A Match Made In London

by Christina Britton

  She stumbled along, not knowing where to go, what to do. Her shoulder connected with one man and she lost her balance. The room swirled around her.

  A strong hand reached out, grabbed at her arm, a familiar voice sounding in her ear. “Miss Merriweather, are you well?”

  “Sir Tristan?” She blinked and her confusion fell away as his face came into focus.

  He frowned down at her. “You do not look well at all. Let me help you to a chair.”

  “I’m fine, truly.”

  “You most certainly are not. Has something happened?” Suspicion tightened his features. “Has someone harmed you?”

  “Of course not.” She had been indirectly and unknowingly threatened, as well as frightened nearly witless. But she had not been harmed. Yet.

  But he did not look mollified in the least. Wanting to distract him, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, Sir Tristan. I need to get back to Miss Gladstow. I am fetching her some punch.” At that she frowned, looking down at her empty hands. Goodness, but she had forgotten all about that. Sudden exhaustion overtook her. The very thought of returning to her charge, of acting normal, was almost too much to bear.

  The concern in his eyes doubled. “I will make you a deal. I will fetch Miss Gladstow punch, and you will find a place to sit and rest.”

  Too tired to fight him, wanting only to take a moment for herself, she nodded. Giving her one last long look, he bowed and was off through the crowd.

  Rosalind watched him go, grateful for his intervention. She moved off to the side of the room, intending to do as he had bid her.

  Until she recalled Lord Ullerton.

  The whole point of ensuring that Sir Tristan and Miss Gladstow remained in each other’s orbit tonight was to ensure the earl’s interest in her was sufficiently piqued to make the girl an offer. Miss Gladstow would get a husband of good standing, Mrs. Gladstow would see her daughter marry into the nobility, and Rosalind would remain employed. Everyone would get what they wanted.

  But now that she knew the extent of the man’s perfidy, she knew in her heart she could not do it. She could not sell Miss Gladstow in marriage to such a man. Nor could she enter that man’s home knowing what he had planned for her. No, she would rather die.

  Which, she admitted ruefully, she just might if Mrs. Gladstow made good on her threats.

  But that was something she would have to deal with when the time came. She was strong; she could handle whatever life threw at her. In the meantime, she would warn Miss Gladstow immediately of the danger. And pray she had the strength to fight against her mother’s dictates.

  The thought should have filled her with panic. Instead she felt a strange type of freedom. There was nothing stopping her from protecting Miss Gladstow. Granted, she didn’t know how she was going to keep a roof over her own head. But there was nothing she could do about that now. No, now was the time for dealing with wrongs she could right. Filled with a new determination and purpose, she hurried back to Miss Gladstow. Surely if she explained things to the girl, if they put their heads together, they could come up with some way to prevent the union.

  But by the time she neared the wallflower line Sir Tristan—how the blazes had she forgotten him?—was already seated with Miss Gladstow. The two were in close conversation, Miss Gladstow’s lips moving at an impressive rate. Sir Tristan, for his part, looked incredibly serious and intent. They leaned toward one another, the intimacy of their conversation left in no doubt.

  Just then a particularly loud group of young people stepped in her path. They surrounded her, hemmed her in, blocking her way to Miss Gladstow. It took Rosalind some seconds to work free of the press of bodies. Free of that tight knot of humanity she took a cleansing breath, turned her gaze the way of her prey…

  And froze.

  The two chairs, formerly occupied by Miss Gladstow and Sir Tristan, were empty.

  Rosalind hurried forward, scanning the area, panic quickly setting in. Where had they gone? If it had been physically possible she would have kicked herself. For in her altered state of mind after Lord Ullerton’s unexpected revelation and Sir Tristan’s subsequent kindness, she had forgotten her very real reservations about the baronet—and Miss Gladstow’s orders from her mother that she should encourage him. The man had to be bent on seduction. And she had led him to Miss Gladstow, like a wolf to a lamb. She bit back a frustrated growl. To be so close to saving the girl from a reprobate, only to lose her to the machinations of a practiced rake? Devil take it, if anything happened to Miss Gladstow she would never forgive herself.

  As she made to dive into the depths of the great room in search of them, a brush of wind caressed her flushed face, dragging her attention to the open doors leading to the terrace. Rosalind’s heart dropped. The chair Miss Gladstow had occupied was positioned dangerously close to those doors. In this crush, the promise of a cool evening breeze would be an easy way for a libertine to get an overheated lady off alone. It mattered not that there were doubtless other couples meandering the garden paths. A determined man could find a private spot in even the most crowded of spaces. And quite often, such a scenario led to ruin.

  She hurried for the doors, was nearly to them when a hearty laugh reached her ears. Immediately she froze. She had heard that laugh often during her time in London. No one showed their mirth in such an open, joyous way, no other man was capable of such an infectious sound. Stopping in her tracks, she spun about. Sure enough, there was Sir Tristan, towering above the other dancers on the floor. He guided Miss Gladstow in a two-hand turn. Even from this distance she could discern the happiness in the lady’s eyes.

  Rosalind blew out a breath. She would have to wait then, at least until the song was done. Finding an unobtrusive spot beside a towering pillar, she craned her neck as Sir Tristan led Miss Gladstow into a promenade, making certain this time she did not lose sight of him.

  “Who, I wonder, has caught your attention?” A voice drawled in her ear.

  Rosalind yelped, jumping back. Her elbow cracked against the pillar, shooting bright pain up her arm. She winced and cradled her abused limb against her torso.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” the newcomer said. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. And I certainly did not intend to injure you.”

  Rosalind turned, and spied through her watering eyes a stunning woman, one of those seemingly ageless creatures that could be anywhere from five and twenty to fifty. She exuded sultry confidence. Nothing at all was left to the imagination, most of all her generous bosom, which fairly spilled from her nearly nonexistent bodice. Her entire form (save her bosom, of course) was draped in a brilliant green satin that shimmered with each play of light, showcasing her curves.

  Rosalind forced her gaze to the woman’s face. It certainly would not do to be caught staring at the woman’s endowments, no matter how displayed they were. “I wasn’t frightened,” she said. “Merely surprised. Most people don’t notice me, much less talk to me.”

  The stranger’s ruby lips turned up in a smile. “One could hardly fail to notice you, the way you were fairly glowering at the dancers on the floor. I would have thought you someone’s outraged mother if it didn’t appear you were fresh out of the school room.”

  A startled laugh burst from her. “Then you need spectacles, ma’am, for I am five and twenty, certainly not some young miss.”

  The woman’s face twisted. “Oh, don’t call me ma’am, please. It puts me in mind of elderly women tottering about with steel gray hair and walking sticks.”

  “No one could mistake you for such a person,” Rosalind answered.

  The woman laughed gaily. “I do like you. But I forget, I have not introduced myself, and people do so like to know who they’re talking to. I am Lady Belham.”

  “Lady Belham? I haven’t heard of you.” The minute the words left her mouth Rosalind wanted nothing more than to sink into the floor.

  Blessedly Lady Belham did not seem the least bit offended by her rudeness. Sh
e laughed. “Should you have? Or do you know everyone in London?”

  “No! That is, the Gladstows do. I don’t. Though I do know of most people in town. Through the Gladstows, of course. As their companion. Though my father was a country gentleman, I have no connections to speak of. That is, I have no reason to know all of these people. I’m of no importance, after all.”

  The more her mouth ran on, the hotter her face became. Yet she couldn’t seem to still her lips. At last she ran out of words and fell silent, staring at her toes. She expected any number of reactions from Lady Belham, from indignation to amusement. At the very least the woman would say her goodbyes now that she was aware of Rosalind’s lowered status.

  “Well, now, that can’t be true,” the lady said quietly.

  Rosalind chanced a look up. The other woman looked kindly at her. She frowned in confusion. “What can’t be true? That the Gladstows know everyone?”

  “Not at all. Though I’ve been out of society, nay even the country, for nearly half my life, even I have heard of Mr. Gladstow and his fortune in shipping. Anyone with that much money would know any number of people. Or, rather, those people would wish to know him, though they may pretend not to. What I meant was I don’t believe you’re unimportant.”

  Rosalind stared at her. It was then she felt it, the most peculiar warmth spreading through her chest.

  It was something she had not felt since before her sister died.

  She might have made an utter fool of herself and hugged Lady Belham on the spot. Thankfully the woman continued.

  “But I digress. You were right, in that I’m quite new to town. I arrived not a week ago from Haddington, in Scotland, and am staying with my cousin until I secure a house of my own.”

  “You don’t sound Scottish.”

  “No. My husband, however, had property there, and preferred to spend his time at that remote estate and far away from London life. He passed away a little more than a year ago.”

  “I am sorry,” Rosalind said.

  “He was a good man,” the woman said stoutly. “But he was considerably older than me, and it was his time.”

  Before Rosalind could react to that blunt statement, Lady Belham continued. “But you haven’t told me your name yet.”

  Rosalind jumped, dipping into a curtsy. “Miss Rosalind Merriweather, my lady.”

  “What a beautifully melodic name. Full of so many dips and turns. It quite delights the tongue. Rosalind is the daughter of the exiled duke in As You Like It, is she not?”

  “Yes, she is that,” Rosalind’s lips lifted in a wry smile. “I’m afraid my parents were dreamers of the worst sort. They thought that by giving me a whimsical name, it would help to inspire all manner of artistic endeavors in me.”

  “And did it work?”

  “Not a bit.” Rosalind held up her hands. “All thumbs.”

  Lady Belham’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “And what of poetry?”

  “Completely beyond me. If I had a suitor, one stanza from me would see them right off.”

  “Well, I do suppose you could make a new career for yourself if you wish, writing bad verse for the women of the ton who are eager to put off unwanted beaus,” she drawled.

  Rosalind laughed. “I could at that. Unfortunately I haven’t the time to pen poorly written poems for debutantes.”

  “Pity that,” the woman said. “But is that who you were watching then? Miss Gladstow?”

  Recalling herself and her self-appointed job as protector to the girl, Rosalind turned her gaze back to the crowd on the floor. It took what felt an eternity before she located Sir Tristan and Miss Gladstow. Both were laughing as they did a promenade. Rosalind let out the breath she was holding.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “I notice she’s partnered with Sir Tristan Crosby,” Lady Belham said with interest. Too much interest.

  Rosalind turned to her. “You know of the gentleman then?”

  Lady Belham gave a small laugh. “Of course I do.”

  Before Rosalind could wonder at the woman’s strange answer the music came to a flourishing close. Startled, she peered over the dancers, but they were already exiting the floor. To her frustration and alarm, she could not discern Sir Tristan in the crowd.

  “Blast it,” she muttered. “I’ve lost them.”

  Lady Belham gave a startled laugh. “If you mean Miss Gladstow and Sir Tristan, I do believe I see them heading to the doors leading to the front hall.”

  Rosalind went cold. She could not let them escape. Before she could hurry away, however, Lady Belham spoke, stalling her.

  “I like you, Miss Merriweather. I haven’t many friends in town. If you’re ever up for a visit, please do stop by an afternoon. I would so love to continue our exchange.” So saying, she held out a thick, creamy card. A hand-written address graced one side.

  “Thank you so much, my lady,” Rosalind said hastily, stuffing the card into her own bag. “I would like that.” Dipping into a quick curtsy, she bounded away, following in Sir Tristan and Miss Gladstow’s wake.

  Chapter 6

  Rosalind was motivated enough that she should have been able to cut her way through the crowd like a powerful ship through calm ocean waters, throwing partygoers this way and that like flotsam. Instead she felt more like an awkward sea bird fighting against a high wind. With every second that passed the anxiety clawing at her grew, making her more and more frantic. At long last she made it to the other side of the room. She took a quick look about, fully expecting to have to search the rest of the house where no doubt Sir Tristan already had Miss Gladstow in an amorous embrace. What she did not expect to see was that gentleman in plain view.

  Nor did she expect to see him being accosted by…Mr. Marlow?

  What in the world was Mr. Marlow doing here? There was no way she would believe that the son of a minor landowner had been invited to Lord and Lady Jasper’s exclusive ball. Yet here the man was, standing nearly nose to nose with Sir Tristan. Outrage seized the muscles of his face, making his normally placid countenance appear positively forbidding. Miss Gladstow stood behind him, her hands clasped to her chest, her eyes wide with…joy?

  “You don’t care for anything but her fortune,” Mr. Marlow said. “You cannot marry her.”

  Standing behind Sir Tristan as Rosalind was, she could not see his face. When he laughed, though, the sound was mocking, and quite unlike anything Rosalind had ever heard from him.

  “Who will stop me if I wish it, pup? You?”

  Mr. Marlow drew himself up to his full height. “Yes.”

  “Want her for her dowry, do you?”

  “Say such a thing again, sir, and I shall be forced to call you out,” Mr. Marlow growled. “I love Miss Gladstow. She is the creature of my heart. I was a fool not to see it before, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let her go now. I don’t care if she comes to me penniless. If she will have me I will be the happiest of men.”

  Miss Gladstow hurried forward. “Oh, David. Do you truly love me?” she breathed.

  The man’s countenance changed in an instant. He turned to Miss Gladstow, his face relaxing into something almost handsome for all the emotion that overtook it. “With all my heart, Sarah.”

  Rosalind watched, stunned, as the couple fell into a passionate embrace. Their corner of the room went silent, the only sound the occasional gasp as someone new caught sight of the display. After a time the lovers broke apart, linking arms and hurrying off together, oblivious to the crowd that had gathered to gawk. As conversation erupted about her, she looked to Sir Tristan. How must he feel, after being made a fool of in such a public manner?

  He turned for the door then, no doubt intending to escape the ballroom and the scene of his embarrassment. But instead of frustration or anger twisting his face, the man was…smiling?

  She blinked. What the blazes?

  He might have passed her by then if his gaze had not unexpectedly tripped to her. The chan
ge in him was instantaneous. His step slowed, his expression sobering. And then he did the most incredible thing. His eyes scanned her from her head to her toes. Before she could speak, he slipped around her; in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

  Rosalind stared at the space he had been, completely flummoxed. She knew she should feel relief. Miss Gladstow was safe. She had not fallen under Sir Tristan’s spell, nor would she marry Lord Jowls. No, after that display her parents would not be able to force a match on her again. Miss Gladstow would marry someone who would love and care for her, who would treat her with all the respect she deserved.

  Yet Rosalind could not help feeling a deep-seated suspicion that she had been completely fooled by a rake with azure eyes.

  • • •

  After witnessing the pretty picture Miss Gladstow and her Mr. Marlow had made while declaring their undying—and, if he had to be honest, frightfully overdue—love for one another, Tristan knew he should be celebrating. All his planning had panned out, after all. Today, especially, his talents had been put to the test. It had taken more than a bit of maneuvering—and a good amount of flirting with Lady Jasper—to secure an invitation for Mr. Marlow to the ball, along with a note from Lady Jasper herself indicating her wishes for the dear friend of Miss Gladstow to attend. Even after it had been sent off, Tristan had not been at all sure the man had come to his senses enough to realize he loved the girl. Nor did he think Mr. Marlow would be able to put aside his pride to come and claim her. And he did seem the prideful sort, those who let it control them to a fault.

  But, thank the heavens, the man had come. And had responded splendidly to Tristan’s attentions to Miss Gladstow. There was nothing like a bit of competition to make a man realize where his heart truly lay.

  Really, the night had been a smashing success. Tristan, however, was far too distracted to enjoy his little victory. For instead of reveling in the memory of Mr. Marlow’s declarations and the moment when he claimed Miss Gladstow for his own, he saw only Miss Merriweather’s troubled brown eyes.

  His carriage pulled up to the curb outside Lord and Lady Jasper’s then. He gave his directions to the driver before vaulting inside. As he settled back against the squabs, he prayed his club would provide him with the distraction he needed to forget Miss Merriweather. But he was fairly positive nothing on God’s green earth would help him in that.