“Hmm.” Sophia’s brow furrowed. “The name rings a bell. Who are his parents?”
“The Earl and Countess of Harrington. And his cousin is Percy Stanton.”
“Oh! Of course. Lady Harrington. Lovely woman. I’m surprised you don’t know her, actually. She is very well-spoken, and always reading something new. Much like you.”
Charlotte frowned, quickly turning away from Sophia, sorry she’d raised the subject. Now how would she explain her question? Caught between embarrassment and anger at society’s double standard, she flushed.
“Charlotte? Are you quite all right? Why do you ask about Ruth’s—er, Lady Harrington’s—son?”
“Never mind. I met him at a few lectures.” She waved her hand to dismiss her question as a passing interest.
Sophia watched her. “He is close to his mother, for reasons I shan’t gossip about. And to his cousin. They are, all of them, lovely.”
Charlotte noticed she did not say a lovely family. Apparently, William’s father’s drinking was common knowledge.
“Yes. Well. I have only met William.”
“You must come to Roslynn’s salon. Ruth attends when she has time. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Likely because I am horse-obsessed like Edward and don’t attend enough myself.” Sophia rolled her eyes at herself, smiling. “And in London about as often as you are not. How fortuitous that we met like this. Why, then, did you ask about Lord Stanton? And how does your learning Latin relate to him?”
“’Tis not important.” Charlotte’s hand was beginning to flap wildly in a poor semblance of not caring. She turned from Sophia to continue walking, hoping her blush was not noticeable.
Sophia was quiet for a moment, as they turned to stroll back along the other side of the street, staying in sight of their coachmen. She stopped before the entrance to the bookstore.
Charlotte reluctantly halted and turned to face her.
“We are here for a sennight. I should like to have you ’round for dinner and see how you have been these past few months. Seeing you now and hearing about lectures gives me hope that you are starting to get past the worst of your grief. I think, from what Edward tells me of him, Charles would have wanted that for you.” Sophia hesitated. Then, cocking her head, she said slowly, “You know, just as you mentioned that William is my age, I believe Edward is your age…”
Charlotte bit her lip, stunned at how perceptive this young person was, like William.
Sophia continued after a beat, “If you and he are…friends…perhaps we can meet him sometime. I’d like to think that we would all have much to talk about. Edward and I are very happy, and we’d like to share that with family.”
As Sophia kissed her farewell and departed, Charlotte pictured Belle and Sophia meeting. Belle might be less subtle, but they were both strong-willed women who spoke their minds. Such an encounter wasn’t likely, but she smiled at the thought of how well they’d get along.
Dratted women friends, all shoving me toward William. One thinks I am sex-starved, the other seems to worry about me being lonely.
They had a point. She missed far more than sex with William. The lack of someone to share the little day-to-day things created a loneliness that was crippling some days. Sophia had noted her recovery from losing Charles, but she was still mired in misery from losing William.
Sophia had easily accepted the idea of a relationship between Charlotte and William. However, as the current Countess of Peterborough, Sophia should be well-versed in the expectations of her role. Charlotte was surprised at her unquestioning support.
Belle’s voice rang in her ears. “…open to being tied, willing to call you Mistress, bold enough to pursue to a point, and has an innate understanding that you need to take it from there. How is that not everything you want? You were a mere year older than him when you married Charles…you should stop fighting this and enjoy...”
Based on the prior year, William would be home in two months. She had time to consider taking her friends’ pep talks to heart, and to identify the poems with her new Latin dictionaries.
Chapter Nineteen
William gripped his desk when his housemate delivered the note, afraid of embarrassing himself by either falling in a faint or launching himself at the missive. Wanting to relish the moment, he pulled the ribbon from his pocket and gripped it in his left hand as he clumsily broke the seal on the letter one-handed.
His eyes skipped to the signature, and he bit back a shout. ’Twas from her!
Scanning it, he began to grin.
Dear William,
Carmen 56, I believe. I do not yet have enough words in my vocabulary to be sure of the first, but with your tip, my guess is 51.
Best of luck in your final term at Oxford.
Sincerely,
