elsewhere, but what he wanted was a wellborn lady who would be a gracious hostess and a step-mother to his daughter. Sara was amply qualified for those roles, so it wouldn't have mattered if her hair was mussed. But, of course, it wasn't.
Wryly she decided to give Weldon what he was looking for, so she stopped and contemplated a lily in an impeccably ladylike pose. Then a familiar teasing voice called out, "Sara, where are you? I've been assured that you are lurking around here somewhere."
Artifice vanishing, she spun about and extended both hands to her cousin. "Ross! What a pleasant surprise. Did you bring the latest chapter of your book for me to read?"
He clasped her hands, then bent over to place a light kiss on her cheek. "I'm afraid to show it to you. Perhaps it was a mistake to interest you in oriental studies, for you have become entirely too critical a reader."
Sara gave him a concerned glance. "I'm sorry—I thought you said my comments were useful."
"That's the problem," he said with feeling. "You're always right. By this time you know more about Asia and the Middle East than most men in the Foreign Office. It would be easier if you were wrong, because then I could ignore your criticisms." He grimaced. "The next chapter should be done next week. It was easier to make the journey than to write about it."
Seeing that she was being teased, Sara relaxed. "I can't wait to see the next chapter. This will be your best book yet."
"You always say that," Ross said affectionately. "You're my best supporter."
"And you're my window on the wide world." Sara would never see the sights her cousin had, but his letters and journals had been the bright spots during her dark years. In fact, she had been the one who first suggested that he write about his travels. His first two books had become classic accounts of remote parts of the world, and the book he was working on now should be equally successful. "But I warn you, I'm expecting an important caller very soon."
"Anyone I know?"
Sara wrinkled her delicate aristocratic nose. "Charles Weldon is coming to receive my official acceptance of his offer. Even though all the actors in this play know what the result will be, it's considered proper to speak the lines anyhow.''
"Actually, I came today to speak to you privately about this engagement." Ross regarded her narrowly. "Are you accepting Weldon against your will? Surely my uncle is not coercing you."
"Of course not, Ross. Don't let that splendid imagination run away with you." She tucked her hand under his elbow, and they began strolling along the garden path, her cousin shortening his long strides to adapt to her limp. "My father is encouraging the match, but there's nothing sinister about it. Since the Haddonfield title and entailed property will go to Cousin Nicholas, Father has decided that it is his duty to see me settled in my own household with a husband to take care of me."
"And you agree with him?" Ross asked skeptically. "Since Uncle Haddonfield will surely leave you most of his personal fortune, you'll be a very wealthy woman. If you feel the need of male protection, you can live with me." He gave her a hopeful glance. "Can I persuade you to do that? That great mausoleum I inherited is far too large for one person."
"I'd rather live in a rose-covered cottage surrounded by cats." Sara laughed. "I would quite enjoy that, you know, but I'd become so dreadfully eccentric that you would be embarrassed to admit to the connection."
"Never," he declared. "We both inherited our share of idiosyncrasies from the Magnificent Montgomerys. I shall move into the cottage next to yours and surround myself with piles of Asiatic texts. You and your cats will wander over for tea, and I will quote Turkish poetry to you." Then his whimsical tone turned serious. "Sara, do you love Charles Weldon?"
She glanced up at him in surprise. "Of course not,but I think we will rub along very well. It's no sacrifice to marry Charles—he is