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“Sarah dear, do explain to me why you are acting as though you’ve lost your senses.”
    “Lost my senses? Why, I am the only one here with any reasonable—”
    “Take a breath.”
    Sarah filled her lungs with air, and then expelled the breath with a huff, the act restoring her equilibrium. “Thank you.”
    “Of course,” Claire said reassuringly, taking Sarah’s hand in hers. “Now tell me what is the matter.”
    “Don’t you see? I’ve spent the last several years most happily avoiding any nonsense concerning marriage.”
    “What of Mr. Dixon?” Claire interrupted, her mouth pursing as if she’d eaten a particularly disgusting bug.
    “Come now, Claire,” Sarah protested. “You know as well as I that the Honorable Ambrose Dixon is so monumentally unpleasant a person that even Mother cannot wholeheartedly recommend him as a husband.”
    Claire nodded in agreement. “Proceed.”
    “Well,” Sarah continued, “Weston’s return will have Mother thinking on marriage.”
    “True, though she’s not made any attempts since Lord Reginald Busby,” Claire pointed out.
    Sarah huffed. “Which means she’s out of practice. She was dreadful at it before. Just imagine what I’ll be asked to endure—what Lord Weston will be forced to endure—in the interest of a fortuitous match. And Bennington’s befriending him will only encourage her. To say nothing of your acceptance.”
    Claire’s face fell. “Oh.”
    “Oh indeed,” Sarah said gloomily.
    “He is quite handsome, though.”
    “Claire!”
    Her friend giggled. “I’m only trying to find the bright spot in all of this.”
    “Fine. He is handsome and charming.”
    “Quite awful, to be sure,” Claire affirmed.
    Sarah smiled at her, though her heart ached just a little from the effort. “Claire, when was the last time a man such as Weston courted me?”
    “What of Blackwood? Or Thorpe?”
    “Let me rephrase the question: Claire, when was the last time a man such as Weston pursued the courtship once he’d come to know me?”
    Claire squeezed Sarah’s hand. “Most disagreeable chap, that Weston. Certainly not the sort that Gregory nor I would endeavor to form a connection with. But my dear, it’s Weston’s loss. Any man should be so lucky to have you.”
    “Thank you,” Sarah said softly.
    Claire placed a gentle kiss on Sarah’s forehead. “You are most welcome. Now,” she said, turning back toward the crowd, “let us rejoin the festivities before Gregory sends out a search party.”
    “Yes, let’s,” Sarah agreed. After all, one could not hide in an alcove for the entirety of a party. She’d tried before, with no measure of success.
    “They seem to have returned,” Marcus commented.
    Bennington’s gaze followed Marcus’s and found his wife and Miss Tisdale, strolling arm in arm on the far side of the room. “Yes, it’s what women do—disappear for apparently no reason, then reappear out of thin air. Much like cats, I suppose.”
    As Marcus watched the two women, their heads bent toward each other as they whispered, their affection caused him to pause. “Is it a habit of theirs?”
    “Oh, yes, thick as thieves, those two.”
    Marcus nodded. “I suppose our rather unorthodox meeting at the lake is the subject of their whispering.”
    Bennington watched his wife, his love for the woman written across his face. “I know nothing of a lake, but Lady Tisdale’s impending attack is quite enough to keep them chattering for ages.”
    Marcus wondered if he should pretend to understand, but really could not see the point. “I’m afraid I do not follow.”
    Bennington turned back to face Weston, his demeanor changing abruptly. “Sorry about that, Weston. I should not be allowed to speak while looking at my wife.”
    Marcus was beginning to suspect that all things having to do with Miss Sarah Tisdale, no matter how trivial, were to prove exhausting and utterly confusing. “No apology necessary, though I am curious as to the nature of