A Match Made In London

by Christina Britton

  “Hush,” she said to Willbridge, a smile nonetheless lighting her eyes behind the lenses of her spectacles. She turned back to Tristan. “You are too late for breakfast, I’m afraid, though I’m sure there’s something we can offer you. Would you like me to have a tray brought up?”

  Tristan grinned. “You positively spoil me, Imogen.”

  She made to rise. Daphne sprang forward. “I’ll do it,” she declared as she hurried across the room to the bell pull.

  Imogen heaved a sigh and settled back. “I’m having a baby, not made of glass,” she grumbled. “I am not even far enough along to make rising a difficulty yet. Besides, people do this every day.”

  “We don’t care about other people,” Willbridge declared. “We care about you.”

  Imogen tried to remain bland to his comment. Tristan could see it in the way her brows drew together, as if she were trying mightily to hide whatever it was she was thinking. Yet the faint flush that stained her cheeks, the way her lips twitched told him everything he needed to know. She was pleased. Ridiculously so.

  Not for the first time Tristan felt a spurt of envy for Willbridge’s great luck. Imogen was a glittering diamond amongst paste gems. Thank God his friend had the good sense to see it and snap her up. Women like them should not be overlooked. For they had much more heart to them than the great majority of those in society.

  He looked to Daphne as she settled back down into her seat. “Not out with Mariah this afternoon?” he teased, referring to Imogen’s younger sister and Daphne’s closest friend. “I must say, I’m surprised. You two have been fairly joined at the hip since your arrival in London nearly a month ago.”

  “We’re meeting later this afternoon for a bit of shopping,” she replied, tucking her legs beneath her. She flashed him an arch smile. “And so the hip joining commences.”

  “And what are you shopping for today? New gowns? Bonnets? Husbands?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Just for that, I shall not tell you what we received in the post this morning.”

  “As you think I would care about what came in the post, I am going to assume it is from Emily. And as there is more than one way to skin a cat…” He turned to Imogen, who was in quiet conversation with her husband. “What news from Emily and Morley?”

  Beside him Daphne let loose a growl of frustration. He grinned.

  Imogen smiled in delight. “Emily is doing splendidly. You may read her letter for yourself if you like.” She reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out an envelope.

  “You would have known earlier had you been here for breakfast,” Daphne piped up.

  “Quiet, you virago,” Tristan said good-naturedly before reaching for the letter. He quickly unfolded it, more excited than he would have realized he could be for word from his friends.

  He smiled as he read over Emily’s neat, precise scrawl. “She sounds as if she is settling into her home nicely,” he commented. Shooting a sly look at Willbridge, he added, “I daresay she has never been happier. What a fortuitous turn of events that she should marry someone who loves her so well.”

  As expected, Willbridge’s smile fell. “Fortuitous my foot,” he grumbled. Yet the glimmer of pleasure in his eyes told Tristan all he needed to know: the man was holding on to the illusion of anger over his dearest friend marrying his younger sister, but he could not be happier that she was so well-settled.

  Fighting back a knowing chuckle, Tristan returned the letter to Imogen. “She mentions a visit you plan to make. Surely that will wait until after the Season is through?”

  “Not according to my husband,” she answered.

  Tristan shot Willbridge a questioning look.

  “Imogen and I plan to leave within the sennight,” his friend said. “Imogen has a mind to visit with Emily to see her new home.”

  “Translation: he is being protective and wants me out of London,” Imogen whispered in a loud aside.

  “Well, there is that as well,” Willbridge said somewhat sheepishly, not at all put out by his wife’s teasing. “London puts too much of a strain on you, my love. Besides, Daphne is settling into London life. There’s no reason for us to remain any longer.”

  “Don’t tell me you want me to help keep an eye on Daphne for you?” Tristan asked in mock horror.

  Willbridge’s horror, however, was not feigned. “Gad, no. For one, you’re an absolute libertine, and would only influence her in the worst way.” He smirked before sobering. “Secondly, I’ve no wish to see another sister married off to a friend who was only supposed to be looking out for her best interests.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Tristan mused, “I think Emily is more than happy with the outcome.” He chuckled as Willbridge’s expression turned stormy. “Oh, very well. I shan’t tease you any more about it. Would it help if I tell you that the idea of marrying Daphne is completely repugnant to me?” He looked to Daphne and dipped his head. “No offense, of course.”

  “None taken,” she replied with a cheeky grin, “for I certainly have no wish to marry you, either.”

  Willbridge groaned. “The both of you shall send me to an early grave.”

  Imogen patted his hand. “All the better to prepare you for fatherhood, Caleb. Our son will be as incorrigible as you, so you’d best get used to such talk.”

  “You mean our daughter,” Willbridge declared officiously, with a superior look that let Tristan know this argument was a familiar one, even at this early stage. “And she shall be as sweet-tempered as her mother.” He brought Imogen’s hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  Daphne made a gagging sound. “What did I tell you?” she muttered to Tristan. “Absolutely sickening.” He could not fail to see the misty light in her eyes, however, as she gazed on her brother and his wife.

  “Says the woman who has been in love not once, but twice already this Season,” he muttered back.

  “Quiet you,” she hissed as Willbridge and Imogen continued to murmur lovingly to one another. “I told you that in the strictest confidence.”

  He smirked, only saved from her wrath by the arrival of the tea tray. Blessedly the Masters’ cook did not skimp on heartier sustenance in addition to the small cakes and biscuits that were the typical fare. He wasted no time, helping himself to a heaping plate of sandwiches. “I shall miss this once you’re out of town, Willbridge,” he said in between bites. “My cook isn’t nearly so talented.”

  “You may come over any time you wish after Caleb is gone, you know,” Daphne said, pouring out the tea. “Mama will adore having you here.”

  “You know I can’t, imp,” he said, reaching for a biscuit. “With your brother gone, it will seem suspect if I visit too often. They’ll be thinking I’m after you for more than friendship.”

  “So let them,” Daphne grumbled. “All these rules are ridiculous, anyway.”

  “I don’t care what your opinion is on the matter,” Willbridge said severely. “Those rules are in place for a reason, and I will not see you break them.”

  “Says the man who made a name for himself by doing as he pleased,” Daphne muttered.

  “Daphne,” Willbridge warned.

  Imogen quieted him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Caleb, Daphne is a bright girl. She will not make a spectacle of herself.” She turned her wide turquoise eyes to her sister-in-law. “Isn’t that right, dearest?”

  It was amazing, the power in those gentle words. For Daphne was all meek sweetness as she said, “Of course.”

  “How will we ever keep her in line while you’re gone, Imogen?” Tristan drawled, only half-joking.

  Imogen smiled as she accepted a cup from Daphne. “Goodness knows.”

  The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly. But Daphne was a popular lady and Tristan knew he’d best become scarce before a barrage of admirers descended. He made his farewells and headed for home, whistling a jaunty tune. The sun was warm on his back, the breeze light. And while London air was never the most fragran
t, with the blue sky above and birds chirping merrily in the trees, he could almost forget that faint attack on his senses.

  As he had forgotten Miss Merriweather.

  Tristan stumbled to a halt, the whistle dying on a sputter. Well, damnation. And here he had been doing so well.

  He made for his house then and bounded up the front steps, letting himself inside. Wasn’t there someplace he needed to be? Some shy miss he needed to visit, some friends he could meet in Hyde Park? It didn’t much matter where he went, really. Calling to his butler to have his horse readied for him he marched across the marbled front hall, taking the stairs two at a time to the upper floors. He could be changed into his riding gear and out of the house in a thrice.

  He was nearly to his bedchamber, could see the door. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a small female came barreling out of the bedroom in front of him. His first thought was that his cousin Grace, staying with him until she found a place of her own, certainly didn’t possess such nondescript brown hair. Then the woman’s elfin face came into view, and Tristan groaned.

  He blinked, hoping it had been a figment of his imagination. But no, there she was, staring at him with outraged cinnamon eyes.

  “Miss Merriweather,” he ground out, “what in blazes are you doing here?”

  Chapter 9

  “What am I doing here? I could ask the same of you, sir.” Really, the cheek of the man. And what was Sir Tristan Crosby doing in the family quarters? Granted, this was not Lady Belham’s home but her cousin’s. She supposed Sir Tristan could be known to the owner of the house. It seemed Sir Tristan knew anyone and everyone in London, after all. But the intimacy could not be so great as to merit him exploring the house at will.

  He continued to stare in disbelief at her. No, not disbelief, she amended. More like patent horror, as if he could not believe his bad luck.

  That made two of them, she thought darkly.

  “If you are here to visit Lady Belham or her cousin, I must insist you await them in the drawing room.”

  Sir Tristan’s mouth dropped open. “Lady Belham’s cousin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Her cousin.”

  “Yes,” she said, slowly and distinctly. Truly, was the man simple-minded?

  “Do you know her cousin then?”

  “I have not had the pleasure to meet her yet. I arrived a short time ago, and she has not returned from her outing.”

  “Her outing.”

  Rosalind very nearly rolled her eyes. “Yes.”

  He frowned. “But you are companion to the Gladstows. What are you doing here with Gra—er, I mean Lady Belham?”

  “I am no longer employed by the Gladstows,” she said stiffly. “Not that it is any of your business, but I was relieved of my post this morning. Lady Belham was kind enough to take me on.” But she was letting her tongue get away from her again. She drew herself up. “That is neither here nor there. You should not be in this part of the house. I insist you accompany me back to the drawing room and I will fetch Lady Belham straight away.”

  To Rosalind’s consternation, the confusion in Sir Tristan’s face was quickly being replaced by…levity? “By all means, Miss Merriweather,” he said, grinning, “let us go to the drawing room.”

  Flummoxed by such a change in demeanor, Rosalind peered closely at him. His eyes sparkled with what looked suspiciously like mischief, his mouth tightening at the corners as if he were holding in a laugh.

  He swept his hand before him. “Shall we then?”

  Rosalind narrowed her eyes and started off down the hall. He was a ridiculous man, no doubt having a good laugh at her expense for some unfathomable reason. All men like him were cut from the same cloth, after all: trampling others in pursuit of their own pleasure, thinking nothing of those beneath them. Well, he would soon see she was not one to be cowed easily.

  She hurried down to the first floor, walking blindly, eager to see the man get his comeuppance. As she turned left at the bottom of the staircase, Sir Tristan cleared his throat.

  Stopping, she turned to glare at him. “Yes?”

  “Ah, I do believe the drawing room is this way, Miss Merriweather,” he murmured, indicating the hall behind them.

  Rosalind’s face went hot. “Erm, yes. As I said, I was just taken on this morning. Still learning the house and all.”

  She moved to pass him. His hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks.

  Heat shot through her body at the contact. She sucked in her breath, staring dumbly at his bare fingers on her skin.

  “What, no thanks?” he murmured. He was not scandalously close, yet his warm breath fanned the stray tendrils of hair at her temple, making her shiver.

  Her reaction to him shook her. Frowning, she yanked her arm from his loose grip with much more force than was warranted. “Do not presume to touch me, sir,” she gritted. Without waiting for his response, she stormed off.

  As luck would have it, the butler, Danielson, reached the first floor and headed her way. “I have distressing news,” she called as he came closer. “It seems Sir Tristan has lost his way and was wandering the family apartments. Would you be so good as to show him the drawing room where he can await Lady Belham at her pleasure?”

  The butler froze, his eyes going wide, darting from her to Sir Tristan. Rosalind smiled smugly. Surely their interloper would not fail to see the utter brass of his actions now. But instead of a proper level of dismay, the man’s amused grin had returned tenfold.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Merriweather,” Danielson said, drawing her attention back, “I don’t quite understand.”

  She scarcely managed to hold back her growl of frustration. Was every male being deliberately stupid today? “Sir Tristan was in a part of the house he ought not to have been.”

  The butler was looking more confused by the second. “And why should Sir Tristan not have been in the family quarters, miss?”

  Why could the man not understand? It was then it hit her. He was showing similarities in confusion to her second employer, who had been slowly losing her faculties, becoming increasingly senile. Was the man troubled by a mental deficiency? Oh dear, Lady Belham had not warned her of this. No doubt it was kind of her cousin to keep the man on, impaired as he was. Yet something should have been said.

  She smiled and said in a gentle manner, “Sir Tristan does not live here, and so should not have been in that part of the house.”

  The man only seemed more dismayed. He looked to Sir Tristan, who chuckled.

  “Ah Danielson, forgive me. I was having a bit of sport at Miss Merriweather’s expense. It seemed she was not informed that I am Lady Belham’s cousin, much less the owner of this house.”

  A ringing started up in Rosalind’s ears. She gaped at him. “That cannot possibly be true.”

  “I assure you, it is. Though I must commend you on your protection of my cousin. You were fierce indeed and I am glad to see she has someone as loyal as you to keep her company.” He turned to the butler. “Please inform the groom to hold my horse for me. I shall be a few moments longer than expected.”

  “Very good, Sir Tristan.” Danielson gave her a hooded glance before, with a smart bow, he was off.

  Rosalind swallowed hard, watching the man go. If the ground opened up into a great gaping hole in that moment she would have cheerfully jumped in. How long, she wondered as she kept her eyes averted from Sir Tristan, would she be forced to ignore his presence before the baronet turned around and left.

  “So my cousin has hired you on, has she?” he murmured.

  Rosalind pulled a face. Apparently the man had not gotten the hint that she didn’t wish to speak with him. Heaving a sigh, she faced him. His smug, amused look dragged at her frown all the more.

  “Lady Belham was kind enough to do so, yes,” she said through stiff lips.

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t sound pleased at the prospect.”

  “I like Lady Belham very much,” she said,
training her eyes on Sir Tristan’s chin. Which might be a mistake. His chin was incredibly strong, after all. And all too close to his mouth.

  He grinned, those disturbingly straight teeth flashing, snagging her attention. “Then I can only assume your dislike of the situation has to do with my presence.”

  “You are astute, Sir Tristan,” she snapped without thinking. No, no, this wouldn’t do. For, though the man was not her employer, as Lady Belham’s cousin and the owner of the house she now resided in, he had sway over her future.

  The idea left a bitter taste in her mouth. That a man such as he, the very kind of creature she abhorred above all others, had power over her life was lowering indeed. At least at the Gladstows’ she merely had to deal with a social-climbing harridan. Now she had to bow and scrape to a libertine, a man she could not like and did not trust.

  A man who affected her far more than she was willing to admit.

  But life was not always fair, was it? She found the locket at her throat, the pads of her fingers pressing forcefully into the stones as if to impress its message into her very bones. She had learned that nine long years ago, when her belief that life was fair and good had been cruelly ripped from her. Swallowing what was left of her pride, she focused on his cravat—much safer, in her opinion, than any part of his face—and said, “Forgive me, I am out of sorts and didn’t mean to offend.”

  He was silent for a time. She barely managed to keep herself from sneaking a glance up. Finally he said, his voice quiet, “You do not have to apologize for speaking your mind, Miss Merriweather. You are entitled to your opinion. And I did tease you, after all.”

  She stiffened. No doubt he meant it as a comfort. But Rosalind knew that, the first chance he got, he would be back to making her life hell. “Am I excused now, Sir Tristan?”

  Again that thick silence. “You do not need to ask my permission to leave. You are free to do as you wish here.”

  There he was, playing at being nice once more. Like a cat toying with a mouse, no doubt. Managing a jerky nod and curtsy, she spun about and hurried from the room. Feeling the burn of his eyes in her back—and the remnants of heat from his fingers on her skin—long after she was safe in her room.