A Match Made In London

by Christina Britton

“Oh yes, quite.”

  Tristan helped Rosalind down. Together they waved as Grace started off down the street.

  And then they were alone.

  Why, he thought as they stood side by side on the pavement on the busy street, did he feel as if they were the only two people in the world?

  He knew they could not stand there forever, that they should move indoors, which he in his dazed state of mind seemed unable to do. Beside him, Rosalind fidgeted, moving from one foot to the other before, with a jerky motion of her hand, she said, “Shall we?”

  He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, let’s.”

  As one they entered the house, their silence broken only by the murmurings of the butler as he took their outerwear. There was something incredibly intimate in the whole thing, as if they were a couple, returning home together.

  The strangest longing overtook him at the thought. It was not abhorrent in the least; instead, it made his chest ache in the most surprising way.

  “Well then,” Rosalind said as the butler moved off. “I shall see you later.” She turned to go.

  The most intense panic overcame him then. “Wait!”

  She started, looking at him uncertainly. “Yes?”

  Now what? He didn’t have a clue. All he knew was he didn’t want to part with her. Then he hit on a brilliant idea. “I thought perhaps we could discuss the progress of our wager.”

  Was that relief in her eyes? But it was gone in the blink of an eye. “What a splendid idea. For I shall be able to list all the reasons why I shall be the victor.”

  He laughed. “We shall see about that,” he murmured.

  As one they started through the house. Truthfully he could hardly see where they were headed, his mind too full of visions of her momentary relief.

  The last days had provided a kind of peace from the constant battles that had taken up their time together thus far. Now that she wasn’t attacking him with her sharp tongue, he could see more clearly the humorous wit she possessed, the innate kindness in her. And the fierce loyalty. She truly cared for Grace and Miss Weeton. And, he realized now that he was distanced from the situation, she had cared for Miss Gladstow as well. She truly wanted what was best for these women and feared them being taken advantage of almost to the point of obsession.

  What, he wondered not for the first time, had brought about such a protective instinct in her, an instinct that went well beyond normal concern?

  They reached the downstairs sitting room then. But at the door Tristan paused.

  She looked at him in curiosity. “Is something wrong?”

  “Not at all. Only we’ve had such a lovely day out of doors, I thought perhaps we might take a walk in the garden?”

  “Certainly.” She flushed and followed him to the small garden at the back of the house.

  It was a natural thing for him to lead the way then, to find the small alcove with the stone bench that he so loved to spend time in. He often retreated here, after all, in troubling times. But as they sat on the cool stone, Tristan realized the reason for Rosalind’s small blush when he had suggested the garden. For it wasn’t long ago that he had kissed her in this very same place, on this very same bench. Merely thinking of it now had him aching to do the very same, to take her in his arms and claim her mouth with his own.

  He clenched his hands on his knees and slid across the seat to the farthest corner. They had barely begun to grow friendly. He would not ruin that blossoming friendship with a renewal of those attentions she had been so vocal in proclaiming a disgust for.

  “Now,” he said a touch too loudly, determined to make this as normal a situation as he could manage, “you were saying something about listing all the reasons why your Mr. Carlisle will win Miss Weeton’s heart?”

  She seemed to relax at the return of their playful banter. At least as much as one person could relax while nearly hugging the edge of the bench. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “First off, may I say what a brilliant idea it was to take a trip to the country for a picnic. Never have I seen Miss Weeton so relaxed.”

  He blinked. “Why, Rosalind, never say you are complimenting me.”

  She flushed again. “It would be rude of me not to say anything. As a matter of fact, I must commend you on your integrity throughout this entire affair. You have kept your word, which I certainly never thought you would do.”

  “You overwhelm me with your praise,” he drawled.

  “That is,” she hurried to say, aghast, “I never believed men such as you would keep their word. I mean,” she gasped, turning as red as the roses across the path, “you…I… Oh,” she moaned, putting her hands over her face, “can we please forget the past minute ever occurred?”

  He might have chuckled and waved it off. Instead he reached out, gripping her slender wrist in his hand, gently tugging until her face was exposed, every reddened, horrified bit of it. “Rosalind, were you or someone you loved hurt by a man like me?”

  From the misery that darkened her eyes, he realized he had deduced the truth of the matter. For so many weeks she had treated him like the enemy. Now that they had begun to be friends, he realized there was something much deeper at work here. She had been hurt by a man’s perfidy. And had painted all men similar to him with the same broad brush.

  Had Rosalind been the one to reap the fruits of such a man’s betrayal? The very idea sent a shaft of fury through him. But no, it could have been anyone she had cared about. A friend, a neighbor.

  A sister.

  At once he knew he was right. Especially when he saw her fingers once again at the small locket that graced her throat. It was the perfect size to contain a memento of someone she had cared for and lost. Who better than the sister she still mourned?

  He wanted to question her on it. More than anything, he wanted to know the secrets deep in her heart. But looking into her eyes, he saw the fragile trust there. Trust that she was only beginning to form with him. A trust he had not realized until that very moment he wanted so badly. He would not destroy the new bud of it before it had a chance to blossom, would not destroy the chance for it to grow into a natural and lasting thing.

  He smiled gently. “Well, I must say I’m glad you have decided to bestow your trust in me. But you needn’t be surprised. For I vow I shall never give you cause to doubt my word.”

  She seemed to melt under his regard. They stared at one another for long minutes. It was only then he realized his hand had moved from her wrist, that her fingers were in his, that his thumb was drawing circles over her knuckles.

  He dropped her hand as if it were a hot coal. “Now then, where were we? Ah, yes, you were proclaiming me the best of men, the most trustworthy creature in existence. You may continue.”

  She laughed a bit breathlessly, though he could not help but see out of the corner of his eyes how she was slow in bringing her hand back to her lap. “At least I may know that no compliment is too small for the likes of you, for you shall inflate it to suit. Now then,” she continued, suddenly all business, “you wished to know why I think Mr. Carlisle will win the day?”

  He inclined his head to indicate she should continue.

  Rosalind cleared her throat, and he was put in mind of a barrister standing up before the courts. “You may have noticed,” she said, “how at ease Miss Weeton has become with Mr. Carlisle. And though she can claim the same ease with Lord Kingston, at times she is positively flustered around him. Mr. Carlisle, however, never brings about such a malady in her.”

  “So let me see if I have this right, you believe that, because Miss Weeton is not as affected by Mr. Carlisle, that she prefers him?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  He laughed. “My dear Rosalind, if that is your belief then I am heartily glad I was the one to take up matchmaking and not you. For it is precisely Miss Weeton’s flustered state when dealing with Rafe that tells me he is the one she wants.”

  She frowned. “How so?”

  “Well
,” he hemmed, “I’m not sure you would be at all willing to hear my excuse. For it tells of a certain knowledge of the inner workings of the human heart.”

  She swallowed visibly. “You have…been in love then?”

  “No.”

  Relief flared in her eyes. His heart leapt. Was she troubled by the idea of him being in love? And why did that make his heart sing?

  But she quickly frowned, banishing the softer emotion. “But if you have not been in love, how do you know how a person in love acts?”

  “I’ve seen my fair share of couples in love. And I can tell you with certainty that when one’s heart is engaged, the body responds as well. With, let’s say, flushed skin.” He pointed to the faint blush staining her porcelain cheeks. “Or a quickened pulse.” Here he indicated the long column of her throat, where even from where he sat, he could see the beat of her heart making the fine, translucent skin beneath her jaw flutter like mad. “Or an increased sensitivity of the skin.” He traced the line of her arm, his fingers a hairsbreadth from her skin, fascinated as the fine hairs there stood on end. “Mayhap,” he continued hoarsely, “even trembling.” He should not touch her. Yet when he saw the faint tremor in her hand he could not help brushing his fingers along it where it lay in her lap. She shook under his touch, overtaken with a gentle shudder.

  “And you think Miss Weeton is affected in such a way with Lord Kingston?” she asked, her voice faint and breathy. “You can tell by observing that she feels none of those things for Mr. Carlisle?”

  “I know she doesn’t.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Are you a mind reader then?”

  “No, just incredibly observant.”

  “I must take care then,” she said as she leaned away from his touch, her voice sounding strangled to his ears, “that you don’t read me as well.”

  “I would never presume.”

  Her lips kicked up in a small, humorless smile. “Afraid of what you shall find?”

  “Not at all.” But wasn’t he? Hadn’t he shied away from her from the very beginning because she seemed to see straight to the flaws in him, to every uncertainty and fear?

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully, seeing his hesitation. Then, in customary Rosalind fashion, she turned the conversation right on its head. “Lady Belham appears much happier today.”

  It took him a moment to reorient himself, but he could only be glad for the change. They had been swimming in dangerous waters indeed.

  “Yes. I admit myself deeply relieved.”

  “As am I.” She hesitated before launching on. “Is your cousin prone to low spirits?”

  “Not typically. She is ruled by her heart, of course, though that tends not to work in her favor. She is a creature of sensibility.”

  “Indeed she is,” Rosalind said thoughtfully, even a bit sadly. “She reminds me of my sister at times.”

  He thought perhaps she would tell him of her. She had been remarkably close-mouthed about her sister, considering how open she was with every other thought that crossed her mind. Instead she asked a question that was guaranteed to knock him on his arse if he’d been standing.

  “Do you have siblings?”

  Instantly an image of a youthful face swam in his vision, and the pride on their father’s face as he paraded the boy before Tristan during one of his few visits home. Pride that had never been present when he’d talked of Tristan.

  His mouth worked silently for a time before he answered. “Er, yes. That is, I used to. A half-brother, Arthur. He died, quite young.”

  A look of intense sadness passed over her face. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I know more than anyone the pain that losing a sibling can cause. You must miss him dreadfully.”

  “Not so much,” he replied, his voice sounding far away to his own ears. “There was such an age difference, and I was off at school for much of his life. We were not close.” Not by choice, he silently amended, their father having made sure it was so.

  “That must make it doubly hard, having forever lost that opportunity,” she mused, considering him with sharp eyes.

  He was still reeling from that incisive response when she spoke again. “And your stepmother? Does she still live?”

  “Yes, though I have not seen her in some time. Not since my father’s death.”

  “You should visit her, for you may give one another some solace.”

  Already he was shaking his head. “That is not possible.”

  “Have you had a falling out then? For it is never too late to reconcile, you know. It must be very lonely, after all, to lose your husband and son. I’m sure she would not wish to lose you, too.”

  “Perhaps,” he muttered vaguely, even as he knew in his heart that would never come to pass. Not ever.

  But why had he told her all of this? He never talked of Arthur or his stepmother with others. They were part of his past, and best kept there.

  And she was looking at him with entirely too much knowing in her gaze.

  He rose so quickly she jumped in her seat.

  “Well, then, I have business to attend to. Thank you for the talk. It was most enlightening.”

  Enlightening? He must sound an utter fool. He started down the path, trying to put distance between them.

  Her voice, however, chased after him.

  “Where are we for tonight then?” she called to his retreating back.

  “Vauxhall,” he said over his shoulder a moment before he turned the corner.

  Chapter 20

  Dusk had not yet fallen when Rosalind stepped gingerly into the small boat that waited to take their party across the Thames. It dipped slightly under her weight and she hurried to an empty seat on unsteady legs, desperate for stability in the precarious craft. But even seated, she could not seem to lose the panic rising in her like a floodwater. She fought to focus on the other occupants, who all seemed happy and unconcerned. Even so, her gaze was drawn against her will to the dark depths of the river. The crowd on the Westminster side of the bank and in the boats crossing the river were in high spirits, the water amplifying the sound of voices colored with anticipation of a night of pleasure. The river, though, looked menacing and forbidding. And much too close.

  “Rosalind, are you well?”

  Tristan’s voice sounded in her ear as he settled into the boat. An instant calm settled over her, knowing he was beside her. It was an idea that should have unsettled her. She had never relied on anyone before; even when her father and sister had been living, she had more often than not been the one that others leaned on.

  But Tristan was turning much of what she believed on its head. In more ways than one.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured, casting another careful look over the side of the boat as Lord Kingston settled into a seat, gently bobbing the craft. “I simply never cared to spend time on the water, is all.”

  “Never tell me the fearless Miss Rosalind Merriweather dislikes the water,” he teased.

  “Call it an instinct for survival.”

  “Did you never learn how to swim as a child? I was under the assumption you grew up in the country, and I never met a country-bred person who didn’t learn to swim while still a babe in arms.”

  “No, I did. But it was so long ago, I don’t believe I’ll remember how if we should happen to find ourselves in that.” She indicated the water sloshing against the hull of the boat with a jerk of her chin. A boat that looked smaller and less stable by the minute as they pushed from shore and started their swift way across the river.

  She sucked in a quick breath, her hands tightening on the bench beneath her. Immediately Tristan’s arm was around her. The warmth and strength of it seeped under her skin, relaxing the knotted muscles of her back, unclenching her teeth. It was a totally natural posture on his part. Anyone looking at him would assume he was merely laying his arm casually along the back of the bench.

  Yet Rosalind felt the true meaning behind it. He was offering her his s
trength, giving her comfort. The protective ball in the pit of her stomach eased a bit, unfurling, letting loose part of that vulnerability she kept so closely hidden. She sent him a small, thankful smile. He returned it, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Her heart thumped in her chest in the most peculiar way.

  Before she could countenance it, their craft came to rest against the Vauxhall Stairs at the south bank. In no time they had disembarked and found themselves at the entrance to the famed Pleasure Gardens.

  Rosalind had read of this place, of course. Guinevere herself had written of it, having visited during her own trip to London. She recalled the happily-penned words she had received from her sister, telling of the elegant elite mingling with common folk, of the music and lanterns and gaiety. She had poured over that missive night after night, until it was fairly burned in her brain.

  Now she was here. She took several steps away from their group, the better to take the glory of the place in. The orchestra building was front and center, the musicians hard at work above the mingling crowds. Handel’s famed statue was a shining white marble beacon, peering with a relaxed kind of contentment from his perch. Lanterns swayed in anticipation of their lighting, ready to illuminate the smiling faces of the attendees.

  She gave a small sigh, thinking of Guinevere. How she must have loved this. As clear as day she saw in her mind’s eye her sister walking these wide lanes, dancing beneath the orchestra, dining in the supper boxes. She wished she had Guinevere here, that they could share this moment together.

  Once again she felt a presence at her side. She turned with a smile, expecting to find Tristan. And was surprised to find Mr. Carlisle beside her.

  “How are you enjoying the evening, Miss Merriweather?” he asked in his jolly way. “Is Vauxhall all you expected it to be?”

  “Thus far it is exactly as my sister described in her letters home.”

  The happiness in his expression faded to something bittersweet. “Yes, I remember that night well.”

  She blinked in surprise, turning to more fully face him. “You were with her that night then? The night she came to Vauxhall?”