He did not bother to pretend that he was looking for anyone but Sarah the moment he limped through the door. They had spent much of the day in quiet companionship in the library, occasionally chatting but most often just reading. She had demanded that he demonstrate his mathematical brilliance (her words, not his), and he had complied. He’d always hated “performing” on demand, but Sarah had watched and listened with such obvious delight and amazement that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to feel his usual discomfort.

He had misjudged her, he realized. Yes, she was overly dramatic and given to grand pronouncements, but she was not the shallow debutante he had once thought her. He was also coming to realize that her earlier antipathy toward him had not been entirely without merit. He had wronged her—inadvertently, but still. It was a fact that she would have had that first season in London if not for his duel with Daniel.

Hugh would not go so far as to agree that he had ruined her life, but now that he knew her better, it did not seem unlikely that Lady Sarah Pleinsworth might have nabbed one of those now legendary fourteen gentlemen.

He could not, however, bring himself to regret this.

When he found her—it was her laughter, actually, that drew him to her—she was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room with her foot propped up on a small ottoman. One of her cousins was with her, the pale one. Iris, her name was. She and Sarah seemed to have an odd, somewhat competitive, relationship. Hugh would never be so bold as to think he understood more than three things about women (and probably not even that many), but it was clear to him that those two carried on complete conversations with nothing but narrowed eyes and tilts of the head.

But for now they seemed to be having a jolly time, so he made his way over and gave a polite bow.

“Lady Sarah,” he said. “Miss Smythe-Smith.”

Both ladies smiled and greeted him in return.

“Won’t you join us?” Sarah said.

He sat in the chair to Sarah’s left, taking the opportunity to extend his leg in front of him. He generally tried not to draw notice to himself by doing this in public, but she knew that he would be more comfortable this way, and more to the point, he knew that she would not be shy about telling him how he ought to sit.

“How is your ankle feeling this evening?” he asked her.

“Very well,” she answered, then wrinkled her nose. “No, that’s a lie. It’s fairly dreadful.”

Iris chuckled.

“Well, it is,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I reckon I overexerted myself this morning.”

“I thought you spent the morning in the library,” Iris said.