“I am not playing with them!”
“Is this a hobby for you?” she demanded. “A way to pass the time? You think to use these women to relieve your ennui?”
“No!” he ran a hand over his face. “You don’t understand.”
“Oh, I assure you, I do,” she snapped. “You probably think yourself some benevolent philanthropist, helping the plain and unwanted women of London find their happily ever afters. You cannot begin to think that a woman might find happiness without a man in her life; that she might prefer to be without one of the selfish, entitled males that think nothing of using a woman at will and then discarding her at the first opportunity to heartache and ruin.”
He gaped at her. Her anger dissolved instantly to horror. Why had she said so much? He must know now that there was something much deeper at work than a mere dislike of overbearing men. She steeled herself for the questions that must surely come after such an outburst.
But either he was too thick-skulled to put two and two together—complete poppycock—or he chose to overlook it. For he said, his eyes going serious, “I swear to you, I am not playing with these women.”
“We shall see about that.”
He stilled. “What the devil does that mean?”
“It means,” she said, advancing on him, “that I will stick to your side and see that Miss Weeton—or any other woman who comes into your orbit—remains safe, and is not pushed into anything against their will. It means,” she said, poking at his chest again, craning her neck to glare up at him, “that you will not be free of me until I see that you do not mean to cause mischief for the sake of merely relieving your boredom—”
He grabbed at her arms. She gasped, suddenly incredibly aware of how close they were, how large and warm his body was in the cool night air. She flattened her palms on his chest, intending to push him away. Instead her fingers curled around the material of his evening jacket, unintentionally strengthening the tether between them.
“Are you certain,” he rasped, his breath fanning over her face, “that is something you wish to do?”
Her heart pounded like a drum against her ribs, the strangest lethargy taking over her limbs even as her mind became incredibly attuned to every move he made. She scrambled to make a sensible argument. Instead, all she could manage was, “You won’t frighten me away.”
“You need to be frightened.”
“And you think this is the way to do it?”
His mouth lowered, hovering over hers. Their breaths mingled, rasping, drowning out the faint sounds of music and laughter drifting to them from the ballroom. “I know you liked my kisses, Rosalind,” he whispered, and she could almost taste the punch—and something stronger, champagne?—on his breath. “You wanted me. You want me now. I can feel it in the way you tremble beneath my touch, in the way you strain up to meet my lips.”
She almost closed the distance between them then. She very nearly pushed up on her toes, pressed her lips to his, answered the deep, primal call that he had awakened in her.
Instead, with incredible will, she released him, tore from his grip, and stumbled back. There she stood, panting, staring with a fair dose of defiance at him.
Not the smartest move, for bathed in pale blue moonlight, he looked like a Greek god of old, caught in stunning marble. Granted one clothed in exceptionally-cut clothing and not a sheet. Which only seemed to enhance his beauty. Drat it.
But she was losing her focus, something she needed in abundance when it came to Tristan.
“I am well able to refuse your advances, as you can see.”
He stared at her with growing respect before tugging on his forelock in salute. “So you can.”
“And you have not remotely managed to frighten me away. I am stronger than you think, Sir Tristan.”
“No, you are just as strong as I think you are,” he murmured.
It took Rosalind an amazing bit of effort to ignore the glow of pleasure that undeniable compliment gave her. “If that is true, then you know I have no choice in the matter.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I think you forget, Miss Merriweather, that you are employed by my own dear cousin. I daresay you will not have the time to follow me about.”
The smug look on his face made her long to slap him. Instead she smiled. “Put nothing past me, sir.”
Chapter 15
Put nothing past me, sir.
No, Tristan recalled ruefully as he helped Grace and Rosalind into his carriage the following evening, he certainly wouldn’t.
Grace adjusted her skirts, smiling at him as he vaulted inside and closed the door. “I am so glad I changed my plans tonight. Lord Avery’s musicale sounds much more diverting than the little dinner party we had planned on attending. Miss Merriweather made it sound quite exciting.”
“Did she now?” he murmured, shooting that woman a look. She smiled smugly at him. He tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of her abilities. He should be furious, of course, should denounce her to Grace as a scheming baggage. But he could not help feeling a grudging admiration. The woman was not one to be trifled with, that was certain.
“So tell me,” Grace went on, clearly oblivious to the roiling tension filling the carriage, “is it true Lord Avery is notorious for his singers?”
“Yes.” Tristan cleared his throat, focusing with all his might on Grace, doing his best to ignore Rosalind and her self-satisfied grin. “They are all brilliant to a one, of course. His ear for all things musical is exceptional, which is the main draw of his events. His ear for accents, however, is deplorable. It seems anyone can convince him they’re from Italy.”
Grace chuckled. “Well, if anything the evening shall prove to be enjoyable.” She launched into a list of the entertainments she had managed to see during her years in Scotland. Tristan did his best to focus on his cousin and remain unfazed by the watchful miss across from him. No easy task. Rosalind was entirely too pleased with herself. He was now positive that her threats from the past night had not been empty. She would stick to his side like a burr.
The irony of the situation did not elude him. In attempting to find something to distract himself from Rosalind, he had ensured he would be in her company for the foreseeable future.
He briefly considered abandoning the whole project. Miss Weeton was not the only young lady in London, after all, who could use his help. But he knew in his heart he would not. For one, Rosalind’s attentions were not limited to Miss Weeton; she had stated quite emphatically that she planned to look out for any female he paid attention to. But also, after the short conversation with Miss Weeton last night, he was drawn to her cause. She was sweet and sensitive. And the dreaded cousin her parents were considering marrying her off to should she fail this Season—a distant relation she had met but once as a child—sounded a taciturn brute who would drain all life from her. The girl needed help. He pressed his lips tight. And he would not let Rosalind and her misplaced honor interfere.
They arrived then and, after descending to the pavement, made their way into the brightly-lit townhome. As luck would have it, Miss Weeton and her family were milling about the front hall.
No, he would not give up on the girl. But he did not want to intentionally place her in Rosalind’s path. Tristan put his head down, planning on forging ahead straight to the music room and securing their seats. There were enough guests between them and the Weetons that it would not seem suspect to bypass them. Hopefully Rosalind would be too distracted to notice the young lady.
But luck, that faithless hussy, was not with Tristan that night. For Rosalind stopped dead in the middle of the cavernous hall and remarked, in a carrying voice, “Sir Tristan, is that not Miss Weeton, the lady you met last night?”
Several conversations faltered, numerous sets of eyes swinging their way. Miss Weeton’s among them.
Seeing no way out of greeting the lady, Tristan forced a smile and guided Grace and Rosalind over. Before they reached the young
lady and her family, however, he dipped slightly in Rosalind’s direction, saying through gritted teeth in a low, tense voice, “I know what you’re about, you minx.”
“I know you do,” she whispered back. “I also know you absolutely hate it. Which is an added bonus, really.”
He choked on a laugh. Really, the woman never failed to surprise him. Granted, most of her surprises were unwelcome in the extreme. Still, he had to give her credit for creativity.
“Miss Weeton,” he said with a bow, “it is an absolute pleasure to see you again.”
The young woman, a tall, thin creature with severely styled hair pulled back from her pale face, smiled and dipped into a curtsy. “Sir Tristan, the pleasure is mine. I did not know I would see you this evening.”
“Oh yes, I never miss Lord Avery’s musicales. For though the singer he chooses is always a draw, I never fail to find something else to recommend the occasion to me.”
She blushed, her smile widening. In the next moment her mother’s elbow connected with her side. She jumped, giving a squawk of surprise. Her delicate blush turned to flaming mortification. “But forgive me, I’m being rude. Please allow me to introduce my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Weeton of Derbyshire. Mama, Papa, this is Sir Tristan Crosby. I met him last evening at Lady Harper’s.”
Tristan bowed, gifting the girl’s parents with his most charming smile. “Your daughter is a lovely dance partner,” he said.
Mrs. Weeton blushed and stammered, her husband smiling benignly at his daughter.
And Rosalind’s small heel found his foot.
He shot her an annoyed glare. She returned it with an impatient one of her own. Did she think he would forget her? Hardly. He was painfully aware of where she was every minute of every blasted day.
“Please allow me to introduce my cousin, Lady Belham,” he said, purposely turning his back on Rosalind, facing Grace on his left. He fought back a grin at the small huff of annoyance behind him. “Grace, this is Miss Weeton and her parents. I was lucky enough to meet and dance with Miss Weeton last night.”
This time Rosalind’s shoe connected with his calf with a surprising amount of force. Tristan could take a bit of pain—he had been brought up by his father, after all, who had been stingy with neither the whip nor the cruelty of his words—and would have delayed acknowledging Rosalind forever if he could manage it.
But he was not an uncivilized brute. He turned to Rosalind. “And this is my cousin’s companion, Miss Rosalind Merriweather,” he muttered.
To his shock, Rosalind stepped forward, holding out her hand to the young lady. “It is such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Weeton. I was most anxious to make your acquaintance, you see, for Sir Tristan has nothing but praise for you.”
Miss Weeton stared down at Rosalind as if she were a feral cat about to attack. Eventually she took the proffered hand. “Thank you.”
Rosalind did not seem the least bit discouraged by the other girl’s less than enthusiastic reaction. “Have you attended Lord Avery’s musicale before? I have heard wondrous things about the performances.”
“Y-yes.” Miss Weeton looked to him in a panic.
“Oh? Perhaps we may sit beside one another. I am not at all gifted when it comes to music, but mayhap you are?”
Tristan couldn’t take a moment more. For not only did Miss Weeton look like a startled fawn about to bolt, but he did not think he could keep a straight face were he to allow Rosalind to go on as she was.
“You know, Miss Merriweather, I think it a grand idea that our two groups combine. If Mr. and Mrs. Weeton are not opposed, of course.” As the two elder Weetons stammered their delight with the idea, all the while looking cautiously at Rosalind, he flashed a smile and offered his elbow to Miss Weeton. “Shall we go ahead and secure our seats? I’m sure your parents and my cousin would love to become better acquainted. Lady Belham has only recently come from Scotland, you know, where she has lived for close to two decades now,” he said, directing his attention to Mr. Weeton. “I hear you have a beautiful property there, and near Edinburgh, which is quite close to my cousin’s former estate Manderly Hall, outside of Haddington.”
As Mr. Weeton’s eyes lit and he began to ply Grace with all manner of questions, Tristan guided Miss Weeton away. But not before he caught Rosalind’s frustrated glare. Smiling in triumph at her, he turned his back and moved off through the crowd.
• • •
The man was insufferable. She knew she must have thought it before, but now she truly meant it, with every fiber of her being.
Rosalind sent a covert glare his way. He didn’t see it, blast him, seated as he was half the row away, beside Miss Weeton. Yes, the man had taken advantage of the seating, and seen to it that not only was Lady Belham placed between them, but Mr. and Mrs. Weeton as well. Not a hard thing to do. For after discussing their Scottish properties, it had been discovered that the Weetons and Lady Belham shared several acquaintances. This led to an involved discussion that carried them beyond the front hall, through the hallways of the stately home, and into the sage and cream opulence of the music room.
Rosalind had glowered and seethed her way through the entire ordeal. For how was she to get into Miss Weeton’s good graces if she could not have access to her? Yes, she had come off a bit strong upon their introduction. And yes, she had much ground to make up if she was to befriend the girl. But she could not very well do that from where she was.
As Tristan well knew.
As if she had called to him, he lifted his head and looked her way. She had the childish urge to stick her tongue out at him. Instead she speared him with a stern glare that she hoped conveyed her thoughts on his little manipulation of the seating arrangements.
Her message must have come across loud and clear. For he grinned in that unrepentant way of his that never failed to set her teeth on edge.
She didn’t care how beautiful the singing was, she thought sourly, this evening could not end soon enough.
When the performance finally ended, Rosalind stood up with alacrity, ready to pounce on Miss Weeton and make her like her. Yes, she had botched things up horribly already. But really, it couldn’t be that difficult. Look how easy it was for that bounder Tristan, after all.
But already he was guiding the girl away, no doubt in search of refreshments. She let loose a little growl of frustration.
“I say, Miss Merriweather, are you well?”
Rosalind gasped and spun around. “Oh! Mr. Carlisle. I did not expect to see you here. Is your father well?”
He smiled warmly at her. “He seems to be improving, thank you. And so he has sent me from the house to enjoy a night on the town. How did you like the performance?”
“It was lovely,” she replied automatically. Yet she realized in that moment that she hadn’t truly heard a bit of it. She knew the singing had been beautiful. She also knew the soprano, though she had made herself somehow appear young and vivacious, had to be sixty years if she was a day.
If the woman ever found it difficult to find a job singing, she could certainly make a fortune selling her beauty secrets to the women of the ton.
But if one were to ask her opinion beyond that, she would be hard pressed to answer with any certainty. All because of a devilish rake that seemed to enjoy making her life difficult.
But perhaps Mr. Carlisle would prove what she needed to lay waste to Tristan’s plans. She lifted her fan, working it over her face until a brisk wind started up. “Is it over warm in here, do you think?”
As expected, he looked instantly concerned. “Perhaps you are in need of refreshment. Shall I fetch something for you?”
She graced him with a look that suggested he was the most brilliant man in existence. At least, she hoped that was what it conveyed. For it certainly would not do for him to see the self-satisfied cunning she currently felt at knowing he was falling right into her plans.
“A refreshment sounds ideal. Though perhaps,” she continued, ta
king a quick peek at Lady Belham to assure herself she was engaged, “I may join you in the search? Sitting still so long makes me anxious.”
He nodded graciously, guiding her out of the row and through the busy room. “You know,” he mused as they circumnavigated a group of matrons, “I cannot help noticing that you are quite different from your sister, in more ways than one. For if I remember correctly she was not so fond of exercise.”
Rosalind laughed quietly, her hand going to her locket as it always did when she thought of her sister. “You are right in that. She preferred travelling in a carriage to walking any distance. I recall on one occasion we were to visit a family a mere quarter mile away. She insisted on the carriage being readied, though it took a full three quarters of an hour to prepare, rather than to walk ten minutes to our destination.”
“That does sound like her.” He chuckled, before sobering. “I truly am sorry she is gone, you know. She was a wonderful person and did not deserve to have her life cut so short.”
The burn of tears was not from grief this time, but happiness. It stunned her. She had been focused so long on the bad, she had quite forgotten to think of the good. “Thank you,” she replied with feeling.
They entered the hallway where guests were mingling. Mr. Carlisle immediately flagged down a footman, taking up two glasses of champagne. She took hers gratefully, all the while scanning the surrounding area for Tristan. Where the devil was he?
“Shall we head this way, then?” she asked her companion. Before he could answer, she started off down the hall. Mr. Carlisle she assumed trailed behind. She wasn’t quite certain, for she never looked back to check. She was much too busy scanning the heads that towered above her, peering into the rooms on either side, trying with all her might to find that telltale pale hair.
When she had begun to give up and head back to the music room and her employer, she spotted him in the entrance hall. She strode across the gleaming floor, stopping not a foot from him. “Sir Tristan, Miss Weeton.” She smiled and curtsied.
He looked at her as if she were demon spawn from hell. “Miss Merriweather. You are not with my cousin?”
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