Rosalind sighed morosely. If she wished to keep her position she had better start focusing on her duties rather than worrying about what one handsome baronet was up to.
She clasped her hands in her lap and purposely turned her head to the side, assuring herself Tristan was nowhere in her line of sight. She would not have the man lose her a second position. Granted, it was her own fault this time, for she could not seem to put him from her mind. But still.
Time passed slowly. More than once she glanced to the small clock above the mantle. At five minutes she began to grow restless. At ten, she began shifting in her seat. And at fifteen she had to battle with herself to keep from turning her head. Her neck began to ache, her eyes to strain as she focused with all her might on the decorative carvings that adorned the massive marble fireplace beside her. She would not look at Tristan, would rather die than lose this battle.
But when the hands of the clock moved past the twenty-minute mark, concern reared its head. For it came to her in a flash that Lady Belham had still not returned.
She frowned. No, surely she could not have been gone that long. But the hands of the clock did not lie. Rosalind stood and marched for the door. Mayhap Lady Belham was in some distress. She’d best check on her straight away.
She hurried down the hall and quickly found the small room set aside for the ladies. But once within, Lady Belham was nowhere to be found.
“Excuse me,” she said to the young maid stationed there, “but has Lady Belham come this way? She is tall, with black hair, wearing a sapphire blue gown.”
“Yes, miss,” the maid piped up with a grin, looking up from her kneeling position as she hemmed with quick fingers an elderly woman’s gown. “That is, she was here, oh, about twenty minutes past. Left right quick, though.”
“Thank you,” Rosalind murmured, her brow puckering as she turned back toward the door. Where had Lady Belham gone?
So distracted was she, she stepped out into the hallway—and nearly ran Miss Weeton over.
“Oh! I am terribly sorry, Miss Weeton. I was not looking where I was going. I was searching for Lady Belham and have been unable to locate her.”
The young lady dipped her head, an embarrassed flush spreading over her cheeks. “Please think nothing of it. And if you are looking for Lady Belham she has just returned to the drawing room.”
Relief poured through Rosalind. That at least answered that, though where her employer had been for nearly half an hour was still a mystery. But as Miss Weeton made to go around her Rosalind stepped in her path, halting her. She might not get another chance like this to befriend the girl. She had better take advantage of their chance meeting.
“It is so lovely to see you again,” she said with warmth. “It was such a pleasure to meet you at Lord Avery’s. Are you a great fan of music?”
Miss Weeton looked at her with uncertainty. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“I love it as well, though I have no talent for instruments. Do you play?”
“Yes.”
“And what is it you play?”
“The pianoforte.”
Again the girl tried to go around her. Again Rosalind stepped in front of her.
“And what composer do you favor?”
She had hoped that, by giving the girl an encouraging smile and asking after her likes, she might draw her out. But if anything her expression became more closed off, tense. “I don’t rightly know,” Miss Weeton gritted.
Rosalind stopped herself from growling her frustration. Really, why could the girl not meet her halfway? She was being nothing but pleasant. Pasting on another bright smile, she tried again. “But surely you have a preference. Or mayhap you prefer older country tunes? Or something with a religious bent?”
“Miss Merriweather,” the girl burst out, with more passion than Rosalind had ever seen from her, “would you please move. For I need to access the retiring room.”
At once the folly of what she had done came crashing down on her. Goodness, here she had been intent on befriending the girl, and instead she had forced the girl to stand in discomfort. Her face going hot, she quickly stepped to the side.
Miss Weeton, polite girl that she was, nodded her thanks, and then sprinted through the door, slamming it closed behind her.
Foolish woman, Rosalind silently berated herself. For if the girl had not wanted to be friends before, she certainly would not now. Not after that bit of embarrassment. She turned for the drawing room, feeling much like a dog scurrying back to safety with its tail between its legs, when the sight at the other end of the hall froze the very blood in her veins, then immediately heated it to boiling.
For Tristan stood there, staring at her with blatant horror.
Pulling her shoulders back, she marched forward. But that same devil that had perched on her shoulders earlier in the evening performed an encore, for she could not pass Tristan by without muttering acidly, “Are you happy, you cretin?”
“Not in the slightest, Miss Merriweather.”
The answer was said so gravely, she stopped and glared at him. “Talking to me again, are you?”
Instantly his expression shuttered. “I would think you could guess why I have acted the way I have this evening.”
“And I would think you could guess that your change in attitude toward me would bring up unwanted questions as to its cause. Something I have no wish to happen, as I like this position and have no wish to lose it.”
She didn’t know what made her say it. She was certainly better off having him ignore her. For when she received his full and direct attention she tended to make the most bumbling, idiotic mistakes imaginable. Like letting him kiss you senseless. She hurriedly quieted the small voice in her head. She should apologize, should let it be. For hadn’t she wanted more than anything for him to leave her alone?
Before she could open her mouth, however, he spoke. “You are right, of course. I seem to forever be making mistakes where you are concerned.”
The comment was so heartfelt, so genuinely frustrated, she was struck dumb. Flustered beyond bearing, knowing she only had to get away from him as soon as possible before things became even stranger between them, Rosalind ducked her head and hurried past him. Not knowing if she had won a battle or made the biggest mistake of her life.
• • •
Tristan had sent his valet off to bed and was about to shrug out of his dressing gown, climb between the sheets, and attain blessed sleep. He needed that oblivion, troubled as he was by his confrontation with Rosalind earlier in the evening.
As his hands went to the silk tie of his dressing gown, however, his eyes fell on the two small miniatures he kept on his mantle. They were the only family portraits he had in his home. The first showed a young woman barely of age, a gentle smile curving her lips. His mother. Married at sixteen, a mother at seventeen, dead a mere five years later. She had not lived long past the painting of the picture. The very sight of it brought him pain. But she had been forgotten by everyone else, his father especially, who had done everything in his power to erase every reminder of his first wife from his life after her untimely passing. Including pushing his son away, doing everything but disowning him.
The other portrait was of Grace. She too was smiling, young and innocent and eager for her life to start. That had been before she’d been married off against her wishes to a man twice her age, forced to live far from everything she’d ever known. It had not been a happy union, Tristan knew, though she had made the best of it, had even become friends of a sort with her husband after a time. He had thought her coming to London after her year of mourning was up was an ideal plan. She had always thrived in a lively, vibrant atmosphere. And they could finally spend more than a few weeks at a time with one another, out from under the stern eye of her husband. He’d thought she might find happiness here.
Now he wondered.
For though he had been focused on Rosalind and her failed attempts to befriend Miss Weet
on and the muck-up he’d made—yet again—in dealing with her, he had been distantly aware of something seeming very off about Grace. She had appeared pensive most of the night, more subdued than she typically was. But now that he thought on it, there had been moments of melancholy since her arrival. And then hiring Rosalind on? His cousin was a kind woman. When Rosalind came to her asking for work she would have helped her in some way. But she seemed to genuinely need the other woman’s presence, relied on her in a way he had never expected. Was she unhappier than she was letting on? Without a second thought, he retightened the sash and hurried from his room on bare feet.
His cousin answered his knock cheerfully enough. But she was not in bed as he expected her to be when he entered her room. Rather, she was at her desk, a letter smoothed open before her on the shining top. When she saw him she took it up and folded it, hiding it away in a side drawer.
“Have you come to tuck me in and kiss me on the head and bid me sweet dreams?” she teased, turning in her seat to face him.
“I might, if you were not a year older than me. And if I didn’t expect you to kick me in the shins.”
She chuckled as he pulled up a chair close to her and sat. “Well, I know you must have come here with a purpose in mind. Out with it, darling, for you keep me in the most acute suspense.”
Nothing but the bluntest words would do for Grace. And so he said, without even the slightest pause, “Are you happy in London?”
She blinked. “Goodness, what brought this about?”
He blew out a breath. “London is a far cry from what you’re used to, Grace. You have lived nearly half of your life quietly at Manderly, surrounded by picturesque moors. Before that you lived with your parents, an uneventful life in the country.”
Her smile became strained. “And you know full well that was not a life I would have chosen. I have always wished for the vibrancy of a big city, the life and noise and excitement.”
“What we want and what we need are often two very different things,” he replied quietly.
She cut a hand through the air, her lips pressing in a thin, unforgiving line. “Enough. Where did this come from, Tristan? For something must have spurred on this particular concern.”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “We know each other better than anyone, cousin. And I know you have not seemed entirely happy since your arrival.”
She arched one inky eyebrow. “I would remind you that I am a widow now, and thus have a perfectly good reason for being melancholy at times, but you are fully aware of that fact.”
“And I would remind you that your husband, who you barely tolerated, died over a year ago.” He peered closely at her. “But it is more than that. Over the course of the last two nights it has become more pronounced. What is it, Grace?”
She seemed to deflate before his eyes. Her gaze dropped to her lap, where her elegant fingers plucked mercilessly at her dressing gown. “Mayhap it was remembering Scotland and Manderly so clearly,” she mumbled.
He frowned, thinking back, before lighting on her meaning. “You refer to the Weetons?”
She shrugged, her eyes still on her hands. “As you said, I’ve lived there half of my life. Talking of it with them, remembering all that was good about it, made me a touch homesick.”
He leaned forward and took her hand in his. She gripped his fingers tight, her knuckles going white.
“I admit I did not give a thought to how difficult such a move must be to you. I know you went about in society as often as you could. Yet it cannot compare to what you have been thrown into since you arrived.”
She frowned. “That’s not it at all. It’s just…different, is all.”
He watched her for a time before asking quietly, “Do you want to return?”
Her eyes did meet his then, the surprise in them evident. “To Manderly?” She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “No, Tristan, I do not want to return there.”
“Perhaps there is a part of you that truly wishes to.” When she opened her mouth, no doubt to give him a proper set down for being so pig-headed, he held up a hand. “Will you promise to think on it at least? I have no wish to lose you back to the North, but I also want you to be happy, Grace. Consider it, will you?”
For a moment she tensed, and he thought she might give him a blistering set-down for presuming so much. But then she blew out a long breath and slumped in her seat. “Very well, I will think on it. I know you only want what’s best for me. Though you can be assured I will not change my mind. You are stuck with me, you know.”
He grinned. “I would not mind that in the least.” But as he kissed her on the cheek and rose to leave, he thought about Rosalind. If Grace remained, so would her companion.
Panic filled him at the very thought of being forced into company with Rosalind for weeks, months…years, even. But liberally laced with that panic was an acute pleasure.
He had to find Grace a home of her own. And the sooner the better.
Chapter 17
Nearly a week later and Rosalind was no closer to befriending the very shy, very skittish Miss Weeton.
She had not been short on opportunities—nor the drive to succeed—but there was always something that seemed to go wrong. Such as the punch she spilled on Miss Weeton’s hem during one unforgettable ball. Or the stumble she’d taken in the park, propelling her into Miss Weeton and nearly sending the poor girl arse over head into the bushes. Or when she’d suggested Miss Weeton play after dinner one evening, not knowing the paralyzing fear public performance had on her.
Really, she thought morosely as she hurried to Lady Belham’s room for their afternoon walk, if awards were being given out for tormenting the poor girl, Rosalind would have received a number of medals by now.
And then there was Lady Belham herself. For she seemed to be plagued at times by low spirits. That and her growing tendency to eschew Rosalind’s company had begun to prey on Rosalind’s mind. What did it mean? Did Lady Belham mean to let her go?
To her relief, Lady Belham appeared in good spirits today. As Rosalind entered she gave her a glowing smile and motioned to the two pelisses her maid Tessa was holding out.
“Which one of these do you think goes with my gown, Miss Merriweather?” Lady Belham asked.
“The pale cream, I think,” Rosalind answered. “It is a beautiful contrast to the amethyst of your gown and makes your dark hair even more striking.”
Lady Belham smiled in delight, letting Tessa help her on with the pelisse before turning to admire herself in her looking glass. “Miss Merriweather, you are a gem. You truly have an eye for these things.”
“Thank you, my lady. Are you ready? Shall we be off?”
Lady Belham’s face fell. “Oh, but didn’t I tell you? I had planned on a solo outing this afternoon.”
Rosalind’s heart dropped to her stomach. “Are you certain, my lady?”
“Oh, yes.” Lady Belham tugged on her gloves, holding them out to Tessa to be secured, and sent a smile Rosalind’s way. “Relax this afternoon, darling, and I’ll see you when I return.”
Rosalind left the room as her employer busied herself with her bonnet. She shouldn’t fret over it, she told herself as she returned to her room to drop off her things. It was nothing. So the woman was enjoying some time alone. It certainly didn’t mean Rosalind was not wanted.
But a creeping voice inside of her warned that it could very well mean Rosalind was no longer needed. Which was a death knell for companions. For if Lady Belham decided she could do without her, where did that leave Rosalind?
She had often feared losing her position in the past. And with Mrs. Gladstow that had been a daily concern, a constant ball in the pit of her stomach that could not be eased.
Now, however, it was more than the position she feared losing. It was Lady Belham herself. For Rosalind cared for the woman much more than she ever dreamed she could. It was almost like having Guinevere ba
ck.
She did not know what she would do if she lost that now.
Much soberer than before, Rosalind emerged from her room after a time and descended to the first floor. She would escape to the library and forget her troubles in a book.
But as she wandered down the hall that led to Tristan’s study she heard his deep voice rumbling from its depths. Her steps slowed, then stopped. She found herself moving closer the better to hear him. She had not expected him to be home, as he often took himself off in the afternoons now. No longer did he attempt to join Lady Belham on her walks. No longer did he force his company on Rosalind. Oh, he was never anything but polite. After their talk nearly a week ago, he had been unfailingly proper with her.
Even so, Rosalind felt the loss of his easy smiles and quick, teasing wit like a blow.
“I won’t need a carriage tonight, Danielson,” Tristan was saying. “Lord Kingston will be here at eight with Miss Weeton and her parents, and I shall ride with them to the theatre.”
Rosalind’s back teeth ground together. She had tried so hard over the past week to protect Miss Weeton as best she could from Tristan and his friend. Yet nothing had worked. She felt like a bystander watching a carriage accident. She was utterly helpless, with no recourse at all to protect the girl from the attentions of such charmers.
Even worse, her own common sense seemed to be crumbling to dust where it came to the man. For her heart, traitor that it was, was pining in the worst way for the return of the attentions he had shown her before.
“Very good, Sir Tristan,” the butler intoned, pulling her from her discomfiting thoughts. Just then the man’s voice dropped, carrying a tension that she had never heard from him. “Another letter has arrived from Sainsly.”
There was a rustling of paper followed by a thick silence. Then, to her shock, Tristan’s voice, tight with some barely controlled emotion.
“Burn it,” he growled. “I have told you on numerous occasions to burn anything that comes from her.”
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