“Very astute of you,” she said archly, biting back a smile as he glowered. “As you can see, I have run into Mr. Carlisle, and he was kind enough to escort me to refreshments, for I was so very parched.”
She turned to indicate the gentleman. To her surprise he was nowhere to be seen. Flushing hot, for she must have lost him in her eagerness, she was about to return her attention to Tristan when she caught sight of Mr. Carlisle pushing through the crowd and hurrying toward her.
He grinned at Tristan. “Miss Merriweather has led me on a merry chase, but I have caught up with her. Never knew a woman who moved so fast. Good to see you again, Sir Tristan.”
“And you Carlisle.” Tristan made introductions all around. “And this is my good friend Lord Kingston,” he finished, indicating a swarthy, incredibly tall man she had previously overlooked. “We were at school together.”
“Lord Kingston,” Rosalind acknowledged, eyeing the newcomer with suspicion. Was Tristan planning on using his matchmaking skills to bring together Miss Weeton and this man? For he had all the indications of being the worst kind of rake.
He cemented those suspicions a moment later as he bowed over her hand and winked roguishly. “Miss Merriweather, it is a pleasure.”
She scowled mightily at him, transferring that scowl to Tristan as the other man returned his flirtatious attentions to Miss Weeton.
“What?” he whispered to her as Mr. Carlisle joined in the other couple’s conversation.
“You are planning on matching Miss Weeton with that…that…libertine.” Her lip curled on the last word, as if it were the worst curse. Which to her, she supposed, it was.
“There is nothing at all wrong with Rafe.”
Her mouth dropped. “Rafe? His name is Rafe? You cannot be serious.”
He actually had the audacity to roll his eyes. “Rafe is short for Rafael, a completely normal name.”
But their frantic whispering was beginning to draw odd looks from the others. She forced a smile. She did not need Miss Weeton to think any worse of her. “We will discuss this later,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
“Highly doubtful,” he mumbled back before redirecting his charming persona to the threesome.
“Challenge accepted,” she muttered.
• • •
“We have a discussion to continue, if I remember correctly.”
Tristan did not bother biting back his groan. He briefly considered turning right around and heading out of his study. He had alcohol in other rooms, after all. Rooms that did not contain the very distracting, very maddening presence of Miss Rosalind Merriweather.
But he refused to allow her to see how deeply she affected him. Without even a glance her way, he went to the small table in the corner and poured himself a drink. “You should be in bed, you know.”
“As should you,” she quipped. Of course.
He threw back the drink, feeling the burn of the whiskey straight to his gut, before pouring himself a second glass. “Would you care for some?” he asked in a casual manner, his tone a far cry from the way he truly felt.
There was a pause before she replied, with false bravado, “Yes, please.”
He poured a second glass before, picking both drinks up, he turned to go to her. There was a small fire lit in the hearth, the butler being fully aware of his propensity to visit his study for a drink after a night out. It was a low-burning thing, but enough to give a golden glow to Rosalind’s skin where she sat curled up in one of the overstuffed leather chairs placed before it.
It was such a homey scene. Rosalind was wrapped in a simple cotton dressing gown, her feet tucked beneath her like a child’s, her dark hair in a thick plait over one shoulder. The firelight caught in the strands, giving them a burnished glow. His chest ached from looking at her.
He realized in that moment that the desire he suffered for her was nothing compared to this. For this was longing, plain and simple. Yes, he wanted her body. He’d known that for weeks. But this was so much more. He wanted her. In his home, waiting for him at night, in his bed in the mornings.
He started so violently he nearly lost the contents of the glasses in his hands.
Tristan was not like many of the men in his position. He was not opposed to love or marriage by any means. In fact, he would dearly love to fall for someone, to make a life with that person.
But not Rosalind. Not the one person in this world who seemed to see through him, who made him feel as if he could do no right. The one woman who saw the scared boy within that he had worked so hard over the years to bury.
He had spent years denying that child who had tried so hard to please and had failed in every way, building himself up beyond himself and into the man he was. He was not about to give his heart to a woman who made him doubt the purging of those sad memories.
She sensed his hesitation then. He could see it in the deepening of those lines between her brows, in the slight tilt to her head. To stave off the questions that were surely taking shape in that too-busy mind of hers, he hurriedly handed her one of the glasses and sat down opposite her.
“Now,” he said, holding his glass before him like a talisman against the pull of her, “you were saying something about continuing our discussion?”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat, swinging her feet to the ground and sitting forward. He thought it would bring him relief, the businesslike mien she had taken. To his dismay, it did the opposite. For her dressing gown gaped in the front, showing the demure nightgown beneath, making him realize how little she was wearing.
Blessedly she was completely unaware of the torture he was in. “What in the world are you thinking, trying to match Miss Weeton with Lord Kingston?”
“And what is wrong with Lord Kingston?”
She rolled her eyes so violently he was surprised they did not roll right out of her head. “Oh, please. I saw the man.”
“And?”
“And? And he is a rogue. He will not think twice about ruining her, breaking her heart, destroying all the happiness in her.”
He looked closely at her. For there was entirely too much passion, too much knowledge hidden in those words for them to be prompted by a mere opinion garnered from gossip and assumption. And it was not the first time she had given this tell. “What happened to make you feel this way?”
She stiffened, her fingers tightening around her glass. “Nothing,” she muttered, sitting back.
Her expression was once more shuttered. He took a sip of his drink, watching her over the rim, letting the warm slide of the liquor travel down to his stomach before speaking again. “Then you have no reason to think badly of my friend.”
“I have every reason to think badly of him.”
“Do you know him then?”
She hesitated. “No,” she admitted with reluctance.
“Have you heard rumors about him? A firsthand account of his debauchery?”
“No.” This time through tightly gritted teeth.
He shrugged. “I rest my case.”
She sat forward again, her eyes blazing. “You rest nothing. I know what he is.”
For the first time in the exchange, anger began to stir in his breast. “Take care, for he is a friend of mine. I will not hear him disparaged.”
But she was apparently too angry herself to see how close he was to losing his temper. “Speaking the truth is not disparaging. Men like him think of nothing but their own pleasure. Women are playthings to them, nothing more.”
He slammed his glass down on the side table, the sound like a shot. She jumped, her eyes going wide as he sat forward. “You have said similar things of me, Rosalind. Tell me, do you think I am a beast as well? Do you think I am unable to control myself, that I would use a woman for pleasure and then abandon her to pernicious fate?”
For once, uncertainty seemed to take hold of her. And yet, being Rosalind, she would not give up her argument with any grace. “I—I couldn’t say.�
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Damn stubborn woman. The anger that sat slumbering in his breast came roaring to life then. “If I was that creature,” he snapped, “I assure you, you would not have walked away from our kiss in the garden with your innocence intact. For the very last thing I wanted to do in that moment was to stop kissing you. Even now, as maddening as you are, I want nothing more than to take you in my arms.”
Too late he realized what he had let slip. Her lips, those deliciously full lips of hers, parted in shock. He closed his eyes as mortification washed over him. Surely she would rant and rave at him for that. Goodness knew he deserved it.
But she did not. Instead a disconcerting silence reigned. Finally he could take it no more. Without looking her way—for he could not bear the censure in her gaze—he rose and spun about, heading for the door.
Her voice, soft and trembling, stopped him.
“Why did you tell me that?”
He stood frozen for a moment, struggling to understand it himself. “Damned if I know,” he managed before striding from the room.
Chapter 16
By the next morning Rosalind had nearly managed to convince herself that Tristan’s confession had been a ruse. He wanted to distract her, she reasoned, to throw her off the scent of his plans for Miss Weeton. He was much smarter than he let on, after all. He’d seen that she would not let it go, would make his life a living hell in order to keep Lord Kingston from the girl.
Yet there was a small kernel of doubt in her, like the faintest pinprick of light on the darkest night. What if what Tristan had said had been nothing but the barest, most raw truth? What if he truly did want her?
And if so, why the devil hadn’t he acted on it?
For, as appalling as the realization was, she had been deeply affected by his words. She knew that, if he had so much as touched her, she would have been lost to him. She would have given him everything he’d asked for.
It was that realization that had kept her awake all last night, that had her dodging him throughout the day. Not only because she should have been the last person to fall for a rake’s charms, but because he must have seen it in her. She had always been appalling at hiding her feelings. Her loose tongue had made that a certainty. But she also knew that her eyes often gave her away on the rare occasions her mouth did not. Her father used to love to tease her on it, claiming she would never be able to make a living at the tables.
Ironic, that, considering it had been his own losses at the tables that had put her in the situation she was in now.
But if Tristan had seen how she’d wanted him, why had he not taken advantage of the situation? Isn’t that what men like him did? They used women and discarded them like so much refuse.
Yet he hadn’t so much as touched her. And for the life of her she couldn’t figure out why. For if that small yet glowing part of her was correct, and he had voiced his true feelings on the matter, then her opinion of him thus far was wrong.
Which, of course, meant it was quite possible that everything she believed about men like him was wrong. And she could not comprehend such a thing. Not after it had ruled her life as it had for nearly a decade.
Blessedly, when she did see him later that night, he proved immediately that he could not have possibly told her the truth regarding his desires for her. For never had a man looked less thrilled to be in a woman’s presence than he did when she descended the stairs with Lady Belham for their planned evening out.
“Grace,” he said, all warmth and smiles as he moved forward to kiss his cousin on the cheek, “you look stunning. You will put every other lady there to shame.”
As Lady Belham laughed at his flattery, he turned to Rosalind. Immediately his smile faltered, his eyes skimming over her face and coming to rest somewhere above her right ear. Rosalind fought the urge to reach up to verify she didn’t have something offensive sprouting from the side of her head, so distasteful was his expression.
“Miss Merriweather,” he said with unconcealed reluctance.
And that was that. He offered his arm to Lady Belham, forcing Rosalind to trail behind them as they exited the townhouse and climbed into the waiting carriage.
“I must say,” Lady Belham said, adjusting her skirts to make room for Rosalind on the plush bench, “I truly enjoyed last night, Tristan. Lord Avery’s musicale was wonderful, a feast for the senses. I can see why they are highly acclaimed.”
“I’m glad you joined me,” he replied. The carriage started forward with a gentle rocking. “I did not expect to have your company.”
“Miss Merriweather does seem to have the most intuitive knowledge of what amusements I will find enjoyable,” Lady Belham replied. “I’m of a mind to give her free rein with my schedule.” She chuckled, patting Rosalind’s hand with affection.
Rosalind pierced Tristan with a look. Surely he would not ignore that. He never seemed to be able to pass up a chance to torment her.
But beside a slight tick in the muscles of his jaw there was no reaction at all from the man. He kept his eyes focused with impressive intensity on Lady Belham. It was like his cousin had not spoken of Rosalind at all. As if Rosalind was not even there.
A small devil seemed to perch on her shoulder then. Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Sir Tristan is the one with the intuition, I think. I am merely following suit. Though you must be happy, Sir Tristan, to be in company so often with your cousin.”
He did not even flick a glance her way. Instead he leveled a smile on Lady Belham. “It is true that I am happy to escort you about. It was my fondest wish when you first told me you would be joining me in London that we would be able to spend some time together. We got that chance so seldom when you were at Manderly Hall.”
“And yet you will not stop hounding me about my housing prospects,” she teased.
“Only because I believe you will be much happier to have a home of your own. You lived so long under Belham’s watch, you must be excited to have a place where your taste and spirit can be indulged.”
“That I would,” she mused, a melancholy look entering her eyes. It cleared quickly enough, turned to a teasing twinkle. “That does not mean I am in a hurry to leave your glorious company. Unless you wish to be rid of me?”
Once again that small devil whispered in Rosalind’s ear. “It’s not you he wishes to be rid of, my lady. I do believe Sir Tristan would be happy to see me gone with all haste.”
The blunt statement rang through the confines of the carriage. Finally Tristan’s gaze settled on her. Yet instead of denouncing her claim, as he would typically do, he merely stared at her with those blue eyes of his that told her he agreed with her wholeheartedly.
She swallowed past the surprising lump of hurt that settled in her throat.
Lady Belham laughed. “Miss Merriweather, you do know how to lighten the mood. It is why I adore having you about so.”
She went on talking, but Rosalind heard not a word. Instead she was held captive by Tristan’s gaze. Finally he turned to answer his cousin, releasing Rosalind from the prison of his unnerving stare.
Rosalind’s face burned so she directed her attention to the passing scenery, letting the two cousins converse. Why had she spoken? Why had she purposely drawn his attention? She should be happy he was leaving her be. She was merely a paid companion, after all, certainly not his equal in station nor circumstance. She was not here to enjoy the evening, but rather to keep her employer company.
But perhaps if she had not already been the recipient of Tristan’s polite, gentlemanly ways, perhaps if she had not known what it was to be treated with deference by him, it would not sting as much as it did now. And she realized in that moment that, though he had not been required to, he had not treated her as one would a servant. No, he had treated her as if she was on the same level as him, as if she belonged to his world. It was not something she had experienced in all her time in service. And it made her homesick in the worst way.
They arrived then. Rosal
ind forced herself back to the present. No good could come of thinking of the past. Or of pining for the attentions of a man who she had no intentions of being friendly with in the first place. It was time to focus on her job.
She managed to do so beautifully. For all of five minutes. She stuck to Lady Belham’s side like a burr, helping her with her outer things, seeing she was seated in a prime spot, securing her a drink. She might have gone on doing a proper good job for the remainder of the evening.
…Had she not spied Tristan and Lord Kingston making their rakish way toward Miss Weeton.
That was the only adjective she could think to use. She narrowed her eyes as she watched them. There was an easy grace to the way both men moved, a kind of loose-limbed surety. There was no doubt in either of their minds that they would be welcomed by the young lady, no doubt that anyone they wished to talk to in that infernal room would greet them with joy.
And, as suspected, Miss Weeton and her parents were only too happy to have them join their small group. The quintet soon fell into happy conversation and remained that way for the next quarter hour.
Rosalind seethed the entire while. Could the girl’s parents not see what a danger those two men were to their daughter? Did they not comprehend what they were about? Men like them did not pursue shy debutantes without ulterior motives in mind.
“Darling,” Lady Belham murmured, “I do think I’ll take myself off to the ladies’ retiring room.”
Rosalind started guiltily. She had only given the barest attention to her employer since her watch on Tristan and his unsavory friend began. Lady Belham had fallen into conversation with an older gentleman when they’d first arrived, but the man was gone now. How long ago had he left? Damn, but she was the worst companion in the history of the world, to ignore her employer so completely.
“Do you wish for me to accompany you?” she asked, desperate to make up for her inattention.
“No need. For what I have to do does not require company.” With a wink and a grin Lady Belham was off, threading through the growing crowd, disappearing out into the hall.
A Match Made In London Page 15