She released his arm and hurried forward, taking the newcomer’s outstretched hands in hers. “Hugh Carlisle, is that you? Goodness, but it’s been an age.” She stepped back a pace, taking the man in with disbelieving eyes. “My, how you have changed from that rascal who tormented me so.”
He grinned. “How could I not torment the absolutely gorgeous thing who went and married my cousin right under my nose?”
“Please, I was five years your senior, much too old for a youth not even out of school,” she said with a chuckle. “But forgive my rudeness. Allow me to introduce my cousin, Sir Tristan Crosby. Tristan, this is Lord Belham’s cousin, Hugh Carlisle.”
Tristan took the man’s hand. “It’s a pleasure. Have you been in London long?”
“Not long at all. I’ve been situated in the country for some time now, as I’ve taken over the management of several of my father’s properties and have only just returned. My father spends his time in London, you see, but has recently taken ill and there is no one else to care for him.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tristan answered.
The man nodded in thanks, then looked to Miss Merriweather in expectation. Something shifted in his gaze, an interest sparking that was a bit too strong to be construed as mere friendly curiosity.
Tristan’s body tightened. He had the mad urge to place himself between Carlisle and Miss Merriweather. A reaction that had him nearly blanching. What the devil was wrong with him?
He really had better rein in his obsession with the girl before he made an utter arse of himself.
Grace spoke again. “Hugh, this is Miss Rosalind Merriweather. Miss Merriweather, Mr. Carlisle,” Grace said.
“It is a pleasure.” Miss Merriweather smiled and curtsied. Carlisle, however, looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Miss Merriweather, you say?”
Tristan stared at the man, utterly flummoxed as to his reaction. Miss Merriweather, however, seemed to know what the man’s reaction meant. Her eyes grew bright, an almost feverish excitement lighting them. “Yes. Did you know my sister, Miss Guinevere Merriweather? She would have been here in London nine years ago.”
Carlisle was quick to recover. He smiled warmly, no hint of the shock that had drained his face so completely just seconds ago. “Yes, yes I did. Such a sweet girl. So kind to all us young bucks who vied for a dance with her. How is your sister? I daresay she captured the heart of some lucky fellow and is living out her life in marital bliss.”
A sister? This was the first Tristan had heard of any relations of Miss Merriweather’s. Immediately a haunted look passed over her face. And her next words told him all he needed to know why he had never heard a whisper of the girl before.
“She died shortly after that trip, I’m afraid. She contracted an infection of the lungs upon her return and never recovered.”
Carlisle appeared stunned. “I am so sorry.”
Miss Merriweather nodded in thanks. “Did you know my sister well?”
“Somewhat. Though as there were so many of us who made it a point to stay in her orbit it was difficult to get close.”
“Do you recall a Mister Lester? Mister Gregory Lester?”
The question was pointed, intense in the execution. Tristan glanced sharply at Miss Merriweather. She was peering closely at Carlisle, her fingers at the locket at her throat, a seemingly nervous reaction he had noticed several times before.
Carlisle smiled. “Certainly. He was a popular fellow, lively and well-liked by all. We were quite close. Of course,” he continued, his happy look faltering, “mayhap you are not aware that he was killed in action in the Battle of Vimeiro in oh-eight.”
“Yes, I had heard.”
Tristan started at the strange tension in her voice, as if she were wound so tight she might snap.
Carlisle, however, seemed utterly oblivious of her darkened mood, for his happy look returned. “Lester was a good man. Never knew one who could hold his drink so well. But we grow morose. And I refuse to be sad in the company of such beautiful women.” He turned to Grace, bowed. “We have much catching up to do, you and I. Do you think Sir Tristan and Miss Merriweather would mind if I walk on ahead with you a bit?”
“Oh, it matters not what Tristan minds,” Grace drawled with a teasing look his way. “But I would not foist this great lummox off on my companion if she has a dislike of the plan. Miss Merriweather, do you mind keeping my cousin company?”
“Not at all, my lady,” Miss Merriweather replied. “I would be happy to.”
Tristan peered at her as Grace and Carlisle moved off. The tone of her voice troubled him. For there was a decided lack of emotion in it. If there was anything he knew about this woman, it was that she was vocal about those things she disliked. And he knew for a fact she didn’t care for him in the least. When they had been forced to walk together in this very same park yesterday—goodness, could it have really been a mere day ago?—she had held her own against him. Yet now she appeared utterly defeated.
It must have been the mention of her sister and that old beau of hers. So tragic, that both young people were now in their graves.
But he could not stand to see her like this, as if all the life had been drained from her. He leaned in close. “And here I thought you spoke your mind in all things, Miss Merriweather,” he murmured into her ear.
Miss Merriweather gave a small yelp and jumped. It set her off balance and she stumbled into him. Her hand gripped tight to his arm, her fingers biting into his bicep. Instinctively he reached out to steady her.
And immediately saw his error. The new angle brought her body flush to his. She was small and slight and yet utterly feminine, the faint curves of her small breasts pressing into his side. Her scent assaulted him, some combination of roses and lavender that was mouthwatering. He swallowed hard and hastily set her away from him.
Her eyes still appeared clouded. Yet now confusion—and a bit of annoyance—shone in their depths, like a light through the densest fog. “Pardon me?”
“You are not one to hide your true feelings, I think,” he replied with an impressive display of unconcern. At least it was impressive considering his frame of mind at that moment, for his body had not yet recovered from their little stumble. “Yet you blatantly lied to my cousin when you told her you would be happy to keep me company.”
She scowled. “And what was I to say? That I have no wish to be in your company?”
“Is it the truth?”
“Of course it is,” she snapped, then immediately turned scarlet, the remainder of her grief falling away like dead leaves from a tree.
He chuckled, knowing it would only increase her ire. Did he enjoy baiting her? Of course he did. But it was also necessary. For look at the change in her. There was color to her cheeks again, and a spark in her gaze. He offered his arm. After looking at it blankly she took it and they started along the path after Grace and Carlisle.
“Forgive me,” she said, her voice—and her hand on his arm—stiff as whalebone. “I should not have said such a thing.”
“Oh, don’t curb your tongue on my account,” he said.
She only looked more furious. He just managed to stop a grin from showing. He truly was a beast, to enjoy her discomfort so. But it was so much better than the downtrodden look that had pulled at her. That expression had troubled him more than any bit of fury she could blast him with.
“Why is it,” she said through gritted teeth, “that I constantly find myself alone in your company in this park?
“You’re lucky, I suppose.”
“Luck? You call this luck?”
“Oh, most definitely. There are many women who would love to trade places with you.”
Seemingly against her will, a laugh broke free from her lips. “You must be joking.”
“No, I am utterly serious. Why, look right there,” he said, pointing to a young girl gaping at him. “That lady cannot keep her eyes off of me.”
Miss Merriwe
ather’s lips twitched. Tristan could not tell if she was annoyed or fighting down mirth. “She is not even out of the schoolroom. She hardly counts.”
“Picky are we? Very well, there is an entire group of ladies down the lane there that is quite envious of your place at my side,” he declared, inclining his head in said group’s direction.
She did laugh then as she eyed the gaggle of elderly women blatantly staring at them. “And they are old enough to be your grandmother.”
He shrugged, even as he fought the urge to grin in triumph at having gotten her to laugh. It was the first he had ever heard her react in amusement in the weeks he had known her. “Flattery is flattery, Miss Merriweather, and I shall take it where I can get it. If they wish to ogle me, I give them my blessing.”
“You are horribly vain. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Often, and loudly.”
She laughed again. The sound was so wonderful, so free, he was stunned by the strange joy it gave him. It seemed Miss Merriweather did not often allow herself to let loose in such a manner.
“You should laugh more often, you know.”
The look on her face changed in an instant, transforming to careful distrust. The typical expression she used when looking at him.
Damn and blast. He and his big mouth.
“I do not often laugh because there is not much worth laughing at,” she said in faintly censorious tones.
“Come now, Miss Merriweather. Surely there is something that gives you joy.”
She stopped in the middle of the path and faced him. Anger colored her cheeks, turned her eyes feverish. “Do not presume to tell me how to react, sir. You do not know what I have lost.”
“You refer to the sister Carlisle mentioned.”
He didn’t know what prompted him to say it. But he immediately saw his error, for she looked as if he’d struck her.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled. “It is only that I was not aware you even had a sister.”
“Why would you have had cause to know it?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to quip that he’d been in her company daily for more than a fortnight so he should know something of her by now. But realization struck, making his mouth close with a snap. For he didn’t know a blasted thing about her. He had conversed with her about inane things, of course. And had talked with Miss Gladstow in her company often.
But he had never once tried to draw Miss Merriweather into a meaningful conversation, had never asked her about herself, or her life, or her thoughts on more than the weather.
“You’re right, of course,” he murmured. “That was not well done of me. Won’t you tell me of your sister now?”
She appeared struck dumb, confusion marring her brow. He took the chance to offer his arm again, and they were soon making their way along the path.
“You wish to know of Guinevere?” she asked after a painfully long silence.
“If you’re willing to speak of her.”
“Oh, I’m always willing to speak of her. But that is difficult to do when everyone who knew her is gone.”
He nodded. “Which is why you were so stunned to meet with Carlisle.”
She peered up at him. “You are quite observant, did you know that?”
Only with you, he nearly said. Blessedly he stopped himself in time. “She was older than you, I assume?” he asked instead.
“By three years.” A small smile lifted her lips. “Funny enough, I was the responsible one. She and my father were dreamers, you see. I had to keep them both in line.” She gave a little laugh. “They always said that without me they would be lost.”
A cloud seemed to move across her face then. All the joy fled, to be replaced with an unbearable sadness. “Then she died, and my father followed soon after. And I was left with no one.”
“And that is when you became a companion,” he deduced.
“Yes. A distant cousin took pity on me and hired me on.”
“It must have been difficult for you.”
“More than you know.”
He paused at the darkness in her voice. He should change the subject. It appeared to give her only pain, keeping on in this vein. But he could not ignore the injustice that had been dealt her earlier that day, apparently only the last in a long line of it. “It was not fair of Mrs. Gladstow to let you go over her daughter’s engagement. It seems to me Mr. Marlow will make Miss Gladstow a fine husband. I am sorry you were caught up in the whole mess, that you suffered because of it.”
She pursed her lips, her sharp eyes cutting to him. “Are you taking blame then?”
He blinked, nearly stumbling at the sudden change in her. “Pardon?”
Her voice dropped. “I know you were responsible for Miss Gladstow’s engagement.”
Speared by the accusation and certainty in her eyes, Tristan took a moment to consider his options. He could either feign anger or laugh it off and declare her mad.
Or he could admit it all.
The last held a surprising amount of appeal. And besides, she would not believe him if he denied any involvement in it. He saw it in her eyes. For the briefest of seconds he was tempted to tell her all.
But no, she would never understand, would only look on him with more disgust than she did now. It was the very reason he refused to tell others of his endeavors. No one would be able to comprehend the importance of such a venture to him. How it made him feel that, for the first time in his life, he was worthy, and useful, and more than what society perceived him to be. Daphne was the only one who knew, and that was because she was the one who had aided him on that very first matchmaking scheme, when he had realized there was something more to him than an empty smile and a handsome face.
In the end, he merely asked, “If I was responsible for helping Miss Gladstow find her happiness, would you blame me?”
The self-righteous anger that had settled hard over her gaze like a lacquer cracked at his soft tone. “No,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Well then, there is nothing more to say on the subject, is there?” He looked down the path, toward Grace and Carlisle. They had fallen behind quite a ways. And he found himself desperate to get to them. “We should hurry.”
To his surprise she stopped, letting her hand fall from his arm. “No,” she answered slowly, “I don’t think I shall join you.”
“Are we to stand and glare at one another then? For though you are a lovely vision and I wouldn’t mind it in the least, I would like a bit more exercise before we return to the house. One does not get this trim form by standing idle.”
Instead of lightening the mood as he had hoped, his comments only served to deepen the line between her brows. “I think it is best if we part here.”
“Part?”
“Yes. I think we can agree, Sir Tristan, that we are better off not getting friendly with one another.”
He frowned. “I should not let you go off on your own, Miss Merriweather.”
She laughed at that. But it was not the light-hearted mirth she had shown earlier. No, this was a dark thing. “And what will happen to me, Sir Tristan? I am not a young lady of good breeding that must be coddled. I have been forced to make my way in the world for too long. And I assure you, with how I feel now, no one would dare presume to accost me. Good day.”
Tristan could only watch helplessly as she strode away, knowing he was partly to blame and not able to do a blasted thing to help.
Chapter 11
Three days had passed but things had not improved between Rosalind and Sir Tristan.
Not that she was actively trying to improve things. No, for all she cared he could go jump in the Thames. Being drenched from head to toe might make the man a little less physically appealing, after all, thus helping her out considerably in squashing her completely irrational desires for him.
She paused on her way down to the ground floor as an image came to her: Sir Tristan dripping wet, hair slicked back, clothes cl
inging to him.
Then again, she thought as she hurried downstairs, going hot with mortification—and something altogether different—mayhap not.
But why was she even thinking of him? And why had it only grown worse in the past few days? Granted, she was seeing him much more often than before. Which was only to be expected, seeing as she was staying in his home. But it was more than that. For more often than not her mind wandered to their conversation in the park, when he had brought her out of her melancholy spirits, then had proceeded to ask her about her sister.
No one had been willing to talk about Guinevere in ages. It had loosened that bit of herself that she had bundled up in a protected ball in the pit of her stomach, hiding it away from the harshness of the world. That vulnerable bit of herself that she had never wanted to see the light of day again, yet was now clamoring to get out.
And it frightened her witless.
Which was, of course, why she had attacked him as she had. It had been more for self-preservation than true anger at the man, confronting him with her suspicions regarding Miss Gladstow. She had needed it to be said aloud, to remember why she distrusted him so. For she could not open up to him. Ever.
But she was growing agitated thinking of it. And as Lady Belham did not need her presently, she refused to waste her precious time thinking about Sir Tristan and the danger he posed to her. She would instead find a private spot to mull over the other issue that had taken up a good portion of her waking thoughts.
Mr. Hugh Carlisle.
It had been a shock to meet someone who remembered Guinevere. Her sister had not travelled in exalted circles during her time in London, after all. And it had been some time since that ill-fated trip.
Mr. Carlisle’s fond recollections of Mr. Lester, however, were altogether different. Mr. Lester had always played the part of a monster of the worst kind in her imaginings. The man who had ruined her sister, who had broken her spirit, could not be anything but. To hear him being spoken of as if he had been a good man had been a blow.
She made the ground floor then and stood for a moment undecided, unsure where to go. A book would not do her any good now. Her mind was in too much of a tangle to wrap it around prose. No, what she needed was mindless relaxation. And in a place she could be fairly confident she would not run into a certain libertine.
A Match Made In London Page 10