“You’re always welcome, dear.”
“Thank you. I trust my aunt is yet playing whist in the house?”
“Ah, yes, I do believe you are correct. Although I did hear her mention that she hoped you were ready to depart soon.”
Rosalind smiled and gave her thanks again.
Lucy waited until the dowager had descended the steps before pulling Rosalind close.
“What were you doing?” she asked in a throaty whisper. “You were supposed to inquire what sort of woman he favors. You weren’t supposed to dance with him.”
“I wasn’t given much of a choice,” Rosalind answered, approaching the balustrade. “He’s incredibly charming and I wasn’t able to resist him.”
“Truly?” Lucy asked, sounding surprised.
“No.” Crossing her arms over her chest, Rosalind leaned a hip against the stone railing.
Nicholas stood slightly separated from the guests, his arms behind his back, his eyes trained at some point above her head.
Lucy gave Rosalind’s skirt a twitch. “What are you going to do about him?”
“Shake him free.” Rosalind’s heart lurched as his eyes unerringly met hers. Her gaze narrowed. He winked.
“And how do you suppose you’re going to do that?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered, nodding. “But it’ll be awful.”
Chapter 11
“How could anyone spend three and a half hours picking out gloves?” Nicholas asked from atop a beautiful, friendly Friesian he’d bought yesterday at Tattersalls. His horse was still jittery at the sounds of the city and would only venture out to the stable yard and no further. And he couldn’t very well track Rosalind around the city on foot.
He needed speed, agility, and a dram or three of whisky.
Closing his eyes on a slow blink, Nicholas shook his head. He shouldn’t have told her that her brother had offered him a crate of his finest whisky in exchange for keeping an eye on her. It was cruel, yes, but it was also a lie.
He had said it because . . . hell, he didn’t know exactly why he’d said it. All he knew was that while she’d looked up at him, he’d grasped at the opportunity to make her despise him.
The London season was short; the Devines were scheduled to depart for Yorkshire in three months’ time. Surely he could manage this for a wee bit longer, and then his life could go back to normal.
His eyes reaffixed on the door to the shop she was currently in, presumably to purchase a new pair of riding gloves.
“Is one even allowed to spend that much time in one store? She couldn’t possibly need more than twenty minutes to pick out a pair.”
Standing next to the Friesian, Tristan nodded slowly, grimacing. “She’s trying to bore you to death, my friend.”
“Bore me?” He shook his head. “Your sister astounds me.”
“Yes, she is quite astounding,” Tristan agreed. “She also can be quite the pain in the arse.”
Nicholas grunted in response. He hadn’t expected Rosalind to take this approach. He’d foolishly thought she’d flounce across the city visiting legions of her friends in a maddeningly frantic pace in order to lose him.
Or perhaps she might be so daring as to take ride after ride in a crowded Hyde Park with any number of gentlemen just to make following her around nearly impossible.
But this—this was shopping.
This was torture.
At that moment, he saw her pass the window. His chest swelled with hope. Was she finally taking her leave? She must have acquired fifty pairs of gloves by now. He smiled, anticipating a nice cup of tea with a splash of whisky.
And then she disappeared deeper into the shop.
His smile fell. All right, maybe a nice cup of whisky with a splash of tea would be better.
He threw a glance at the family carriage waiting down the lane in front of a milliner’s shop. They sold ribbons and bonnets and other such fripperies—Rosalind and Miss Meriwether had spent two hours in there.
Their driver was now fast asleep, his hat covering his face. Alice, her maid, stood in the shade chatting animatedly with Miss Meriwether’s maid.
“What are your intentions?” Tristan asked, with a nod of his head toward the shop his sister was in.
Nicholas’s gaze shot down to him.
Arms crossed, Tristan rolled back on his heels, looking at him expectantly.
“What do mean by intentions?” Nicholas asked cautiously.
“Are you going to marry my sister, or what?” Tristan deadpanned.
Nicholas opened his mouth to speak, then balked.
Tristan laughed. “Rest easy. I couldn’t resist. I meant for tonight.”
“What are her plans for tonight? She was supposed to be attending the Hazeltons’ ball. Has that changed?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I wonder . . . does she ever just stay home, Tristan?”
“Hardly when she’s in London. And now that she has you to make miserable, I don’t suppose she’ll ever stay home.”
“Why does she do this?” Nicholas heard himself asking before he had the sense to stop. “What I mean to ask, lad, is why isn’t your sister married by now? She’s”—he ran a hand through his hair—“clever, intelligent, beautiful, and just as stubborn as I. Why does she not marry? She could have anyone she wants.”
His questions were met with silence, and Nicholas looked away, instantly regretting uttering them. What must Tristan think? The lad was barely one and twenty and had probably never thought of his sister’s marriageable prospects before.
He looked down to find Tristan staring at him quizzically. “What is it?”
Tristan shrugged, and his expression faded away. “I don’t know,” he said noncommittally. “Gabriel’s always chasing would-be suitors away—and rightfully so. Most of them are politicians or have aspirations of being one. They want the connection to a powerful family. Rakes see nothing but her beauty, bounders see nothing but the fact that she’s of noble blood, fortune hunters see nothing but her wealth.”
Over the years, Gabriel had rarely spoken of Rosalind with Nicholas. But Nicholas remembered every single sliver of information about the lass that came his way. He knew things about her that she had no idea that he knew.
“Once your brother told me that he feared her falling in love with a man who did not return her affections equally,” Nicholas said, hoping Tristan would expound on the subject.
Tristan shrugged. “Something to do with our parents, I imagine. They had no love match. I believe our father harbored not the slightest affection for Mother and had her sequestered at Wolverest for almost the entirety of her life.”
Nicholas nodded, his smile grim. “I think Gabriel’s concerns have passed down to her, though that was not his intent, I’m sure.”
“Or perhaps it was,” Tristan injected, then sighed. “Whatever the case, she’s very guarded about setting her cap for anyone. In fact, I can’t think of a single gentleman that she’s even spoken of specifically.” He leveled a stare at Nicholas. “Except, of course, for you.”
“For me?” Nicholas asked, straightening in the saddle.
Tristan cocked his head to the side and squinted down the lane as a small group of ladies turned the corner, heading for their direction. “I wager Rosie’s looking for her own love match and is having a deuced time of it, is all.”
“Perhaps she’s not looking hard enough,” Nicholas injected.
“Perhaps,” Tristan muttered distractedly, “she’s decided to never marry. What do you think of that?”
“I suppose with her position she could remain unmarried and be perfectly happy.”
The group of women from down the lane ambled past them now. Tristan’s sharp eyes followed them. “Good day, ladies,” he murmured, tipping his hat.
They answered with a mixture of giggles and “Good day to you, Lord Devine.”
Nicholas watched with half a smile as Tristan followed their retreating forms for as long as he could before they slippe
d into a shop.
“Lord Devine?” Nicholas asked, chuckling. “I thought ‘Lord Tristan’ was your courtesy title.”
“Hmm. I suppose. But they’ve been calling me Lord Devine ever since news of my broken engagement.” He gave his head a little shake. “Anyway, you’ll have a hell of a time tonight.”
Nicholas’s sigh was heavy and resigned. “All right. Tell me. Where is she going to be instead?”
“She is going to the Hazelton ball, but not until at least ten or eleven. However, first, she’s going to the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall.”
Ah, hell.
True, part of the gardens were lit with thousands of oil lamps, but there were yards upon yards of dark, intertwining secluded paths surrounded by forest. There would be plenty of opportunities for her to lose him.
And without a doubt, she was going to try and make him earn every ounce of the imaginary whisky.
His temples started to pound. “It’s going to be a bloody nightmare.”
“It’s like a wonderful dream,” Rosalind stated with a smile at her surroundings. “You must admit, Aunt, there isn’t anything quite like Vauxhall.”
Moonlit groves, mazes of secluded arbors, decorated supper boxes graced with rural paintings, each of them unique. Music and gaiety all around and only for a shilling. And because of this, Vauxhall drew an eclectic crowd. The person standing next to you could be a duchess or a strumpet, the Prince of Wales or the stable hand’s son.
Forgoing their supper box, they sat at a private table around the orchestra, the area bathed in the glow of the remarkable lamps. Their small party consisted of Aunt Eugenia, Tristan, who was currently holding up a rather delicate piece of ham to the light with his fork, and herself.
She didn’t know what he was doing and she told herself not to care. She was upset with Tristan still.
She sighed, silently reminding herself that there was something rather peaceful about dining outside under the lamps, even if the food was not quite as appetizing as one anticipated.
Closing her eyes briefly, she took a deep breath of fresh evening air. A fleeting thundershower earlier had left a slight breeze behind, and she shivered suddenly. Perhaps she should have been more prudent in her choice of gown for this evening.
She wore a dress of dark green muslin, which looked black in the dark. The vest laced across her bosom in a crisscross fashion. A matching cottage mantle lined with cream-colored silk flowed from her shoulders. At least she had listened to Alice when the girl had suggested she cover her nearly bare shoulders.
“Are you going to eat that?” Tristan asked from beside her.
“I’m not talking to you,” she mumbled for his ears only. Even so, she nudged her plate closer to him.
He stabbed her barely-there ham with his fork, joining it with his own, and then spread it on a slice of bread.
He proceeded to cram the entire thing in his mouth, then chewed laboriously and swallowed. When he was done, he smiled at her. “Sorry. I was famished.”
She hadn’t realized food-cramming was hereditary. “Didn’t you eat at home?” she asked, even though she wasn’t supposed to be speaking to him.
He shook his head, watching the crowd promenade past. “I was busy keeping Nicholas company while you drove him mad.”
His words had her sitting forward in her chair. “I drove him mad?”
“Indeed.” Tristan stretched out his legs and crossed his arms over his chest. “You ought to have seen his face when you came out of that last shop three hours after entering it without having bought a single item. I thought he’d charge straight for you on horseback and pluck you from the street.”
“And what, do you suppose, he’d do with me then?”
“Throw you in the Thames.”
“He was very mad, then?” She eased back, satisfied. “Good.” At least he felt something.
“It was a waste of time, you know. He is determined to fulfill his duty.”
“He should leave off.”
“He won’t. Why don’t you just go on about your season and forget he’s around?”
As if she could. “Is he here?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She deliberated for a moment, then sprung up from her chair. “Well, then that settles it.”
“Settles what, Rosalind?” Her aunt had asked the question.
“I should like to go for a walk.”
Aunt Eugenia grumbled something under her breath but stood as well. “Tristan,” she exclaimed. “Shall I trust you not to lose me in the crowd?”
Her brother mumbled something that sounded quite like, “If only we should be so lucky.” But Rosalind couldn’t be sure.
“Actually,” he said with a look to the orchestra, “I was thinking of sitting here for a spell and listening to the music. If that’s all right?”
Eugenia’s eyes narrowed as she gazed toward the musicians before returning her eyes to her nephew. “Very well.”
Tristan, really, was being polite. At one and twenty he needn’t ask permission to stay behind.
Now a party of two, they stepped away from the orchestra and wove into the crowd on the Grand South Walk.
Rosalind spotted him instantly.
A gap in the crowd had opened as a small crowd of people who had been admiring a fantastic marble statue of Handel moved along.
Starkly handsome in all black, except his simply tied cravat, Nicholas’s intense gaze bore into her, causing an involuntary shiver to race down her arms and back.
And then he looked past her, which wasn’t terribly odd, for he tended to do that quite often, but this time it was different—different because his facial expression changed.
He looked as if he saw someone he recognized in the crowd.
She followed his gaze to a small group of women. Upon closer inspection, Rosalind deemed three of the four women were around Aunt Eugenia’s age, but the last one looked to be slightly younger than Rosalind.
A tall blond, young and fresh-looking with her short, cropped curls. Rosalind could not deny the girl’s beauty. Her eyes were drawn to the simple cut of her pink gown, the material slightly worn—as if she had very few dresses and wore this one often. In deep discussion with one of the older women in her party, she was oblivious to Nicholas’s notice of her.
Rosalind wished she had been. She suddenly felt ill. Her cheeks flushed with heat, and perspiration formed between her breasts and at the back of her neck despite the slight chill in the air.
She didn’t know who the woman was, but it was apparent that Nicholas did.
It was only a look of recognition, she told herself. It wasn’t a lust-filled stare.
No matter, she still felt sick.
Lord, what was the matter with her? It was just some woman with a tatty gown.
She was being spiteful. The girl was lovely, tatty gown or not.
She dared a quick glance to where he last stood, thinking he’d still be staring at the young woman, but his gaze had now returned to Rosalind.
Once their gazes met, Rosalind looked quickly away, fearing he’d spy the unbidden jealousy there. Her breathing quickened and her head seemed to spin a bit. She clutched at Aunt Eugenia’s arm.
“Are you all right, Rosalind?”
She nodded, looking to the ground as they shuffled onward.
“Dear me,” her aunt replied, “I think the crowd grows thicker still.”
Rosalind managed to shake her head slightly, her thoughts slow to come back around. She looked up. The crowd had quite suddenly seemed to swarm around them now.
A face stood out from the crowd up ahead. Lord Stokes. The sight of him wouldn’t normally cause her to feel alarmed, but he had a look about him tonight—like his eyes sparked with alertness once her gaze connected to his.
Perhaps she was overreacting, but an unmistakable sense of foreboding nearly overtook her.
“Let us break free,” she intoned, suddenly feeling panicked.
“Don’t lose me,�
� Eugenia murmured.
Together they burst heedlessly into the throng.
“Damn these congested walks,” Nicholas muttered. “There must be thousands of people.”
Tristan nodded stiffly. “There’s to be an exhibition this evening.”
“What the hell was she thinking, walking off with her aunt in this crowd?”
“It did surge suddenly.”
To make matters worse, Nicholas had spotted Lord Stokes in the throng, watching Rosalind’s progress.
Even he knew that the tree-lined alleys of Vauxhall were known for sending mothers into frenzies over their daughters having wandered off.
Aye, the lass had tested his patience earlier in the day, visiting shop after shop thinking she’d eventually wear him down and he’d give up. But he would not abandon his agreement to her brother, no matter how easily she edged closer to his heart, no matter how strongly he wanted her to be there.
“Where the devil did she go?” Tristan muttered, having stayed behind purposely so that he could assist Nicholas.
“I don’t know,” he nearly growled. “Do you still see Stokes?”
“Lost him. What if she became separated from our aunt?”
Nicholas gave a curt nod. “Listen. Circle around and head up the Druid Walk. I’ll forge ahead.”
Tristan nodded.
“The crowd is thinning,” Nicholas went on. “There are no lamps up ahead to light the path that winds through the forest of elms and sycamore.”
And Nicholas knew only too well that there was nothing more that an opportunistic cur needed than the cover of a dark forest to pounce.
As Rosalind dashed around another tree, breathless and lost, she admitted that she had made a terrible mistake.
She should have remained at their table by the orchestra.
The paths were crowded this evening, more so than she had anticipated, and it wasn’t long before she’d become separated from her aunt.
Lord Stokes, for all his tranquil demeanor, had followed her. Grasping her arms, he had yanked her into the woods, claiming it was a shortcut, only to clutch her tightly to his lanky frame and beg her to go with him to Gretna Green.
And to think she’d once thought he would be perfect for Lucy.
Guarding a Notorious Lady Page 14