“Merely that while you look for the best in everyone, I take a more cynical view of the world. And I . . .” She paused. How to say it? “There are people in this world who find me quite annoying.”

“That’s not true,” Honoria said. But it was an automatic reply. Sarah was quite sure that given more time to consider the statement, Honoria would realize that it was quite true.

Although she would have said the same thing anyway. Honoria was marvelously loyal that way.

“It is true,” Sarah said, “and it does not bother me. Well, not very much, anyway. It certainly does not bother me about Lord Hugh, given that I return the sentiment in spades.”

Honoria took a moment to wade through Sarah’s words, then rolled her eyes. Not very much, but Sarah knew her too well to miss the gesture. It was the closest her kind and gentle cousin ever came to a screaming fit.

“I think you should give him a chance,” Honoria said. “You’ve never even had a proper conversation with him.”

There had been nothing proper about it, Sarah thought darkly. They had nearly come to blows. And she certainly hadn’t known what to say to him. She felt ill every time she recalled their meeting at the Dunwoody engagement fête. She’d done nothing but spout clichés. She might have even stamped her foot. He probably thought her an utter imbecile, and the truth was, she rather thought she’d acted like one.

Not that she cared what he thought of her. That would ascribe far too much importance to his opinion. But in that awful moment in the Dunwoody library—and in the few brief words they’d exchanged since—Hugh Prentice had reduced her to someone she didn’t much like.

And that was unforgivable.

“It’s not up to me to say who you will or will not get on with,” Honoria continued after it became clear that Sarah was not going to comment, “but I’m sure you can find the strength to endure Lord Hugh’s company for one day.”

“Sarcasm becomes you,” Sarah said suspiciously. “When did that happen?”

Honoria smiled. “I knew I could depend upon you.”

“Indeed,” Sarah muttered.

“He’s not so dreadful,” Honoria said, patting her on the arm. “I think he’s rather handsome, actually.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s handsome.”

Honoria leapt on that. “So you think he is handsome.”

“I think he’s quite strange,” Sarah shot back, “and if you are trying to play matchmaker . . .”

“I’m not!” Honoria held up her arms in mock surrender. “I swear it. I was merely making an observation. I think he has very nice eyes.”

“I’d like him better if he had a vestigial toe,” Sarah muttered. Maybe she should write a book.

“A vestigial—what?”

“Yes, his eyes are perfectly nice,” Sarah said obediently. It was true, she supposed. He did have very nice eyes, green as grass, and piercingly intelligent. But nice eyes did not a future husband make. And no, she did not view every single man through the lens of eligibility—well, not very much, and certainly not him—but it was clear that despite her protestations, Honoria was casting her thoughts in that direction.