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no desire to make pleasantries while still trembling from Lord Sedgewick's proposal, she cried off, saying she had letters to write.
    In the lovely room Glee and Blanks had provided for her, Sally flung her pelisse on the satin counterpane, stormed to the gilded vanity, and gazed into her mirror. Just as she suspected, she looked wretched. She should have curled her hair this morning. Had she known she would see him today, she would have.
    But, she reminded herself, she could rest easy that he had no interest in her as a woman. Most likely, he had no interest in any woman. Any living woman.
    Therein lay her dilemma. Though the viscount would never think of her as anything but a sister, she was not immune to his virile attractiveness. She could never be with him and not have the fact of his undeniable masculinity slammed into her. She turned away from the mirror and strolled to the window. In a town house, a window either looked out over a street or over an alley. A pity her window looked over the empty alley.
    She turned away and came to sit on the edge of her bed. Closing her eyes, she visualized Lord Sedgewick as he had looked when he offered her the position in his household. The square cut of his jaw, the deep cleft in his chin, the masculinity in his deep voice, all these things had the power to reduce her to an adoring idiot.
    She tried to remember the exact words he had used. The chief enticement Lord Sedgewick had dangled in front of her—having charge of both his children—was tempting, to be sure. She had not been able to bear the idea that another woman would supplant her, and she had worried that the other woman would not love the children as dearly as she loved them.
    Sally also reveled in the notion of turning out that grim-faced old stick, Hortense. The children had enough to overcome without having such an overbearing curmudgeon lording herself over them.
    Sally smiled as she thought about the many fun things she could do with the children. She should put aside her feelings toward their father and tell Lord Sedgewick she would be honored to be given the responsibility of his children's care. After all, they needed her, and they loved her. As she loved them.
    That she could even hesitate over the decision made her feel wretchedly guilty.
    But she must make a rational decision, not one based on emotion. If she were not acquainted with Georgette and Sam, what would she do? No question about it, being a governess was far more flexible than teaching in Miss Worth's School for Young Ladies. Her exposure to society and her choice in clothes alone would be much broader were she to accept his lordship's offer. She had no doubts that Glee would continue to treat her as a cherished friend, rather than as her brother's servant. In his household, too, Sally would be treated with the respect due to one of her station—except, of course, when she was embroiled in one of her arguments with Lord Sedgewick. For despite his promise to get along better with her, she knew she was vinegar and he was water, and the two could never mix.
    She was in an utter quandary. Were she to follow her heart, it would only be trampled on by the man she had loved always. She was not sure she could stand to be close to him, knowing a love between them could never be. At least if she went to Miss Worth's she could attempt to put memories of Lord Sedgewick behind her. If that were possible. Even during the three years of his marriage, she had never been able to gaze upon his golden good looks without suffering pain. Pain for that which could never be.
    Then a most alarming notion crowded into her brain as she sat there on the bed, kicking off her satin slippers. Were she to turn him down and he engaged another genteel woman . . . what if the other woman had designs on George, er, Lord Sedgewick? What if the other woman seduced him?
    Sally's heart drummed madly. How she detested that woman who did not even exist! She could not allow such a