That was when he saw Sarah Pleinsworth, asleep on the sofa.

Oh, bloody hell.

He’d been having a better than average day, the pain in his leg notwithstanding. The last thing he needed was a private audience with the oh-so dramatic Lady Sarah. She’d probably accuse him of something nefarious, follow that with a trite declaration of hatred, then finish up with something about those fourteen men who had become engaged during the season of 1821.

He still didn’t know what that was supposed to be about.

Or why he even recalled it. He’d always had a good memory, but really, couldn’t his brain let go of the truly useless?

He had to get through the room without waking her up. It was not easy to tiptoe with a cane, but by God that was what he would do if that was what it took to make it through the room unnoticed.

Well, there went his hopes of resting his leg. Very carefully, he edged out from behind the low wooden table, careful not to touch anything but carpet and air. But as anyone who had ever stepped outside knew, air could move, and apparently he was breathing too hard, because before he made it past the sofa, Lady Sarah woke from her slumber with a shriek that startled him so much that he fell back against another chair, toppled over the upholstered arm, and landed awkwardly on the seat.

“What? What? What are you doing?” She blinked rapidly before spearing him with a glare. “You.”

It was an accusation. It absolutely was.

“Oh, you gave me a fright,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

“Apparently.” He swore under his breath as he tried to swing his legs over to the front of the chair. “Ow!”

“What?” she asked impatiently.

“I kicked the table.”

“Why?”

He scowled. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

She seemed only then to realize that she was lounging most casually along the length of the sofa and, with a flurry of movement, straightened herself to a more proper upright position. “Excuse me,” she said, still flustered. Her dark hair was falling from its coiffure; he deemed it best not to point this out.

“Please accept my apology,” he said stiffly. “I did not mean to startle you.”

“I was reading. I must have fallen asleep. I . . . ah . . .” She blinked a few more times, then her eyes finally seemed to focus. On him. “Were you sneaking up on me?”

“No,” he said, with perhaps more speed and fervor than was polite. He motioned to the door that led outside. “I was just cutting through. Lord Chatteris has made arrangements for target shooting.”

“Oh.” She looked suspicious for about one second more, then this clearly gave way to embarrassment. “Of course. There is no reason you would be sneak— That is to say—” She cleared her throat. “Well.”

“Well.”

She waited for a moment, then asked pointedly, “Don’t you plan to continue to the lawn?”