Why did the thought of traveling abroad with her aunt seem suddenly less enthralling? Why did the notion of all the adventures they would have together make her wonder instead what she would be missing if she left England behind? She refused to believe it had anything to do with an irritating, proper viscount.
“Do you remember when Miss Julia wanted us to paint watercolors of a bouquet of hollyhocks?” Melanie asked. “You pretended you could not stop sneezing and then feigned a headache.”
So what if she had?
Charity crossed her arms over her chest, taking in her friends in a sweeping glare. “Have you decided to assemble merely that you might take me to task over things that happened five years ago in finishing school?”
“Of course not,” Angeline said brightly. “We are here to point out that you have a history of running from anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
Her spine went stiff. “I do not.”
Did she?
“Ye are planning to flee to the Continent with Auntie Louise, are ye no’?” Raina asked.
“Flee is a strong word,” she objected. “I am planning a trip to take me far away from society and my parents and siblings and all the whispers about me and that cursed painting of Peter’s. Of course, I do intend to stay there…”
Her words trailed off as the implications of it sank into her.
“Running,” Tiny concluded triumphantly.
“Just as you ran from the music room just now,” Melanie added.
Charity would have said she had not been fleeing the music room, but there was little point in prevarication. Her friends were correct, it would seem. And not for the first time, either, drat them.
“There is something between you and Wilton, is there not?” Clementine asked.
Of course there was, curse the man.
“Attraction,” she admitted, flushing. How vexing! “That is all there is. Nothing more. The man is proficient at kissing. But that is hardly enough to recommend him for anything other than a dalliance.”
“Dinnae join him in a dalliance unless ye are certain ye can accept possible consequences,” Raina advised.
Charity winced. “Of course. Forgive me for being so flippant.”
“We saw the way the two of you looked at each other during your performance,” Melanie said. “I will own that I have never heard a lovelier rendition ofI Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls.”
“You made a well-matched pair.” Angel sent her a tentative smile. “Both of you golden-haired, the viscount’s excellent skills on the piano a perfect complement to your lovely singing voice.”
“Musical talents are all we complement each other in, I assure you,” Charity said grimly. “I find him overbearing and proper, and he thinks me scandalous and flighty.”
“But ye enjoy his kisses.”
She pinned her lovely redhaired friend with another glare. “I have enjoyed other kisses before his.”
None ever as wonderful as his, however. What was it about the man?
Clementine raised a brow. “Better kisses?”
Charity sighed, refusing to answer the question.
“Do you remember what you told me about life being like a river, Charity?” Olive chimed in.
Of course she recalled the ardent soliloquy she had delivered to her friend concerning Mr. Phineas Prince. “I remember my dreadful analogy, yes. But that was different, Olive. You were then—and are now—hopelessly in love with your Phineas. I was merely trying to help you along.”
Olive stared back at her, the gaze behind her spectacles knowing.
So knowing, Charity had to look away.
