A Match Made In London

by Christina Britton

  “Indeed. We were not of the same party, of course. I was a young bachelor and came with a group of friends who were determined to make mischief.” He chuckled, his eyes on her, though the remnants of memory so glazed them she suspected he did not see her at all. “But then we spotted your sister and her group and quickly joined them. It was a fine night we all had, eating and dancing and walking about. I believe I even took her on a promenade at one point.”

  She blinked back tears. “It sounds lovely.”

  “It was.” He was silent for some minutes, until Tristan returned to their group, lifting the pall over her and Mr. Carlisle.

  “Dinner has been ordered and we will now be shown to a supper box, if you’re amenable.”

  The group moved into The Grove. Night was beginning to fall in earnest, and the crowds were quickly thickening. Mouthwatering scents floated in the air, savory ham and sweet tarts, and the perfume of hundreds of flowers, all mingling in a wonderful decadence.

  “In the three Seasons we have been to London,” Mrs. Weeton said, “we have never once stepped foot in Vauxhall. Sir Tristan, your idea for this evening’s outing was positively genius.”

  “You hear that, Rafe?” Tristan said to his friend as they entered the box and settled on the benches. “The Weetons have never visited these famed avenues. We shall have to give them an evening they shall never forget.”

  “I shall take that challenge, gladly,” Rafe replied with a grin.

  The men were true to their word. For soon a waiter brought their repast, a stunning array of cold meats and pastries, puddings and salads. The ham was amazingly thin, the punch surprisingly strong. And then a whistle blew, followed by a second, and thousands of lanterns flared to life simultaneously, illuminating the partygoers in a wash of gilded light.

  Rosalind gasped and clapped with the rest, then accepted a second—or was it a third?—cup of punch from the waiter. Something had loosened in her tonight; she could not remember a time she had enjoyed herself more. Their small group was in high spirits, even shy Miss Weeton proving herself a lively member.

  Tristan stood. “I propose we take a promenade. For while the food is incomparable, the sights will enthrall.”

  As one the group stood and moved into the mingling crowds. There was an easy pairing off. Lord Kingston offered his arm to Miss Weeton, who accepted with a blush and a smile. Mr. and Mrs. Weeton linked arms and followed after the pair. Mr. Carlisle looked to Rosalind, and she expected him to suggest they stroll together. But Lady Belham intercepted him, pulling him along behind the Weetons.

  Then there was only Rosalind and Tristan.

  She stared at him as he sauntered toward her, fascinated by how the lantern light gave even more depth, more fire to his gaze. His lips quirked in a small smile as he held out a hand to her.

  “Walk with me, Rosalind?”

  His quiet voice shivered a delicious path down her spine. She accepted with a nod, reaching out with trembling fingers. With infinite care, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, holding it close to his side.

  They walked in silence for a time. Perhaps she should have taken the chance to study the scenery, to watch the people and immerse herself in the experience of the place. Instead her entire focus centered on the strength of the arm beneath her fingers, at the way the corded muscles, felt even through the layers of his clothing, bunched beneath her touch.

  “You looked so sad when we entered the gardens,” he said, so low she could hardly hear him over the swelling music and laughter that surrounded them. “And then even more melancholy when Carlisle came to your side.”

  “Yes.”

  He remained silent, and she knew he would leave it there if she so wished it, would not press her to continue.

  But she wanted to continue. She wanted to confide in this man, who had shown himself to be so kind, so fair, and quite unlike what she had first thought him to be.

  Even so, it was a difficulty to get the words out, to purposely make herself vulnerable. She sucked in a slow, steady breath, heart thumping like mad in her chest. Then, before she could think better of it, “I was thinking of Guinevere.”

  “Your sister.”

  She nodded, looking out across the grounds. “As you know, she was in London many years ago. When I first entered this place, I remembered a letter she had sent me, telling me of her time here. It all sounded quite magical, and at the time I believed she embellished it for me. Even so, I cherished that letter, for never had she sounded happier.”

  “And now that you have been here?”

  She shrugged, smiling up at him, “I realize she was telling me the truth. This place truly is as magical as she made it out to be. Even more so, really.”

  “And Carlisle?”

  “He was here that night, when Guinevere walked these very same paths. He was kind enough to share his memories of that time with me. I perhaps shouldn’t have allowed it to sadden me as it did. She spent some of the happiest hours of her life here.”

  “You miss her,” he said simply. With an incredible amount of understanding.

  They reached the end of the long line of supper-boxes, each full to bursting with ruddy-faced people, their merriment like a living thing in the air. Beyond, Rosalind caught sight of the darker paths veering off beyond the bright lights. She had a mad wish for a moment that he would continue, off the well-lit path, and find a secluded place to kiss her senseless.

  Instead he guided her in a right turn, keeping to the populated area where a multitude of lanterns burned bright, like stars captured and brought down to earth.

  She fought down her disappointment, a surprisingly difficult thing to do. “You have lost someone close to you.” She said, remembering his eyes when she spoke of her sister. It had not been the strain he had shown that afternoon when they’d talked of his half-brother. No, this went much deeper.

  “My mother.”

  The answer was quick, his mouth pressing in a hard line, as though he were fighting down a great pain.

  She tightened her fingers on his arm in a show of comfort. “How long ago did she pass?”

  “Oh, years ago. I was just a boy, five, maybe six at the time.”

  “I don’t think it matters how much time passes after losing a loved one, there is always the hole in your heart they once occupied. That pain, while it can dull and change, never leaves you.”

  He looked at her, and she saw it then, that same banked pain that she felt over Guinevere, that could flare unexpectedly at a memory.

  “I always felt weak for letting it affect me as it has.”

  “It is not weak to remember someone you loved. Rather, it is weak to forget them simply because the memory of them brings you pain.” She fingered the locket at her throat.

  They made another turn then, heading down the path that led through soaring stone arches and alongside the dinner boxes that lined the other side of The Grove. They were quiet for a time, each mired in their own thoughts, their own pain, their own memories.

  Yet Rosalind’s memories of Guinevere were softened now. Remembering her as she must have been here, as she had used to be before her return from London, had changed something in her. She had spent so long with the image of pain and grief dulling the recollection of her sister’s natural joy, Rosalind had quite forgotten how much happiness she used to pull from life.

  As if reading her thoughts, Tristan said, his voice infinitely gentle, “The locket, it’s a reminder of your sister?”

  “Yes.” The answer came without hesitation. For where was the secret in that? No, the secret was in the contents themselves.

  “She is the reason you have such a distrust of men like me.”

  It was said so matter-of-factly, so calmly, it stole Rosalind’s breath. She could deny it, of course. Could claim outrage over his assumption.

  Instead she said, with an ease that should have frightened her, “It was during her time in London. She fell in lov
e, was seduced, abandoned. She returned home a veritable shell of her former self.” She swallowed hard, the memory a cherry pit lodged in her throat. “She never recovered and died not long after. She simply lost the will to live. The man who left her might as well have killed her himself.”

  He was silent for a moment before speaking again. “I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  They came to Handel’s statue then. As one they turned to look the way of the composer’s gaze, to the orchestra and the dancers below. It was an odd feeling, to witness such gaiety while they were in their own bubble of sadness.

  “You know,” she said, “I have never told that to another living soul.” She waited for panic to set in. She had revealed secrets of her sister’s, ones she had sworn to never divulge to another person.

  Yet all she felt was relief; her burden had been lightened. She hugged his arm to her, feeling at peace for the first time in too long.

  • • •

  Tristan felt the importance of Rosalind’s confession to the very marrow of his bones. He was humbled by her trust in him. She had no reason to confide in him. Yet she had done just that.

  He looked on as she watched the dancers twirl and dip to the lively music pouring from the orchestra. The small line between her brows was almost gone, the lines of her face softened in a way he had never seen. It was as if the telling of her pain had relieved it, as if sharing it had given her peace.

  But it was more than that, really. For she had not given part of her burden to him—and mustn’t that secret have been a terrible burden to carry all these years? No, she had given him a gift of incredible value. His heart squeezed with the importance of such a thing from this woman, who did not trust easily, yet had trusted in him.

  And suddenly he wanted to give her something equally dear, to show her how much her faith meant to him.

  How much she meant to him.

  “You have entrusted me with knowledge that is infinitely precious,” he said haltingly. “And so I will entrust you with something of my own.”

  She looked up at him then and laid her free hand on the dark green wool of his sleeve. “Truly, you needn’t—”

  “I want to,” he cut in, his voice soft but firm with intention. He drew in a deep breath. “As I’ve told you, my mother died when I was quite young. What I have not told you was how my father hated her, and me by extension.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath. “Surely not, Tristan. He could not have hated his own son.”

  He could no longer meet her gaze, so full of disbelief and horror at his bald confession. “But that is the thing,” he replied, the words ripped raw from him. “He did not believe I was his.”

  “Oh.” The one word left her in a rush of breath.

  “She had loved another, you see, and was forced into the marriage. You can imagine the hatred he felt for me. It was not something he ever hid from me but battered me with daily. If I had not found my friends Willbridge and Morley after I started school…” He paused, swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat working as he remembered those difficult days. Before he learned to hide his uncertainty and self-doubt behind false bravado, blessedly bolstered by the friendship of the two boys. “Anyway, it was something I learned to live with. And then my father remarried, and everything changed. Instead of heaping abuse upon my head, it was as if I had never been born in the first place. An improvement on what I had known before, I suppose.” He tried to say the last with a touch of his typical humor, but it rang hollow in the air, a mere echo.

  She was silent for a time, studying him as he had her after her own confession. He expected all manner of platitudes, not the simple question that issued from her lips.

  “And your brother? Was he not treated in the same way?”

  “Arthur?” An image flashed, of a boy with hair as red as their father’s, his features as sharp and prominent as a proper Crosby’s should be. “Not in the least. He was the wanted son, the one my father told me on numerous occasions he wished would inherit the title, the legacy.”

  “How incredibly cruel.”

  The anger in her voice surprised him. And warmed him, banishing for a moment the hurt that still festered. She was fierce when she championed someone. That she championed him, of all people, was touching indeed.

  “And your stepmother allowed him to treat you so?”

  “Our relationship has never been a healthy one. It could not have been easy for her, coming into a new family, knowing her beloved son would never inherit.” A bitter taste entered his mouth. He swallowed it down, continued. “As I’ve said before, I have not seen her in years. It’s easier for all involved this way, fewer hurt feelings, none of the past dredged up. Even our correspondence is handled through my solicitor. Not that Josephine follows that particular rule if it does not suit her,” he finished in an aside.

  She tensed, as if stunned. But when he looked down on her again her face was smooth. Though perhaps there was a deeper understanding in her eyes.

  “Perhaps it is time for you to heal from the pain your father caused and reconcile with her. She could be lonely, could be wishing to make amends.”

  “No,” he answered hurriedly. “No, I’m not sure that will ever be possible.” Even as he said it, though, he felt the pain of that boy left on the outside, looking in on the happy family he should have been a part of.

  Her lips quirked in wry amusement, her eyes scanning his face as if she had never seen him before.

  He tilted his head. “What is it?”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it, how we are all like paper dolls, flat, garbed carefully, only showing what we wish for others to see. But within we are books’ worth of stories and dramas, heartaches and joys.”

  A spark of something kindled in him. “Yes.” He smiled, and she smiled back. And that spark turned to a constant glow that warmed him like nothing had in far too long.

  “Will you dance with me?”

  The words flew from his mouth before he even knew they had taken shape in his mind. Yet the moment they came into being he knew it was quite possibly the most brilliant idea he had ever had in his life.

  But this was Rosalind, the woman who quite vocally let him know how she despised men like him. Surely she would not agree, and especially in such a public setting.

  Yet, to his everlasting shock and delight, she said in a sure voice, “I would love to.”

  He led her forward, toward the dancers already twirling about on the green before the orchestra. The delicate strains of a waltz floated through the warm evening air as he took her hand in one of his, her waist in the other, and guided her into the mass of couples.

  It was as natural as breathing. Though he had never before held her in his arms like this, had never guided her in dance, they fit together, moved together as if they had been made for such a purpose. There was no elegant ballroom surrounding them, no ornate ceiling soaring high, no chandeliers heavy with candles. Instead there was the night sky above their heads and the merry lanterns lighting the trees, dancing as joyfully as the people below them. There was not a multitude of lords and ladies pressing in on them, dripping jewels and arrogance. Instead they passed by simple, happy folk: a carefully dressed lad with a wide-eyed shop girl in his arms, an elderly couple who moved with an ease that proclaimed them having danced many such sets with one another over their long lives together, a gruff dock worker with his tired but smiling wife.

  Never had anything felt so right. And he never wanted this feeling to end.

  • • •

  Even hours after they returned home from Vauxhall and were supposed to be snug in their beds, Rosalind still felt the magic of those minutes beneath the inky black of the night sky, twirling in Tristan’s arms.

  Was it magic? She wondered as she stood at her window looking out over the darkened landscape. Had she been bewitched? For something had changed in her once she stepped foot inside that fabulous pleasure garden. A wonder had
been revealed, a longing unlocked.

  Could it have been the exchange of long-held pain with Tristan? She still did not know what had possessed her, to reveal one of the darkest secrets of her heart to him. Yet she could not regret it, especially as he had given her such an important part of himself in return.

  She was overcome with the urge to see him. Which was silly, really. It was not as if he were in another house across town. She would see him with the coming of the new day.

  Even so, the morning seemed an inordinately long time away.

  She chewed on her lip, eyeing the door to her room. Perhaps he was up. Perhaps he was even now looking at his own door, thinking of her. Or mayhap he was out in the hall this very moment, waiting for her to look out.

  The idea was preposterous, of course. What reason did he have to think of her, after all? She was nothing, a nobody.

  Even so, she could not stop her feet from moving for the door, could not halt her hand, grabbing hold of the handle and turning. She would have a quick look, then duck back inside and go to sleep like a proper companion.

  Taking a deep breath, she threw the door open and stepped into the hall. And immediately stumbled to a halt. For there he was, burnished gold by the faint light from the wall sconces, wrapped in a sapphire brocade robe, his feet strong and bare on the plush runner. And he was staring at her in a shock that she knew must mirror her own.

  They stood that way for a time, like statues, frozen. Then he let out a breath, her name escaping his lips like a benediction.

  “Rosalind.”

  She could not have stopped from rushing to him had she wanted to. He met her halfway, his arms coming about her, his mouth finding her own. Then there was no room to think; only feeling, and sensation, and joy. And him. Always him.

  Chapter 21

  Heaven. He was in heaven. Never had anything felt so right in his life. For the first time he felt a homecoming, like he belonged.

  She was all eagerness, her mouth opening beneath his, her arms dragging him close. And her body. He wanted to weep for the gloriousness of her body, barely clothed in a thin cotton nightgown, without stays or layers to bar him from feeling her breasts pressed into his chest, the gentle swell of her belly against his groin, the delicate arch of her spine as he swept his hands down its length to find the flare of her hips.