The words stunned Rosalind mute for a moment. No, not only the words, though they themselves told all she needed to know about her employer. It was the tone as well. For there was a pain there she had not expected.
Beyond their first meeting, when Rosalind had gotten an inkling of Lady Belham’s loneliness, no hint had been given of the woman’s lack of confidence. Indeed, she seemed to exude nothing but.
Now Rosalind thought back on the past three days in her employ and realized that the woman didn’t have a friend in the world. Oh, she had Tristan. And she had the admiration of more men than Rosalind could count.
But the woman did not have a single female friend. No one to lean on, to talk to, to gain comfort from. Did Lady Belham truly see her as a friend?
Her heart swelled. It had been too many years since she’d had someone to care for. She thought of Guinevere then—of the brilliant, kind, vivacious girl she had been. And it stunned her to realize that there was an amazing number of similarities between her sister and Lady Belham. Both were beautiful, vibrant, dazzling in their exuberance for life. Each like a brilliant shooting star, lighting up the darkness.
Only Guinevere, like that shooting star, had quickly burnt out, swallowed by the darkness when she’d tried to cut her shining path through the world.
She could not bear it if Lady Belham suffered the same fate. Oh, she knew the woman was stronger than Guinevere. She had suffered the death of her husband, after all, had her life uprooted. Still she was here, head held high, ready to jump back into life.
Yet she had let a bit of her vulnerability show tonight, revealing the pain beneath the surface. And now that Rosalind had seen it, she could not possibly ignore it. As implausible as it was, the woman needed her. And if she needed Rosalind to accompany her into a ballroom, where right this minute a particular someone to be avoided at all costs was surely holding court, then so be it.
Squeezing Lady Belham’s arm, Rosalind straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. She could do this. She would face Tristan and overcome this strange longing she had for him, then move on. She was stronger than she gave herself credit for. She was no romantic lady, no milk-and-water miss so overcome by emotions that she couldn’t see straight. She was Rosalind Merriweather, a level-headed female with common sense in abundance. No man, no matter how devilishly handsome he happened to be, would get the best of her.
They entered the ballroom, and with unfailing accuracy her gaze found Tristan’s blond locks. Immediately the butterflies that had taken up residence in her belly fluttered about like mad. She swallowed hard, fear and longing and anticipation tightening her shoulders. Yes, she could do this. But it would not be easy.
• • •
She is here.
The realization hit Tristan like a punch to the gut. He had thought perhaps he could avoid Rosalind until tomorrow, when he could be assured of a decent night’s sleep between him and the massive mistake he had made in kissing her. Or at least, several hours of his typical pursuits to remind him of what life was supposed to be. For it was most assuredly not mooning after a woman who despised him. A woman who made him feel as if his every flaw had been laid bare.
Only now there she was, a veritable vision in a pale purple gown. It hugged her form, the bodice caressing the slight swell of her small breasts, the soft tone setting off the pale porcelain of her skin to perfection.
He recalled then with painful clarity the feel of those breasts in his palm, the warmth and faint weight of them. He groaned.
“Tristan, what in the world is wrong with you?”
He started, looking sheepishly to Daphne. She stared at him in horror, as if he was about to cast up his accounts at her feet. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“That was the most distressing sound I’ve ever heard from a human.” She pursed her lips as she contemplated him. “You aren’t ill, are you? Because if you soil my new gown I shall never forgive you.”
“No, I am not ill. Now, what were you saying about Miss Weeton?”
“Never mind that.” A gleam entered her eye. “You weren’t thinking of that little peccadillo with you-know-who, were you?”
He growled. “Daphne…”
“I know you told me never to mention it, but really, you know me better than that.”
Rosalind came into view then as she and Grace walked the perimeter of the room. He did his best not to look her way. But Daphne was anything but stupid.
“Ah,” she said, her voice a knowing purr, “now I understand.”
“If you understand it so well, perhaps you might enlighten me. For I haven’t a clue what the devil is going on,” he snapped.
Daphne started, her eyes going wide. Instantly he felt an utter arse. She was his friend, and certainly didn’t deserve such treatment from him. No matter how annoying her little innuendos might be.
“Damn it, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m out of sorts.”
“She truly has gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?” she said in disbelief.
“It isn’t like that,” he grumbled.
“But it is. I’ve never seen you in such a state.”
“What you’ve never seen is me in the throes of guilt after accosting someone in my cousin’s employ.”
“Then why did you kiss her?”
The very same question had been haunting him since said kiss that afternoon. Why indeed?
“It doesn’t matter why.”
“But it does,” she insisted. “Perhaps…” She seemed to lose courage, but in typical Daphne fashion quickly found it again and plowed on like a runaway carriage, heedless of what damage she might cause. “Perhaps you feel more for her than you’re letting on.”
He gaped at her. “You think I am coming to care for Miss Merriweather?”
She shrugged. “Why not? Granted, she isn’t at all conventional—”
“Conventional?” he let lose a bark of laughter. “No, she isn’t that.”
“And she doesn’t seem the type to capture your interest,” she went on as if he had never interrupted her. “Miss Merriweather is a serious kind of creature. I had assumed you would be attracted to a woman with your same spirit.”
“I told you before, I am not attracted to Miss Merriweather.”
“Tristan,” she said, and from the look in her cunning eyes she was about to launch on again. And without Imogen in town to keep her in check, he wasn’t at all confident he would be able to rein her in once she started.
“Enough,” he said firmly. “I have taken you into my confidence quite against my better judgment. If you continue on, I am never telling you anything ever again. Besides, hadn’t you planned on introducing me to Miss Weeton this evening for the express purpose of taking my mind off of…certain things? You are not helping matters at all by being so annoyingly inquisitive.”
Her face fell. “Very well,” she grumbled. “And I am sorry. I can’t seem to help myself. I’ve never seen you so affected.” She held up her hands as he leveled a stern look at her. “Sorry! My lips shall remain sealed on the subject. I swear it. Now, let me fetch Miss Weeton straight away and we shall get you started on your new project.”
“You say ‘fetch’ as if she were a dog bone. Let’s go find her together, shall we? That way we may begin my little project all the sooner.”
For the sooner he was distracted the better he would be. Though as they wove through the thickening crowd Tristan wasn’t convinced there was a distraction on earth capable of helping him forget what Rosalind Merriweather was quickly becoming to him.
Chapter 14
Rosalind’s intentions to provide Lady Belham with the companionship she so desperately craved worked beautifully in keeping her occupied. She saw Tristan, but from a distance, and had no trouble focusing on her very important job.
Until, that was, a debonair younger man—who could not keep his eyes from her bosom—approached her employer.
The instant attraction between t
he two fairly permeated the air with a tangible energy. Lady Belham appeared fifteen years younger. She flirted coyly with the man, tapping him on the shoulder with her fan when he gave her a compliment, used that same fan to draw the man’s attention to her endowments. Really, it was fascinating to watch, a veritable art form. And the man responded. When he asked Lady Belham to dance, she accepted readily enough. Before she went off, however, she turned to Rosalind and whispered in her ear, “Best not wait for me, darling. Head on home when you tire of the place and send the carriage back for me later.” And with a wink and a grin, she was off through the crowd, clinging tightly to her gentleman’s arm.
Rosalind worried her lip as she watched them go, a twinge of disquiet deep in her gut. Lady Belham needed a friend, not an affair.
A moment later and she shook her head. Lady Belham was a grown woman. She knew what she was about. Who was Rosalind to judge her? She was nothing, a mere companion. Yes, the man looked a rake. Yes, Rosalind despised all men like him. But Lady Belham was not some young debutante out on the marriage mart needing to worry over her chaste reputation. She was a widow, with all the freedoms that entailed.
Rosalind buried her disquiet as she watched them dance a touch closer than was proper on the floor and did what she had been bid. Though she certainly didn’t need time to tire of the place before leaving. For she hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.
Forcing her attention from her employer, she turned for the door. And was fairly slapped with the vision of Tristan across the room, giving a plain young woman The Look.
She had seen the expression before, of course. It was the same he’d used on Miss Gladstow. And it made distrust—and a fair amount of jealousy, though she wouldn’t focus on that—swell up in her breast. The man was up to something. Again.
She should head home as she had planned. It was no business of hers what Tristan did with the young woman. But Rosalind found she could not let it go. If something were to happen with that girl, and Rosalind suspected and did nothing to prevent it, she would never forgive herself. Letting loose a long sigh of disgust, she looked around, finding a quiet corner to hide in while she watched the couple. She would stay a short while, ensure Tristan had not planned anything nefarious for the girl, and be on her way. He didn’t even know she was here, after all. He would be none the wiser, and she could at least sleep easier tonight.
What she had not taken into account, however, was the assault on her senses as she stared at Tristan. She had spent so much of the evening not looking at him, she hadn’t realized what it would do to her when she did. The man had the same effect he always did on her, sending her good sense right out the window. Only now she found it had grown much worse in the last hours. For now she knew what it was to be held by him, to be kissed by him. And her body responded. Goodness, but it responded.
She took up her fan, snapping it open and plying it vigorously over her face and bosom. I am strong, she repeated silently to herself, a repetition of words she fully believed would sink in if said enough. I am not a ninny. I am strong. And he is just a man.
She turned the words over and over in her mind as he fetched the lady a punch. She repeated it fiercely as he smiled, his eyes crinkling and teeth flashing. And she very nearly said it out loud as he gallantly bowed to the woman and led her to the floor for a dance.
She had seen him dance before, of course, in the half dozen times he had taken Miss Gladstow out onto the floor. For a tall man he was ridiculously graceful, the moves of the dance showcasing his trim form to perfection.
But that was before she knew what said body felt like pressed to hers. Now she could admire it in a completely different manner. She plied her fan faster.
The dance was quickly over, the couples dispersing. Rosalind kept her gaze on Tristan, determined not to lose sight of him. He brought the lady to the side of the room and into the company of a young woman Rosalind remembered as being Lady Daphne Masters. After some minutes of polite conversation he was off.
…Leaving Rosalind feeling not a little deflated. She blew out a breath. She had been so sure he was up to no good. Yet his actions bespoke nothing of the sort.
Which was preposterous. She frowned, starting around the perimeter of the room. He was not a benevolent person. He was a rake. Men like him used people, women in particular. They did not cater to the lonely and the shy. They ate them up.
Which, of course, led to thoughts of mouths, and tongues, and other delicious bits that she had recently become acquainted with.
If she hadn’t been fairly blinded by such recollections, perhaps she might have seen the man in question lurking by the doors leading to the garden. And perhaps she might have been able to avoid him.
But, through perverse fate, she did not. A hand on her arm jerked her back to the glaring present. “We need to talk,” Tristan growled. Without waiting for her to agree, he dragged her out the doors and into the darkness of the night beyond.
The air was cool. Which was a blessing, as Rosalind’s skin was decidedly and unexpectedly warm. Especially where Tristan’s hand clasped her arm. She pulled from his grasp, before that heat flared into the dangerous inferno from the afternoon.
“You have been watching me.”
The accusation came hurtling at her from the shadows. Rosalind’s eyes were not yet adjusted to the dimmer light of the balcony. Even so she could see the tense line of Tristan’s jaw. “Yes, I have.”
He started, having not expected candor. “Why?” he demanded.
“Well, it is certainly not because I wished for more kisses,” she snapped, then immediately wished for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.
Through her embarrassment, however, his features were quickly becoming clearer in the indirect light from the ballroom. An unmistakable guilt twisted his lips. “Ah, yes. That.” He cleared his throat. “Please allow me to apologize for my actions. I fear I wasn’t myself.”
That made two of them. But she could not admit that. Instead, face burning, she mumbled, “Please, don’t mention it again. We shall forget it ever happened.”
“Yes, certainly.” He stood awkwardly for a time. Rosalind, seeing it as the ideal opportunity to escape and slink back home, where she could wallow in her embarrassment in peace, gave a jerky kind of curtsy and turned to go. His voice held her back.
“You have not answered my question.”
“No, I have not.”
Frustration tightened his mouth. “Rosalind,” he growled.
The sound of her name on his lips, said in that animalistic way, stole the breath from her body. Furious at herself for her reaction, she went on the attack. “You wish to know why I watched you? You truly wish to know?”
He seemed uncertain in the face of her ire. But he gave a sharp nod, thus unknowingly sealing his fate.
She stalked forward, pointing a finger into his chest. “I know you’re up to no good with that young lady. And I won’t stand for it.”
“Miss Weeton?” He let loose a surprised bark of laughter. “What the devil do you think I’m about?”
“Please,” she scoffed. “I know of men like you.”
Anger flared, erasing the stunned look in his eyes. “Once again you imply such. I am getting heartily sick of being lumped in with the despicable creatures you liken me to.”
“Are you saying you do not have ulterior motives in mind with Miss Weeton?”
He faltered. Triumph—and a surprising amount of disappointment—filled her. “Just as I thought.”
He held up a hand. “You have the wrong idea about it all.”
“Ha!”
The sound was surprisingly loud. Rosalind glanced around furtively. It was then she noticed how close they were to the open doors of the balcony. And in full view of the glittering throng within.
Grabbing his sleeve, she dragged him farther into the shadows, down the steps leading into the garden, along the side of the house. When she was certain they would
not be seen, she rounded on him again.
Only he had followed incredibly close to her. And his body was much too warm, much too large, much too…Tristan…in the darkness.
She gasped and stepped back. But her mind was in a tangle now. What had they been talking about? Ah yes, Miss Weeton.
“I don’t trust you, Sir Tristan. I won’t stand by and see that girl ruined.”
“I seem to recall you saying something similar about Miss Gladstow.”
She ignored the slightly strangled tone of his voice, instead focusing on her outrage. “Yes, I did.”
“And what happened with Miss Gladstow? I don’t seem to recall any ruination that took place. The opposite, in fact.”
It was her turn to falter. Had she forgotten so quickly that Miss Gladstow and Mr. Marlow had become engaged? Tristan had not ruined the girl. Quite the opposite, in fact. For he seemed to have had some part in their engagement coming about.
She stilled. An idea had come to her, but she could not countenance it. No. Surely not. He could not be…matchmaking?
In the faint moonlight Tristan’s eyes glittered, shock making him transparent. It was then she realized she had spoken aloud.
And that she was right.
“You are a matchmaker?” she asked, stunned.
He did not answer. But the sudden defensive angle of his chin told her all she needed to know.
Her jaw dropped. “You are. You’re playing matchmaker.”
His brows lowered. “You make it sound dirty.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No!” He growled low in his throat. “I swear, you are so stubborn and misguided you would make even a saint’s actions seem nefarious.”
She laughed, a harsh sound even to her own ears. “Are you likening yourself to a saint then?”
He stared at her in disbelief. “How is it that I can never say the right thing to you, that you can turn even the most innocuous things offensive?”
“I do not think playing with women’s lives is innocuous,” she retorted.
A Match Made In London Page 13