying proper attention, because his cane clipped the edge of the table, which led directly to his shin clipping the edge of the table, which in turn led to a most creative string of curses clipping out of his mouth as he turned around to sit.

That was when he saw Sarah Pleinsworth, asleep on the sofa.

Oh, bloody hell.

He’d been having a better than average day, the pain in his leg notwithstanding. The last thing he needed was a private audience with the oh-so dramatic Lady Sarah. She’d probably accuse him of something nefarious, follow that with a trite declaration of hatred, then finish up with something about those fourteen men who had become engaged during the season of 1821.

He still didn’t know what that was supposed to be about.

Or why he even recalled it. He’d always had a good memory, but really, couldn’t his brain let go of the truly useless?

He had to get through the room without waking her up. It was not easy to tiptoe with a cane, but by God that was what he would do if that was what it took to make it through the room unnoticed.

Well, there went his hopes of resting his leg. Very carefully, he edged out from behind the low wooden table, careful not to touch anything but carpet and air. But as anyone who had ever stepped outside knew, air could move, and apparently he was breathing too hard, because before he made it past the sofa, Lady Sarah woke from her slumber with a shriek that startled him so much that he fell back against another chair, toppled over the upholstered arm, and landed awkwardly on the seat.

“What? What? What are you doing?” She blinked rapidly before spearing him with a glare. “You.”

It was an accusation. It absolutely was.

“Oh, you gave me a fright,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“Apparently.” He swore under his breath as he tried to swing his legs over to the front of the chair. “Ow!”

“What?” she asked impatiently.

“I kicked the table.”

“Why?”

He scowled. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

She seemed only then to realize that she was lounging most casually along the length of the sofa and, with a flurry of movement, straightened herself to a more proper upright position. “Excuse me,” she said, still flustered. Her dark hair was falling from its coiffure; he deemed it best not to point this out.

“Please accept my apology,” he said stiffly. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“I was reading. I must have fallen asleep. I... ah...” She blinked a few more times, then her eyes finally seemed to focus. On him. “Were you sneaking up on me?”

“No,” he said, with perhaps more speed and fervor than was polite. He motioned to the door that led outside. “I was just cutting through. Lord Chatteris has made arrangements for target shooting.”

“Oh.” She looked suspicious for about one second more, then this clearly gave way to embarrassment. “Of course. There is no reason you would be sneak— That is to say—” She cleared her throat. “Well.”

“Well.”

She waited for a moment, then asked pointedly, “Don’t you plan to continue to the lawn?”

He stared at her.

“For the shooting,” she clarified.

He shrugged. “I’m early.”

She did not seem to care for that answer. “It’s quite pleasant outside.”

He glanced out the window. “So it is.” She was trying to get rid of him, and he supposed she deserved a certain measure of respect for not even trying to hide it. On the other hand, now that she was awake—and he was seated in a chair, resting his leg—there seemed no reason to hurry onward.

He could endure anything for ten minutes, even Sarah Pleinsworth.

“Do you plan to shoot?” she asked.

“I do.”

“With a gun?”

“That’s how one usually does it.”

Her face tightened. “And you think this is prudent?”

“Do you mean because your cousin will be there? I assure you, he will have a gun as well.” He felt his lips curve into an emotionless smile. “It will be almost like a duel.”

“Why do you joke about such things?” she snapped.

He let his gaze land rather intently on hers. “When the alternative is despair, I generally prefer humor. Even if it is of the gallows variety.”

Something flickered in her eyes. A hint of understanding, perhaps, but it was gone too quickly to be sure he’d seen it. And then she pursed her lips, an expression so prim it was clear he’d imagined that brief moment of sympathy.

“I want it known that I do not approve,” she said.

“Duly noted.”

“And”—she lifted her chin and turned slightly away—“I think it is a very bad idea.”

“How is that different from a lack of approval?”

She just scowled.

He had a thought. “Do you find it bad enough to faint?”

She snapped back to attention. “What?”

“If you swoon on the lawn, Chatteris must give Daniel and me ten pounds each.”

Her lips formed an O and then froze in that position.

He leaned back and smiled lazily. “I could be persuaded to offer you a twenty percent cut.”

Her face moved, but she remained without words. Damn, but it was good fun to bait her.

“Never mind,” he said. “We’d never carry it off.”

Her mouth finally closed. Then opened again. Of course. He should have known her silence could be only fleeting.

“You don’t like me,” she said.

“Not really, no.” He probably should have lied, but somehow it seemed that anything less than the truth would have been even more insulting.

“And I don’t like you.”

“No,” he said mildly, “I didn’t think you did.”

“Then why are you here?”

“At the wedding?”

“In the room. Lud, you’re obtuse.” The last bit she said to herself, but his hearing had always been fairly sharp.

He rarely trotted his injury out as a trump card, but it seemed a good time. “My leg,” he said with slow deliberation. “It hurts.”

There was a delicious silence. Delicious for him, that was. For her, he imagined it was awful.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, looking down before he could ascertain the extent of her flush. “That was very rude of me.”

“Think nothing of it. You’ve done worse.”

Her eyes flared.

He brought the tips of his fingers together, his hands making a hollow triangle. “I remember our previous encounter with unpleasant accuracy.”

She leaned forward in fury. “You chased my cousin and aunt from a party.”

“They fled. There is a difference. And I did not even know they were there.”

“Well, you should have done.”

“Clairvoyance has never been one of my talents.”

He could see her straining to control her temper, and when she spoke, her jaw barely moved. “I know that you and Cousin Daniel have patched things up, but I’m sorry, I cannot forgive you for what you did.”

“Even if he has?” Hugh asked softly.

She shifted uncomfortably, and her mouth pressed into several different expressions before she finally said, “He can afford to be charitable. His life and happiness have been restored.”

“And yours has not.” He did not phrase it as a question. It was a statement, and an unsympathetic one at that.

She clamped her mouth shut.

“Tell me,” he demanded, because bloody hell, it was time they got to the bottom of this. “What, precisely, have I done to you? Not to your cousin, not to your other cousin, but to you, Lady Sarah Whatever your other names are Pleinsworth.”

She glared at him mutinously, then got to her feet. “I’m leaving.”

“Coward,” he murmured, but he stood as well. Even she deserved the respect of a gentleman.

“Very well,” she said, the color in her cheeks rising with barely restrained anger. “I was supposed to make my debut in 1821.”

“The year of the fourteen eligible gentlemen.” It was true. He forgot almost nothing.

She ignored this. “After you chased Daniel out of the country, my family had to go into seclusion.”

“It was my father,” Hugh said sharply.

“What?”

“My father chased Lord Winstead out of the country. I had nothing to do with it.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

His eyes narrowed, and with slow deliberateness he said, “It does to me.”

She swallowed uncomfortably, her entire bearing rigid. “Because of the duel,” she said, rephrasing so that the blame could be put back squarely on him, “we did not return to town for an entire year.”

Hugh choked back a laugh, finally understanding her silly little mind. She was blaming him for the loss of her London season. “And those fourteen eligible gentlemen are now forever lost to you.”

“There is no reason to be so mocking.”

“You have no way of knowing that one would have proposed,” he pointed out. He did like things to be logical, and this was... not.

“There is no way of knowing that one wouldn’t have done,” she cried. Her hand flew to her chest, and she took a jerky step back, as if surprised by her own reaction.

But Hugh felt no sympathy. And he could not stave off the unkind chuckle that burst from his throat. “You never cease to astonish me, Lady Sarah. All this time, you’ve been blaming me for your unmarried state. Did it ever occur to you to look somewhere closer to home?”

She let out an awful choke and her hand came to her mouth, not so much to cover it as to hold something in.

“Forgive me,” he said, but they both knew that what he’d said was unforgivable.

“I thought I did not like you because of what you did to my family,” she said, holding herself so rigid that she shook, “but that’s not it at all. You are a terrible person.”

He stood very still, the way he’d been taught since birth. A gentleman was always in control of his body. A gentleman didn’t flail his arms or spit or fidget. He did not have much left in his life, but he had this—his pride, his bearing. “I shall endeavor not to press myself into your company,” he said stiffly.

“It’s too late for that,” she bit off.

“I beg your pardon?”

Her eyes bored into his. “My cousin, if you recall, has requested that we sit together at the wedding breakfast.”

Apparently he did forget some things. Bloody hell. He had promised Lady Honoria. There was no getting out of it. “I can be civil if you can,” he said.

She shocked him then, holding out her hand to seal their agreement. He took it, and in that moment when her hand lay in his, he had the most bizarre urge to bring her fingers to his lips.

“Have we a truce, then?” she said.

He looked up.

That was a mistake.

Because Lady Sarah Pleinsworth was gazing up at him with an expression of uncommon and (he was quite sure) uncharacteristic clarity. Her eyes, which had always been hard and brittle when turned in his direction, were softer now. And her lips, he realized now that she wasn’t hurling insults at him, were utter perfection, full and pink, and touched with just the right sort of curve. They seemed to tell a man that she knew things, that she knew how to laugh, and if he only laid down his soul for her, she would light up his world with a single smile.

Sarah Pleinsworth.

Good God, had he lost his mind?