A Match Made In London

by Christina Britton

  • • •

  Tristan rapped his knuckles on his cousin’s bedroom door.

  “Come in,” she sang.

  He grinned. Grace was his favorite blood relation by far. No one had been there for him, had supported him through the trials and troubles of his life as she had. When he had learned of her husband going to his heavenly reward, and that she intended to find a house in London after her period of mourning, he had leapt at the chance to help out in whatever way he could.

  He let himself in. Grace sat at her dressing table, peering at her reflection with all the intensity of the most discerning critic. Her eyes met his in the mirror and she waved him forward.

  “Tell me,” she demanded as he sauntered closer, “do you see a white hair there?” She pointed to her temple, where, as far as Tristan could tell, there was nothing but inky black strands.

  Tristan pretended to look concerned as he studied her. “Hmm, I do. In fact,” he continued, roving his gaze over her coiffure, “I believe I see several.”

  Grace’s eyes grew wide with dismay, her hands going to her hair. “No!” she gasped, tilting her head, attempting to see the back of her hair in the looking glass. When that proved impossible she took up a silver hand mirror and angled it behind her. “Show me where,” she demanded.

  Tristan could not contain his laughter a moment longer. It broke free, shaking his body.

  Grace’s eyes narrowed and she spun in her seat to face him. “You beast. You would tease me?”

  “You are so vain, Grace,” he said between chuckles. “You make it an easy feat indeed.”

  “Arse,” she grumbled, though it lacked even an ounce of bite to it.

  “You do not deny it I see,” he drawled, propping a hip against her dressing table and crossing his arms.

  She shrugged, turning back to the looking glass. “Why deny the truth? I am nearly five and thirty. It would seem odd if I do not fear a small bit the very physical aspects of aging. Especially as I never once had my London Season, and it seems all the other women here for the first time are hardly women at all, but mere infants.” She used two fingers to gently pull back at the skin by her eyes before sending him a cautious sideways look. “Have you seen Danielson yet? He mentioned that a letter arrived from Sainsly.”

  Immediately Tristan’s muscles seized. He had expressly instructed that all correspondence from his ancestral home in Lincolnshire be conveyed through his solicitors. But when had his stepmother ever heeded his wishes in that regard?

  For a brief moment he was that boy again, fighting for his father’s approval. And forever destined to fail.

  He set his jaw, fighting down those feelings he had worked so hard at burying. Yet another feat at which he’d failed, for they cropped up powerfully, and often. “I’ll tell him to burn it. As I have the others.”

  Grace looked troubled. “It could be important, Tristan.”

  “If it was important, my solicitor would have contacted me with all haste. No, this is merely Josephine’s attempt to manipulate me again, nothing more.”

  She seemed to sense, as she always did, when he was done discussing it. For after a long look she directed her gaze to her dressing table. She selected a small pot from the assortment of containers there while asking, “Are you just returning home then?”

  “Yes.” Relief at being freed from the subject of his stepmother was quickly replaced by concern as he watched her open the pot and apply some rouge to her cheeks. “Are you certain you wouldn’t rather I stayed in more? I hate that you are alone so much.”

  She waved a slender hand in the air, rolling her eyes. “I told you, I do not need a keeper, Tristan. I am not here to upend your life in any way. You may go about your days as if I am not even here, and before you know it, I shall be out of your hair completely.”

  “You must know I love having you,” he said, his frown deepening. “It’s been too long since you were in England at all. I’ve missed you.”

  She tilted her head, smiling up at him. “I have missed you, as well. But that does not mean I have any wish to be in your pocket at all hours of the day.”

  “Yet you hire a companion to keep you company?”

  His voice was sharper than intended, ringing out through the room. Grace laid the pot down on the gleaming top of her dressing table and faced him. “Are you upset I have hired Miss Merriweather?”

  “Of course I’m not upset,” he scoffed. Yet her gaze remained intent on his face. He pushed away from the table, unable to look her in the eye. His cousin was taken aback, and rightly so. He had sounded a churlish bore.

  “You do a fairly poor job of making that sound at all believable, Tristan.”

  “Do I? I cannot imagine why.” He walked to the window, looking down into the small, square garden that backed the property.

  She came up behind him. “Don’t lie to me, darling. What is it about my hiring on a companion that has turned you surly?”

  He could not very well tell her it had nothing at all to do with her hiring a companion and everything to do with the identity of said companion. If he voiced such a thought either she would let the girl go without a by your leave, or she would read much too much into it.

  He broke into a cold sweat. The very idea of Grace thinking he felt more for Miss Merriweather than he did was inconceivable.

  He eventually said, with utmost honesty, “The very fact that you feel you need a companion tells me I should not be leaving you to your own devices quite so much.”

  “Nonsense,” she scoffed. “I’m much used to my own company, especially in the past year since Hubert died. But I happen to like Miss Merriweather. And she was in need of a position. What else could I do, send her back out into the streets to starve?” Her face grew hard. “Can you believe, Tristan, that those horrible Gladstows threw her out of the house without even a reference, carrying everything she owned in one small bag?”

  A vague sense of unease worked its way across his shoulders. “They tossed her out?”

  Grace nodded. “And it was not as if the girl was neglecting her charge. If you had only seen her last night, watching over Miss Gladstow. Such concern, such care for the girl.”

  “You don’t say,” he muttered. The vague unease was turning into a tingle that set the very hairs on his arms on end.

  She nodded, her eyes fierce. “From my understanding, it was Miss Gladstow’s unexpected engagement that prompted Miss Merriweather’s termination. Though I cannot understand it. It is one thing to be unhappy with your child’s choice in husband. It is quite another to punish the girl’s companion for it when she was doing her best.”

  Tristan’s stomach lurched with the bitterness of guilt. Well, hell. This was something he had not expected. But Grace was peering suspiciously at him.

  “You were dancing with Miss Gladstow shortly before her engagement was announced. You wouldn’t have any insight into the matter, would you?”

  “Of course not,” he scoffed. He may love his cousin, would entrust her with his life. But there was something about his little matchmaking venture that made him want to protect it, to hide it from the world. He only hoped she would take him at his word, that her curiosity would not prompt her to probe for more.

  His acting skills must have been exceptional, for Grace nodded and turned her gaze to the window. She heaved a sigh. “Poor girl. I am thankful I passed her my card last night, that she had the sense to seek me out for a position. Heaven knows what would have happened to Miss Merriweather if she had not.”

  It did not take much of an imagination to deduce. There was only one place for women to go when they had no home, no family, no money. The thought of Miss Merriweather on the streets, begging for coin to survive—or worse—slammed through him. Horror and fury at Mrs. Gladstow’s unfeeling actions boiled up. But with it was mixed a healthy dose of disgust in himself, for he had equal fault in the whole debacle. Seeing Miss Gladstow happily settled was cold comfort now,
as a young woman’s life had nearly been destroyed because of his interference.

  It was more proof that he was nothing special, that it would only take the smallest misstep on his part to reveal to the world what a fraud he was.

  “Tristan? Tristan, are you well? You appear ill.”

  Grace’s voice shocked him back to himself. He looked at her, quite unable to dredge up his typical carefree smile. “I’m happy she came to you, is all,” he rasped.

  Though what the repercussions would be for him, he thought with no small amount of trepidation as Miss Merriweather’s face flashed in his mind, he hadn’t a clue.

  Chapter 10

  By the time Rosalind prepared to set out for a brisk walk with Lady Belham later that afternoon she was determined to make the best of her situation. Surely Sir Tristan was a minor snag in this new chapter of her life. Her employer would soon acquire a house of her own. Once that occurred, she could put the man and his sick sense of humor behind her.

  “You will come to find,” the other lady said as they marched down the hall, “that I am not one to sit idly by all day, reading and stitching and such. I much prefer to be out and about. I hope you don’t find such a life distasteful.”

  “It sounds divine,” Rosalind replied with utter truth. How many hours had she spent reading dusty tomes to drowsy old women, or embroidering intricate designs on things she would never use or wear? How many times had she sat with nothing to do but watch others talk as if she were invisible?

  But being out of doors, and with a woman who already felt more of a friend than an employer, was like being in the most beautiful dream. And she never wanted to wake up.

  Sir Tristan chose that moment to exit the room they were passing. He stepped in their path with a jaunty grin. “Going somewhere, ladies?”

  Then again, no dream was perfect, Rosalind thought sourly.

  “We’re off on a walk,” Lady Belham answered cheerfully. “The day is much too glorious to stay indoors.”

  “I don’t suppose your party could handle one more?”

  And there went Rosalind’s good mood, right out the window. “I thought you were going out for a ride,” she blurted.

  Sir Tristan turned to her then. The effect those clear blue eyes had on her was instantaneous, making her hot and itchy all at once.

  “That is,” she continued hurriedly, needing a distraction from her body’s perplexing reaction, “you mentioned to Danielson when we met earlier that he should hold your horse. I assumed you had meant to go on a ride.” Shut your mouth, Rosalind. “Not that it has anything to do with me.” For the love of all that is holy, be quiet. “You may do as you wish. I certainly don’t care.” At long last her mouth heeded her and stilled. Though it was much too late for her to come away from it with any semblance of grace.

  “I find I could not pass up the promise of such company,” he drawled, a slow grin stretching over his face.

  Rosalind flushed. Despite his flirtatiousness—Sir Tristan’s typical way of conversing with females, she knew, and thus no reflection at all on her—his eyes were strangely sober. No doubt he had seen the rudeness of her little run of the mouth. She may as well have declared in clear and ringing tones that she didn’t care for his presence. Granted, it was true. But it was not generally something you said to someone, deserved or no. Especially when they might have sway over your future security.

  “That is pure poppycock, Tristan,” Lady Belham said. “I do hope your change in plans is not due to our conversation from earlier. I told you that you are not required to entertain me. I am more than capable of seeing to my own comfort. And now that I have Miss Merriweather’s company you need feel no guilt that I am lonely.”

  “You both wound me,” Sir Tristan declared, laying a hand over his heart. “I would think you have no wish to have me join you.”

  “Silly man,” his cousin said with a mix of exasperation and fondness. “Very well, you may join us. But,” she said as his grin returned, “you must promise me, no more flirting with Miss Merriweather. I’ll not have you scaring her off when I have just found her.”

  “I would not dream of offending Miss Merriweather,” he pronounced. He inserted himself between them, winging out both arms. “Shall we?”

  The very last thing in the world Rosalind wanted to do was to take this man’s arm. Yet he gave her no choice. Pressing her lips tight, she gingerly placed her fingers on the cobalt wool of his coat.

  He tensed beneath her hand, a sudden and jarring movement she felt even through the layers of his fine clothes, right through her gloves. She cast a sharp glance up at him.

  The breath left her body. Again. He was staring down at her, the bright blue of his eyes disturbingly direct and intent. Damnation, what was it about his gaze that affected her so? She could not be attracted to the man. If there was anything Guinevere’s tragedy had taught her, it was that men such as he could only lead to ruin and heartache. Surely she was much too smart to fall for his charms.

  Wasn’t she?

  Mayhap not. For she could not help the way her knees weakened, making her sway as his gaze settled on her lips. Nor could she help the way her tongue darted out to wet her suddenly dry lips.

  His eyes widened before he hastily looked away. “Ready then?” he asked his cousin. Was it Rosalind, or did his voice crack?

  They set off, heading out of the house and west on Upper Grosvenor Street toward Hyde Park. As the cousins chatted amicably, Rosalind stayed silent, her thoughts troubled. She could no longer ignore the fact that Sir Tristan was a danger to her. Despite her better sense, despite not even liking the man, her traitorous body continued to react in the most worrisome way to him. She forcefully brought to mind her sister’s face as it had been after that fateful London trip. She had been drawn and haggard, her eyes haunted. And so much worse all those months later, when the fruits of her ruination had killed her. Would she forget the lesson to be learned there?

  With luck Lady Belham would soon find a place to let of her own. Until then, Rosalind would have to be on guard. Surely she could manage herself for a few more weeks. It was not as if the man reciprocated her desires, after all.

  • • •

  Tristan had spent far too little time with Grace since her return to town nearly a week ago. As they walked the shaded paths of Hyde Park, conversing as they had not in too long, he was reminded of how much he had missed her. It would have been an ideal afternoon.

  If he was not achingly aware of Miss Merriweather at his side.

  Damnation, but he had to get control of himself where that woman was concerned. No easy feat now that she was staying in his home. But he could manage it.

  He had to.

  But he and Grace had been discussing something. What had it been? Oh, yes.

  “Has the house agent contacted you with any new properties to let?”

  “Nothing I would think of taking.”

  He grinned. “Too small for you and your grand tastes?”

  Grace made a face. “You truly have a lofty opinion of me, don’t you? No, they’re much too large. What would I possibly need with eight bedrooms? Or a ballroom? I like a good ball as well as the next person, but I certainly don’t intend to throw one. Besides, if I ever change my mind I can make use of your house. What you’ve been doing in that monstrosity, a lonely bachelor, is beyond me.” She peered around him. “Miss Merriweather, do you have any ideas as to good neighborhoods I may take a house in? For I am having no luck thus far.”

  “I don’t know London very well, I’m afraid,” Miss Merriweather replied. “I have only been here since the start of the Season.”

  “Where were you before that?”

  Tristan thought for a moment she would not answer his cousin. She ducked her head, but not before he saw the tightening of her features. Her words carried a faint tension when she spoke. “In Lancashire for three years. And before that Shropshire. Preceded by Derbyshire. But before taking on t
he position of companion, my home county was Durham.”

  “Durham? My goodness, that is far north. You are a long way from home, then,” Grace exclaimed on his other side. “And so much movement at such a young age. It must have been difficult.”

  “Difficult is not the word for it,” Miss Merriweather said, her voice low and tight.

  She’d had a hard life, it seemed. But so had many people. Her troubles were not his concern. Yet even though he told himself to stay out of the conversation, he found himself saying, “You must have been quite young when you became a companion.”

  “I was seventeen. About eight years now.”

  Tristan waited for more, but for once she was surprisingly quiet. Ironic, as he would dearly love to hear the story behind those simple words. Even so, he was transfixed. Her face was so expressive, like seeing a story played out. Her whole history was there in the cinnamon depths of her eyes. Not the details, no, but the heart of it. All the grief and anxiety and strain of the past years was there in vivid color.

  But the mood was turning much too serious. He didn’t do serious. Not if he could help it. He schooled his features to the easygoing, lopsided grin he was renowned for. “You are in luck with my cousin if a life of moving about was not to your liking,” he quipped. “Unless she remarries. Then goodness knows where life may take her, or where you will end up. When she married Belham nearly eighteen years ago she wound up in the wilds of Scotland.”

  That small line deepened between Miss Merriweather’s brows and she opened her mouth, no doubt ready to let loose with some unexpected remark that would throw him completely off guard. Before she could, however, a lone gentleman approached, calling out cheerfully to his cousin.

  “Why, if it isn’t the beauteous Grace.”

  The frustration he felt at being denied access to Miss Merriweather’s thoughts was swift and utterly surprising.

  Thankfully Grace quickly distracted him from his troubling reaction.