“You must be a mind reader, for I was about to send you a note,” Willbridge said.
“Well, now you have saved yourself a bit of correspondence.” Tristan looked up as two maids came hurrying down the stairs, their arms full of hat boxes. “You are leaving town ahead of schedule, I assume? Though,” he continued, taking in Willbridge’s strange somberness with cautious eyes, “it does not appear to be a pleasure trip.”
“No, I’m afraid our visit to Emily and Morley must be postponed. For we have just received word from Frances, Imogen’s sister.”
“Lady Sumner?” He knew of the woman, of course. Imogen’s sister had married the Earl of Sumner years ago, had an infant daughter, and lived a stone’s throw from Willbridge’s Northamptonshire estate, Willowhaven.
She was also one of the unhappiest women in existence.
It was no wonder. Her husband was a selfish blackguard who was not above using people to get what he wanted, his wife included.
Willbridge nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid we’ve word from Northamp-tonshire.”
“Their babe is not sick, I hope?”
“No, it is Lord Sumner. The damn fool has gone and hurt himself in a carriage accident.”
“Not gravely?”
“Banged up a bit, but nothing serious from all accounts.”
Tristan quirked a brow. “Hardly cause for you to go flying back home, then.”
Willbridge’s lips twisted, though not with amusement. “Unfortunately it seems there is more to the story. Much more.” He paused, as if to find the right words. Then, seeing no other way around it, he shrugged and said, “It seems the man was not alone. He was with a woman who was most decidedly not Lady Sumner.”
Instantly Tristan understood. “His mistress, eh?”
“Yes. And to make matters worse, the woman did not survive the crash.”
“Damn me,” Tristan said low. “As if the bastard has not caused enough grief to Lady Sumner.”
“Needless to say, Imogen wishes to get to her sister with all haste. Though,” Willbridge said, a spark of humor lighting pale gray eyes, “she’s more furious than aggrieved over the scandal. I do believe I will have quite a job keeping her from beating the man over the head with one of those gothic novels she’s taken a liking to lately. At the very least she will have strong words for him. And coming from Imogen, you can be assured that, quiet as she is, they will be all the more potent for it.”
Tristan chuckled. “Have I told you what a brilliant decision it was on your part to marry Imogen?”
“Yes,” Willbridge grinned, satisfaction evident in every line of his face, “but you may say it again as many times as you please, for I happen to agree with you wholeheartedly.”
Daphne appeared at the top of the stairs then. “Caleb, you are needed upstairs. Oh, Tristan! We did not expect to see you until tonight at Lady Harper’s.”
“Are you staying in London, then?” he asked as she descended the stairs.
“Of course, silly man. Imogen would not have it any other way, though I did offer to return home with my darling brother.”
“Oh yes,” Caleb drawled as Daphne joined them, “you were so insistent.”
Daphne shrugged. “Do you blame me for wishing to stay? Even though my dearest Mariah will be traveling with Imogen and Caleb, and so I will be quite lonely. Still, I’m certain Lord Poncy will offer for me any day, and I do not want that horrid Glynis Cowper getting the jump on me.”
Willbridge rolled his eyes, then turned to Tristan. “I know I told you I don’t wish you to keep an eye on her when I leave town, but can you at least see that my sister does not cause too large a scandal?”
Tristan grinned. “I’ll do my best. But you know Daphne.”
“Yes, I do that,” Willbridge muttered darkly before, a rueful smile lightening his face, he shook Tristan’s hand and hurried off.
Tristan raised a brow at Daphne as Willbridge strode away. “Lord Poncy now, is it? I thought you had your heart set on Barnaby Noble.”
Her lips pushed out in a pout. “Mr. Noble offered for Viola Thorpe two days ago, or haven’t you heard? I was quite heartbroken, though you did not notice. But Lord Poncy…” She sighed, her eyes going hazy. “Oh, I’m sure he is the one. So handsome, so attentive.”
“So rich and titled,” Tristan teased.
“Oh, stop it, you.” She slapped at his arm. “But I know you did not come here to tease me, though you do enjoy it so. Tell me, what drove you from your home that you could not even remember to don your outerwear?”
The imp was much too observant. “How do you know the butler did not take them when I arrived?”
“Because the butler is currently upstairs overseeing the packing, you dolt. Out with it, then, for you know I shall not let it go until you spill all.”
“Yes, I know,” he grumbled. “Fine, I shall tell you. But not here.”
Triumph gleamed in Daphne’s pale green eyes. “Come into the sitting room. It is empty presently, and you may regale me with whatever spectacular mistake you have made.”
Tristan grumbled but followed. It was to her credit that she did not pester him until they were comfortably ensconced. Once he settled his posterior on the settee’s plush cushions, however, Daphne was ready for him.
“So tell me, what female has you so turned around?”
He scowled. “How can you be sure it’s a female?”
“Because I know you. You have a look about you, all feverish and cold at once. And as far as I know, there is only one thing that causes such a look in a person, and that is thwarted desires.”
Tristan gaped at her. “You are barely eighteen and have only just come out. What the devil do you know about thwarted desires?”
“Never mind that,” she said in lofty tones. When he continued to gape at her, his expression no doubt colored by the outrage that was quickly overtaking him, she rolled her eyes. “Please, you know me better than that. Do you honestly think I have been promiscuous?”
“Do you mean to tell me you haven’t been kissing all these men you have fallen for?”
“Oh, I’ve kissed a fair few,” she said, waving a slender hand in the air in dismissal.
“Daphne!”
“What? Why are you surprised? Especially since you were the first of the bunch to kiss me?”
His face flamed. It was too true, he had fancied her last summer. And he had kissed her. But they had blessedly come to their senses and seen there was nothing between them, nipping it in the proverbial bud.
Besides, if Willbridge heard them talking of it, he’d have his head. Again.
“Anyway,” Daphne went on, “kissing is a mere flirtation. It doesn’t mean anything.”
His mind flew to the kiss he’d shared with Rosalind. He squirmed in his seat. “Or it may mean a whole lot of something,” he muttered.
She speared him with a knowing eye. “Is that what has you all feverish then? A kiss that meant something?” When he groaned and put a hand over his face, disgusted that he had let the small tell show, she crowed in triumph, “I knew it! It is a woman. Tell me who.”
“Enough, you harpy,” he gritted. “I will most certainly not tell you who.”
But he could tell by her grin that his refusal would not deter her. “Let me see if I can deduce it. It’s more fun that way anyway. You came from somewhere, sans hat, coat, and gloves. And you were close enough to arrive on foot, as I did not hear your horse or carriage arrive. As I know you’re a slugabed, and it is still quite early in the afternoon, I don’t believe you had time to go anywhere yet. Therefore you came here straight from home. Which means the woman in question was at said home. Was she a visitor of your cousin’s?” Before he could so much as open his mouth to beg her to stop, she was off again. “No, I don’t believe so. For whoever it was has you quite flustered. Which means she is someone you should not have kissed. Which means—” Here she stopped. Her eyes opened wide, her mouth for
ming a little oval of surprise. “Oh. Oh my goodness, Tristan. Never say it is Miss Merriweather!”
As if his guilt wasn’t potent enough, the horror on her face made him feel about an inch tall. Immediately his defenses came to the fore. “I assure you, it was not intentional.”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, so what happened? Did you trip and your lips happened to fall onto hers?”
“I really don’t need this right now,” he snapped. He rose from his seat.
Her hand on his sleeve stopped him. “I’m sorry. That was not well done of me. Especially as you no doubt came to talk to Caleb about it, and instead you get me and my judgment. Sit and I promise to listen with as unbiased a view as possible.”
He scowled but sat all the same. For the truth was, he truly did need someone to talk to. Only now that he had a willing ear, he didn’t know what to say.
She seemed to sense his uncertainty. She smiled brilliantly at him. “So,” she prompted cheerfully, “you and Miss Merriweather?”
He heaved an exasperated sigh. “No, Daphne, there is no me and Miss Merriweather. Like I said, it was a mistake.” He groaned and scrubbed at his face. “A huge, blundering, asinine mistake.”
“But if you kissed her, you must feel something for her.”
“No.” The word came out much too loud. “No,” he repeated at a much more normal volume. “There is nothing between us at all. It was done in the spur of the moment.” After dreaming of kissing her for more nights than he cared to remember. He flushed and cleared his throat. “Besides, she has been very vocal in her dislike of me.”
Daphne pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You know, dislike can be a cover for deeper emotions.”
Which was what he had teased Rosalind with. Before he’d gone and kissed her. Idiot.
“No,” he said, “I’m quite certain she does not have any of the softer emotions for me.”
“Did she kiss you back?”
He opened his mouth to respond with a resounding no. The word, however, would not come. For she had kissed him back. With a surprising amount of passion.
Merely thinking about it was affecting him in the worst way. He shifted in his seat.
Daphne grinned. “I thought so.”
“There is nothing between Miss Merriweather and me,” he repeated with what he hoped was a goodly amount of force, accompanied by the sternest scowl he could muster.
She only grinned wider.
“Enough,” he growled. “Damnation, could this day get any worse?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, instantly contrite. “I’m being horrid, and after promising to be completely unbiased. But you must understand my surprise. She isn’t at all your type.”
“May we please change the subject,” he begged.
Daphne seemed to deflate a bit at that. “Very well. I won’t say another word.” She sat in morose silence for a moment, her fingers picking idly at the brocade cushions, before she straightened, brightening. “But I have just the thing to get your mind off of…ahem, things,” she finished lamely when he glared at her. “I know you must be at loose ends seeing Miss Gladstow so happily settled and must be in want of another project. Well, I have one for you, in the form of Miss Henrietta Weeton. She is a shy thing, and from what I hear out for her third Season. If she has not secured an engagement by the summer, I’ve been told she will be married off to some distant cousin, no doubt a horrible old man with a hump and a wart.” She smiled in triumph. “She’s exactly what you need to lift you out of your doldrums.”
It sounded ideal. Helping Miss Weeton would no doubt take up a good portion of his time, thus helping to distract him from his completely unwelcome desire for Rosalind.
So why did the familiar thrill of the prospect elude him?
He mentally shook himself. Never mind. “I’ll do it,” he declared to a beaming Daphne.
And hopefully by the time he raised his head from his efforts to pair off Miss Weeton happily, Rosalind and her tempting little mouth would be long gone.
Chapter 13
Rosalind was still in a daze that evening as she hurried to Lady Belham’s rooms. She had been unable to look the woman in the eye all afternoon. What had she been thinking? To allow Tristan, her employer’s cousin and a rake of the first order, to kiss her?
Her cheeks burned as she remembered the encounter with shocking clarity. Was it any wonder she had avoided Lady Belham?
Now, however, it was time for them to go to Lord Grover’s. And she could avoid the woman no longer. Would her employer somehow know what had happened? Would she turn her out on the street?
But no, she told herself fiercely as she knocked on Lady Belham’s door, the woman would not see it. Her actions were not printed across her forehead in blazing scarlet. Nor would Tristan have told his cousin. The horror in his eyes had told Rosalind all she needed to know about his feelings on the subject. He had been no more pleased than she had been.
She would not look too closely on why that particular fact was so lowering.
Lady Belham bid her enter then, saving her from further mental torture. “My lady,” Rosalind said in as cheerful a voice as she could muster, “are you ready for Lord Grover’s party?”
Lady Belham was seated at her dressing table, adjusting a glistening comb of rubies and pearls in her dark locks. She smiled at Rosalind in the glass. “I’m afraid we will be attending quite a different event tonight. I have decided to accept Lady Harper’s invitation instead.”
How Rosalind managed to keep her smile in place she would never know. Especially as her heart thudded with a disturbing degree of anticipation. For hadn’t Tristan told her just that afternoon that he was headed to Lady Harper’s himself? “Is that so?” she asked with impressive unconcern.
“Yes. I’m feeling the need for something less tame than Lord Grover’s promises to be.” She grinned, tugging her bodice down a fraction lower and sitting back to admire the effect.
Rosalind hardly registered the precarious position of the woman’s bosom, barely held in by the thin strip of crimson silk and black lace that formed her bodice. All she could see was the heat in Tristan’s eyes immediately before he’d claimed her mouth. She could not see him. She was still not in control of her faculties; if she came face to face with him she might very well melt into the floorboards.
Not that she would be able to avoid him forever. Still, every second counted in making sure she held tight to the slippery thing her sanity had become.
“Oh, I don’t know that Lord Grover’s will be all that tame,” Rosalind said as Lady Belham fiddled with her rouge pot. “I hear he has a French chef. That in itself is exciting, don’t you agree?”
“My palate is not so sophisticated that I would know the difference, I daresay.” Lady Belham applied a bit of rouge to her cleavage, then sat back and looked it over with a critical eye before, nodding with satisfaction, she rose and turned to face Rosalind. “I need some dancing, and some flirting, and what better place is there than a grand London ball?”
How could Rosalind argue that? Still, she could not go down without a fight. “But I am not attired for a ball.” It was a flimsy attempt, she knew, yet still she had to try.
Exactly as she knew would happen, Lady Belham quickly laid waste to the excuse. “Oh, pooh. You are perfect. That old gown of mine looks wonderful on you, darling. That shade of violet does wonders for your coloring. Or,” she said, pausing, a small frown marring her brow, “don’t you care for it?”
Rosalind blanched. “I love it,” she hurried to say, aghast that it may have seemed she disliked the dress. “Truly, it is the most glorious gown I have ever owned, and far too generous a gift.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Belham said with a wave and a smile. “I never wore it, I assure you. It wasn’t daring enough for the likes of me.” She laughed.
That Rosalind could believe. Even so, it had taken her three nights of sewing to take the gown in and make it presentable. Especi
ally in the bust.
Which, of course, made her think of other things. Such as Tristan’s hand cupping her breast, the warmth of his large palm like a brand through the material of her dress that afternoon. She shivered, a strange reaction indeed considering how overheated she suddenly was. No, she thought as she clenched her hands in her skirts, she was definitely not ready to see him just yet.
But did she have a choice? Lady Belham’s maid arrived then, and the next few minutes were a whirlwind of preparation as Tessa helped their employer with the rest of her ensemble. All too soon she was done, and they were hurrying downstairs to the waiting carriage.
The time it took to get to Lady Harper’s should have been arduously long. Arriving at the most popular events was never an easy thing, and this particular ball was no exception. Yet the time passed as if accelerated. Why was it, Rosalind thought, that the minutes passed by so much quicker when the thing awaiting you at the end of a journey was dreaded? For too soon they entered the Berkeley Square mansion. And the time of her courage was at an end.
They approached the double doors leading to the ballroom. Hundreds of voices reached them then, a wave of sound that made Rosalind’s steps falter on the polished parquet floor. The trepidation she had been prisoner to since leaving the house bloomed then into panic. In a last gasp attempt to stall, she blurted, “Wouldn’t you like to visit the card room, my lady? Wearing that gown, I’m sure you could easily fleece half the men in London.”
Lady Belham laughed. “That’s not the type of victory I’m looking for right now, darling. And you needn’t worry you will need to play mother hen to me as you did Miss Gladstow. I assure you, I’ll be more than fine, no matter what comes of tonight.”
“Then I should return home,” Rosalind said, a hint of desperation coloring the words. “For surely you will have a much better time if you do not have me to worry about leaving behind.”
Lady Belham linked arms with her, dragging her on, securing her fate. “Nonsense, for I quite adore you. Besides,” she said, her voice dropping, “it will be nice to have a friend at my side.”
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