Decided, she spun about and hurried for the back of the house. The garden it was, then. Sir Tristan did not appear to be the sort to sit among the flowers and daydream. She would be safe there.
She stepped out into the warm afternoon air and let her gaze rove over the vegetation. Blessedly there was nothing overly formal about the space. There were no severely clipped hedges, no heavily trimmed trees, no sterile paths. It was not that it was unkempt. Not in the least. She was sure a warning must have been given to each weed and fallen leaf, for there was not a one in sight. Yet there was something wonderfully natural about it all, as if the plants had been given leave to grow at will and had thus thrived.
It did not take her long to find what she needed: a wide bench tucked in the natural alcove between two shrubs. She sank down on the cool stone, arranging the skirts of her gown, and gave a small, relieved sigh. Being on a side path and thus out of sight of the house, with plants hugging her from behind, it felt like the most private place in London.
Until she heard the unmistakable sound of boots on the path. Boots she knew would be encasing strong calves, leading up to the most wickedly handsome man in existence.
Rosalind gave a little sigh. For the first time she understood a little of what had prodded her sister off the path of chastity. If Mr. Lester had looked anything like Sir Tristan then her sister, a romantic of the first order, would have been defenseless indeed.
But he was headed her way. She could hear it in the way the sound of the ground beneath his feet changed from paved brick to the gravel of the side path she was on.
Rosalind bit back a groan and sent up a prayer instead. Please let him pass by without seeing me. I’ll be good, I swear it, if you’ll only grant me this.
And for a moment it seemed her prayers had been answered. He came into view, head down, hurrying along the path. She tucked farther back in her bower; if she could only remain still enough, he would continue on blissfully unaware of her presence and she could continue to brood in peace.
But then his steps slowed. And he turned in her direction.
It was only when he was nearly on top of her that he noticed her at all. He started in surprise, his boots skidding to a stop barely a foot from the hem of her gown.
“Miss Merriweather,” he said, belatedly dipping into a small bow.
“Sir Tristan.” She thought that would be that. Yet the man simply stood there, staring down at her. She frowned. “I’m sorry, did you need me for something?”
For a split second his eyes appeared to go molten. Something deep in her responded, turning liquid. Then he blinked, and it was gone.
At least, the strange look in his eyes was. The unexpected warmth in her belly was not so easily discarded.
“Ah, no,” he said. “Though it appears you and I have the same idea when it comes to relaxation.” He indicated the bench with a wry tilt of his head.
“Oh! I’m sorry, is this where you come to relax, then?”
“On occasion. But please,” he continued, holding out a hand when she would have risen, “don’t leave on my account.”
Rosalind had no choice but to fall back to the bench. His close proximity, as well as the abrupt movement of his hand, ensured that.
But after her body’s strange reaction mere seconds ago, she was in no hurry to remain close to the man.
“I never meant to usurp your bench,” she said. “Please let me up and you can rest at your leisure.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hardly usurping. I am not some king bent on ruling all in my purview. Besides, there is more than enough room for the both of us.”
Rosalind froze. “You cannot be serious.”
One eyebrow rose. “I assure you, I am.”
“I am not sharing a bench with you,” she blurted.
A relieved chuckle escaped him. “Ah, I am glad we are past the cool politeness and you are back to telling me what you think.”
He proceeded to sink down onto the bench beside her. Seeing her chance to escape, Rosalind rose with alacrity.
“I did not think you a coward, Miss Merriweather,” Sir Tristan murmured.
She spun to face him. Her hands balled at her sides. “I am no coward, sir.”
He looked her straight in the eye—no hard task; she was not tall to begin with, and even when he was sitting she did not have many inches on him—and said, clearly and distinctly, “Prove it.”
Rosalind fought it with everything she had in her. She was not so stupid that she would respond to a taunt. She would turn and march away and that would be that.
Only apparently her pride was out in full force today. And she really was that stupid.
She sat.
He smiled, a wide thing that used every muscle in his face. She might almost think he was proud of her. “Now,” he said as she arranged her skirts so that not a fiber of them touched his leg, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She would not answer him. He would only tease her more. Surely she could manage to ignore him, to simply go about whatever it was she had been doing before he arrived. Though they shared a bench and the same small alcove, they needn’t converse.
Sir Tristan, however, was of a different mind.
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Mmm,” she answered noncommittally.
“Overcast, of course. But most days are in London.”
She nodded, keeping her gaze fastened on the lazy buzzing of a bee among the rose bushes across the path. Bees didn’t have to worry about distracting rakes with clear blue eyes and beguiling smiles. Lucky things.
“I had planned on taking a ride later,” he continued, completely undaunted by her non-answers.
The bee drifted toward her, hovering over her knee before flying off. Her eyes followed it as it disappeared over the garden wall. If she were a bee she would do the same. Instead she was stuck here, pride holding her to this bench as she tried her damnedest to ignore the heated presence of the very large, very male person beside her.
“Will you go out with my cousin later to walk or ride?”
“I hardly know,” she replied in as cool a voice as she could manage. Which, she was pleased to find, was quite cool indeed.
Still the man did not catch on to the fact that she wished to be left alone. “I am heading to Lady Harper’s ball this evening. And you?”
Accepting the fact that the man was either too dense or too stubborn to understand her wish to sit silently and enjoy the small space of freedom she was allowed each day—though Lady Belham was no horrible taskmaster, Rosalind was here to work—she let out an exaggerated breath of frustration and pivoted in her seat to face him. “We are not attending Lady Harper’s.”
He did not so much as blink an eye at her surly tone. If anything, his smile widened. “Where are you for, then?”
Patience, Rosalind. “I do believe we shall attend Lord Grover’s dinner.”
“Splendid. I hear he provides quite a spread. His cook is from France, you know.”
Her patience melted away like a lump of sugar in tea. “Are you quite through, sir?”
“Oh! You’ll be wanting some quiet, then. I’m terribly sorry, you must be wishing me to the devil.” The twinkle in his eyes, however, belied any truth to those words.
“You are an astute man,” she replied scathingly, turning her face away and plucking at the material of her gown with agitated fingers.
His pause implied he considered her words. “Astute. Hmm. That is not a word often applied to me.”
She shot him a disgusted look. “I cannot imagine why. For you are far too clever for your own good.”
The surprise that flashed across his face appeared genuine. “Clever?” He gave a sharp laugh. “That is a word even more rarely used in regard to me.”
She scowled. “You are fishing for compliments, sir.”
He shifted so his body more fully faced her. “I assure you, that
is the last thing I am about.”
“Please,” she scoffed, turning her own body. “Men like you are always after compliments. You like nothing better than to hear yourself speak, or to hear others speak well of you.”
Aggravation tightened his features. “You have a very decided view of men. It really is too bad you have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Don’t I?” She shifted in her seat. Her leg pressed against his but she didn’t care at that moment, the anger boiling up in her was so great. “If I have a decided view then you may be assured I have a reason for it.”
A heavy silence fell. Stupid, stupid girl, she thought as the frustration cleared from Sir Tristan’s face to be replaced with a horrible curiosity. A question formed in his eyes.
Before he could voice it, she burst forth, letting every ounce of her frustration with him color her words. “Why are you doing this to me? Why can you not leave me alone?”
He frowned, no doubt taken aback by her outburst. But when he spoke, it was not the censure she expected to hear.
“I don’t care for strife in my home, Miss Merriweather. I see no reason we cannot be civil with one another.”
“I was already being civil.”
“Barely,” he scoffed.
She raised her chin. “I was being as civil as anyone in my position is expected to be.”
“So cold and taciturn is a requirement for being a companion?”
“You expect me to shower you with smiles and cheerful greetings?”
He let out a frustrated breath. “Of course not.”
“You think as I am a female, I am good for nothing more than to stare at you with eyes as blank as a child’s doll, that I should only giggle and simper and not show a bit of my true feelings? That I am to cater to your ego when all I want to do is wring your neck?”
He gaped at her, his eyes as clouded as the sky above their heads. As she glared back at him a realization dawned. Rosalind looked at him with a new understanding. “But you need more, don’t you?” she murmured.
Her questions seemed to snap him from his stunned stupor. “What are you talking about?”
“You need more than cool civility. You need me to like you. You need everyone to like you.”
“That is ridiculous,” he sputtered.
But she was already warming to her idea. “No, it’s true! You charm everyone you meet. It’s like a compulsion. And people respond unfailingly. It’s your special gift, your talent. It must gall you to deal with someone who wants nothing whatsoever to do with you.”
Instead of lashing out in anger—he was her employer’s cousin, after all, and she should not have talked to him as she had—a sly look crossed his face. “Come now, Miss Merriweather. I think you’re protesting a bit too loudly, don’t you?”
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You seem very determined to tell me in every way, shape, and form just how much you despise me. It’s a bit overdone. All bluster and smoke. And if I have learned one thing over the years, it’s that where there is smoke there is often fire.” He paused and waggled his eyebrows at her. “And I am not referring to fire as a hateful emotion. For hate is cold. And your feelings for me are decidedly not cold. Quite the opposite, I think.”
Rosalind’s jaw dropped. “You think that because I proclaim how much I dislike you that I actually do not dislike you, but desire you?”
A slow smile lifted his lips. “You said it, not I.”
The gall of the man! Rosalind sputtered for a moment, unable to anchor a coherent thought. Finally she found the words needed. “You are mad!”
Very well, they were not the best of words. But they certainly conveyed everything she wanted to say.
Sir Tristan, however, only found them humorous. “You do not deny it, I see.”
“I do not deny it because it should not have to be said. But as you are too thick-skulled to understand me, I shall say it regardless. I do not desire you. As a matter of fact, if you were to kiss me this very instant, I would feel nothing. Nothing at all.”
Which perhaps had not been the smartest thing to say. For as soon as the gauntlet was thrown, his eyes warmed and found her mouth. No, that wasn’t quite right. She swallowed hard, her mouth going dry. For his eyes did not simply warm, they burst into flames.
“Do you care to test that theory?” he purred before his arms came about her, dragging her against the long length of him. And then, with the buzzing of the bees in her ear and the faint spice from his skin permeating her senses, he lowered his head to hers.
The first touch of his lips stunned her. For she did not only feel it where they touched, but in every fiber of her being. It bounced along her nerves, heating her blood, pimpling her skin. And it overrode any protests she might have made after the initial shock of it. Instead of the curses that should have poured from her, a low moan rose up in her chest.
She had dreamt of this, though she had done her best to deny it, had longed for it though it was never freely admitted. She was forced to face it now. For her body cried out in joy, responding in ways she never knew it was capable. She arched into him, her arms going around his neck. His response was immediate, his hands grabbing at her dress, the bands of his arms dragging her closer.
It was not close enough.
As if he heard her desperate thoughts, his tongue pushed between her lips. The intimacy of it stunned her. For a second she was frozen, unsure what to do. Until his tongue touched her own. It was then she tasted the essence of him, all maleness and spice and warmth. He was delicious. And she could not get enough. Her tongue reached out, twined with his own. Beneath her hands he shuddered. The realization that he was as affected as she hit her then. She had power here.
Fire raced through her limbs, settling in a molten pool in her belly. And lower. Oh yes, it was there, too. She gasped at the feel of it, opening herself to him further. He took advantage, tilting his head, deepening the kiss—dragging her further into the abyss of desire.
His hands were everywhere, roaming her body, bringing her to even greater heights. Strong fingers skimmed down her spine, over her hips, up her ribs until they trailed, feather-light, over the sides of her breasts. And there they stayed. She held her breath as he circled the straining tip. At long last they curved around her, and she was filling his palm.
Undone by the sheer exquisite feel of it, she tore her mouth free, her head falling back in supplication. He followed, his mouth finding the long column of her throat, his lips and tongue laving her sensitive skin. Her breath came in shudders, her hands clutching at the incredible breadth of his shoulders. “Tristan,” she whispered.
As if through the haze of a dream she felt him start, sensed him pause. And then he pulled back, the warmth of him leaving her.
She opened her eyes, dazed, the haze of desire slowing her brain. She expected gentleness and smiles. What she did not expect was the look of horror overtaking his face.
“Rosalind, I am so sorry,” he rasped. Before she knew what he was about, he rose. With one last long look at her, he turned and disappeared into the lush vegetation. The throbbing of Rosalind’s body—and heart—the only proof he had been there at all.
Chapter 12
What had he done? What the hell had he done?
Tristan escaped the house as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. He forgot everything in his haste; hat, gloves, coat…pride. He only knew he had to get as far away from Rosalind Merriweather as he could.
Rosalind. Damn, he had never thought of her in such terms, had always held tight to Miss Merriweather. As if it were a lifeline to sanity. Now her name wound its way around and through him like a creeping vine, twining around his heart, forcing its way into his soul.
He ran a hand through his hair, walking blindly. Damn and blast, what had he been thinking? Had he actually thought kissing her would be a good idea? But she had gotten under his skin, and then had thrown that damn gauntlet, and he had b
een unable to resist teasing her. Then teasing had turned to daring, had turned to something quite different entirely.
But he was being a coward, to blame her for what happened. For while she had infuriated him, it had been he and he alone that had pushed at the end. He was the one who had not been able to let her comments go, who had brought it to the next level. She had certainly never asked to be kissed. She had been very vocal that she did not want it at all.
But she had responded in the most delicious way, a voice whispered in his head. And with that came a vision of her, head thrown back, skin flushed pink, her little bow of a mouth swollen from his kisses and opened on a gasp.
He groaned and stopped dead in the middle of the pavement. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he fought to erase the image from his mind. But nothing could banish the sweetness of it, nor the remembrance of the breathy sound of her voice moaning his name.
He had to find something to distract him, for it would not do to walk down the street in the aroused state he was in. He peered around, hoping for inspiration. To his surprise he saw he was on Brook Street. And Willbridge’s house was two houses down.
In that moment he knew he had never needed his friend more. Willbridge would know what to do about this debacle he had gotten himself into. Or, at least, he would have a stiff brandy he could imbibe to help make the memories of Rosalind and her too smooth skin and delicious mouth a fuzzy memory instead of the active torture it currently was.
And Willbridge’s home would provide a safe haven for him for the foreseeable future. The less time he spent at his own home the saner he would be.
But when he entered the house minutes later he found utter chaos. He spied two footmen carrying a heavy trunk down the stairs and knew with a sinking heart that there would be no easy escape from Rosalind and her tempting mouth. For Willbridge was leaving town much sooner than planned.
The man himself appeared then. His face was tense, his copper hair tousled, his cravat askew. He saw Tristan and started.
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