of Oxfordshire with nothing at all to amuse anybody for ten miles around it.
Unless one enjoyed quaint villages, busybodies, and hordes of local children that seemed to increase in number at an exponential rate. Her annual visits with the family had long given Charlotte the opinion that the village of Cambryn was in desperate need of a gamekeeper to control the number of locals. And perhaps to stock some strapping men of a certain attractiveness to work at the blacksmith’s or stride out in regimentals or farm the lands.
She’d never marry one of them, but at least the drive through Cambryn would be more appealing.
It was not long after her note had been sent that Michael was announced, and Charlotte picked up a book to hide her grin and her state of utter boredom.
“What are we reading today?” Michael asked, striding into the room with his usual easy lope.
Charlotte pointedly turned a page. “Shh. This is the best part.”
“I’m sure it is. And if I actually thought you were reading, I’d ask you to read it aloud so that we both might enjoy it. But since you were not actually reading, and your eyes are not actively moving across the page, I’ll thank you to lower the book and tell me what I’m doing here.”
Slowly, Charlotte lowered the book, scowling darkly at her oldest friend. “You are distinctly less entertaining than when you left, Michael.”
Michael’s clear blue eyes surveyed her without rancor, his mouth quirked in the slight smile he was never without. “I’ve never been known for my entertainment value.”
“No surprises there.” Charlotte tilted her head at him, smiling in earnest now. He had been gone several months, and it was remarkable how pleased she felt at seeing him now.
He, at least, wasn’t married. There was that.
“How was the country?” Charlotte asked, softening even in her pretense of cynicism and indignation. “And your family?”
If Michael noticed anything, he kept his opinions to himself. He only smiled at her question. “Perfectly quaint, if you must know. My sisters much prefer the country to London, and I think my brother may turn out to be a great sportsman.” He chuckled and shook his head. “He’s already a better shot than me.”
Charlotte smirked. “Good for Peter. Did your mother try to convince you to stay again?”
He nodded, still looking almost whimsical. “Of course. And took me to several events in the surrounding area, introducing me to any young woman over the age of sixteen.”
“It’s fortunate she is not desperate,” Charlotte muttered dryly, a feeling of disgust welling up. “One might do something drastic otherwise.”
Michael snorted a laugh. “Quite. But, alas, none of the young ladies were to my liking. Pleasant enough, but…” He shrugged, unconcerned by his apparent failure.
The irony between his lot and Charlotte’s was not lost on her.
“How many young ladies of adequate fortune and breeding are there in Oxfordshire?” Charlotte lifted a dubious brow. “And how many of those possess fair enough looks to be really considered?”
“You’d be surprised,” Michael assured her. “I was. Pleasantly.”
She frowned. “Not pleasantly enough, evidently. Was she very cross that you returned to London?”
He shook his head, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair absently. “Not at all. It is during the Season, after all, and she expects that. I promised to return to them in the autumn, so I have no doubt she will run me through my paces again.”
“She’ll have you married by Christmas.”
“Very likely.”
They shared a bemused look, knowing that it wouldn’t happen, no matter what his mother said or did. Michael had no inclination to marry, had never courted anybody, and, as far as Charlotte knew, had never even considered such a thing.
Other than the one time.
But that was ages ago.
“Charlotte…” Michael said slowly, his voice both teasing and prodding.
She pursed her lips, only answering with a questioning look.
His expression was all too knowing, and his eternal patience was in full force. “What’s wrong?”
Closing her eyes, Charlotte exhaled, feeling a strange tension begin to whirl in her chest. “Nothing at all.”
“Try again.”
Her eyes squeezed more tightly shut, willing the emotion she’d hidden to stay as such. “No.”
“Charlotte.”
How did he do that? How did he see through her fortress of defenses and through her deferrals into the truth of her feelings? He’d been able to do so for years, with such accuracy that she was convinced that, at times, he was the only one who could see her.
She had plenty of friends, the best of which were like sisters.
But