Until then he could take the time to make his next meeting with Rosalind all the more perfect. He went to his room and to his wardrobe, digging into the very bottom until he located the simple carved wooden box hidden there. He had not looked inside the small chest for too many long years. Now was the time he made use of the contents.
An hour later, while Tristan busied himself in his study in his impatient wait for their return, he finally heard them. Grace laughed, the joyful sound carrying through the house. There was an answering murmur, Rosalind’s softer voice. He straightened at that, every ounce of his attention homing in on it. He had always responded to her, had always been drawn to her. Yet now it was as if every barrier he had erected had been torn asunder, the draw to her was that much greater.
He jumped to his feet, striding from his study, and reached the front hall as the two women were about to ascend the stairs.
Grace smiled when he came into view. “There you are. I had wondered where you had got off to so early.”
He hardly saw her, hardly heard her. For he could not drag his eyes from Rosalind. How had he never seen the way sunlight brought out faint red and gold highlights in her tresses, the way her eyelashes kissed her brows when her eyes opened wide, how her mouth formed a perfect bow when she pursed her lips? He noticed all that now and more.
But Grace had spoken. He fought to portray some semblance of sanity. “I had errands to run.”
Grace snorted indelicately. “Errands at such an hour? You?”
He grinned, his eyes never once leaving Rosalind. “There is much you don’t know about me.”
“No doubt. But I have things to do, and so cannot be waylaid by your abundance of charm. I shall see the both of you later this afternoon?” Without waiting for an answer, she was off, sailing up the stairs.
Leaving him alone with Rosalind.
Tristan grinned. Never say his cousin did not have impeccable timing.
He moved closer to Rosalind where she stood on the bottom riser. “You’re looking well this morning.”
She said nothing. As a matter of fact, she had hardly moved at all since he had come upon them.
It was only then he noticed the pallor of her cheeks, the tight line of her lips. She was upset, deeply so.
Frowning in concern, he took up her hand in his. Even through her glove he could feel the chill of it. He removed her glove, hastily chafing her fingers between his own. All the while she stood mutely, her hand limp in his.
“Damnation, I knew I should have left word. Rosalind, I’m sorry. I did not think I would be gone so long, I swear it.”
She finally reacted. But it was not with a relieved laugh and a smile. No, it was with that same disdain she used to show him, the one that made him feel he could do no right.
She pulled her hand from his. “You owe me nothing, Sir Tristan. Not your apologies, and certainly not word as to your whereabouts.”
The very marrow in his bones froze as she turned from him and started up the stairs. He reached out to stay her. “Rosalind, you’ve got it all wrong—”
“Unhand me, sir.”
Immediately he released her. Of course, he should not be talking in such a familiar way to her in such a public setting, where no doubt someone was within hearing. At least not until things were settled between them. “Come with me into the sitting room then,” he murmured. When it looked as if she would deny the request he said, a touch of frustration making the word come out harsher than he intended, “Please.”
She considered him with narrowed eyes, eventually nodding. Together—yet it felt as if they were worlds apart—they moved down the hall to the small private sitting room at the back of the house.
Immediately she scurried to the far corner as he closed the door, choosing an uncomfortable high-backed chair that denoted more than words her wish to have this conversation over and done with as quickly as possible. Pressing his lips tight, knowing he only had himself to blame for this debacle, he strode toward her, taking the closest possible seat, moving it even closer until their chairs touched. She stiffened but said nothing as he sat, keeping her profile to him as he turned to face her.
“I know you must be angry with me—” he began.
“You are mistaken, for I have no reason to be upset with you at all. If anything, you saved me from a very uncomfortable morning by disappearing from my bed. Which it surely would have been now that we have had our fun.”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Our fun?”
“Certainly.”
“You make it sound as if that was all there was to it.”
She laughed, the sound of it like sharp branches scraping windows in the dead of winter. “Ah, I see it now. You worried I would be one of those women who would expect a ring and a promise after performing such an act. Well, you may rest assured, I never wished for or needed such a thing from you.”
Part of him thought she must be pushing him away on purpose. This was not the Rosalind he had come to know in the last several days. That Rosalind had been warm and giving, confiding in him things she had never told another, giving to him of herself.
But the greater part of him was louder, shouting that he should have expected as much. For if he had never been good enough for his father, his own blood, what made him think he was good enough for someone like Rosalind?
“Don’t do this, Rosalind,” he rasped.
“Do what? I assure you I am not doing anything.”
“You are. You’re pushing me away.”
“Of course I’m pushing you away.”
The bluntness of it, the faint way her lip curled, as if she thought him the biggest simpleton in history, was like a punch to the gut. “Why?” he managed.
“I would think it was obvious.”
He ground his teeth together so brutally he thought they would shatter. But he would not win this by taking the defensive with her. He forced his jaw to relax, enough to grit out the words, “Enlighten me.”
She shrugged. “You are renowned for your prowess in the bedroom. I have seen the way you charm everyone; the invitations other women give you. I admit I have been curious to experience it myself for some time. Last night in the gardens was a bit magical, I admit. I might never have had the nerve to sample what you have to offer otherwise.”
His fingers dug into the arm of the chair. “You are lying,” he choked.
“What reason have I to lie?”
“You are protecting yourself.”
“Only in that I feel it prudent to end this now. I didn’t want you to have the idea that I might be willing to continue on with the affair. It was meant to be a one-time thing, after all.”
He exploded from his chair, paced the carpet in front of her. “No,” he growled, his fists balling up at his sides. “No, I don’t believe you’re capable of such a thing. After what happened to your sister, you would never enter into a physical relationship with a man for such cold, calculating reasons.”
“But you see, that’s why I have.”
He spun to face her. “What the devil are you talking about?”
Her eyes were flat as she considered him, as opaque as muddy pools of water. “Guinevere was foolish. She fell in love. That was what ruined her. Not the act itself, but the emotion. I made certain that I would not be tangled up in all that mess when you and I went into it.”
A roaring started up in his ears. He could not have heard right. “You don’t love me?”
She laughed, a horrible sound that scraped down his backbone. “Of course not. Have no fear, you needn’t worry about that particular sentiment from me. And you needn’t feel guilt over our tumble last night, either. For I was more than a willing participant. You have helped me to see what all the fuss is about, anyway.”
Something in him broke. He reached into his pocket, felt the precious paper there. The special license he had hurried out for at the crack of dawn to secure Rosalind to him for all eternity.
&
nbsp; His hand clenched painfully, crushing the paper. Tangling it with his mother’s ring that he had picked out especially for Rosalind.
“I’m glad to hear it.” His lips felt numb, letting the lie slip out. He had to get out of here, before he lost his composure. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”
With that he spun about, marching from the room. Though his broken heart remained behind with Rosalind. As it always would.
Chapter 23
“It seems we are on our own tonight,” Lady Belham said as they headed out to the carriage that would take them to the evening’s entertainment. A ball, from what Rosalind had been told, though she didn’t have the faintest clue whose ball. Nor did she care.
She had been numb since Tristan had left her that afternoon. It was a necessity. For if she felt half of what simmered below the surface, roiling away beneath her breast, she would shatter. She had done the right thing. She was certain of it. Yet there was that small part of her that whispered of her bruised heart, telling her she had made a horrible mistake.
She had not wanted Tristan to join them this evening. As a matter of fact, she should be only relieved. He at least had the decency to see that it would not be in either of their best interests to be in one another’s company tonight.
Even so, her employer’s casual words were a blow.
“Sir Tristan has declined to join us?”
“Yes.” Lady Belham frowned. “He declared he would be absenting himself for much of our social engagements for the foreseeable future.” She looked to Rosalind. “You were with him for much of last night, my dear. Would you know anything about this sudden change?”
Rosalind blanched. Lady Belham must know what happened between them.
But the woman’s eyes were kind, and full of concern, not condemnation. Rosalind drew in a steadying breath. “No, my lady.”
Blessedly they reached the door and stepped out into the cool evening air. There was a bustle of activity, as they were ushered to the street and handed up into the waiting carriage.
All too soon, however, the carriage started off. And Rosalind was left in the dim quiet with Lady Belham and nothing else to occupy them.
“It’s strange, his sudden shift. He has been so attentive the last few days. Now all of a sudden he is stepping back. What do you think it could be?”
Rosalind gripped the seat beneath her, digging her fingers into the plush cushion. “I hardly know,” she said through stiff lips. She tensed, waiting for a bolt of lightning to hit her where she sat. Surely she would be struck down soon for her sins, not the least of which was lying to Lady Belham. The woman was concerned for her cousin, that was plain to see. Yet what could Rosalind do? Answer truthfully, that Tristan’s sudden leave-taking was due to the fact that she had taken him into her bed and then had pushed him away to protect her own battered heart?
“I admit,” Lady Belham went on, unaware of the torment Rosalind was in, “I have enjoyed the last several days immensely. It seems an empty evening without such wonderful company. Don’t you agree?”
“Mhmm.” Anything more and Rosalind thought she might loose the sob that seemed stuck in her chest. For it had been wonderful. For the first time in too long she had felt herself a part of something, not only a companion from the outside, brought in only when something was needed from her.
“Ah, well, we shall have to content ourselves with one another, darling.” Lady Belham smiled, then launched into a long discourse on the merits of men and which would make the best dance partners for this evening. She didn’t seem to mind that the conversation was decidedly one-sided.
Rosalind, for her part, knew she should attempt to respond. This was her job, after all. But she could not seem to concentrate, much less reply with any semblance of sense.
How she missed Tristan. She had not realized how much color he had given to her world, how much joy. He had become a friend in the last days, someone she had felt comfortable confiding in. He had quite stolen her heart, and the rest of her right along with it.
She fingered the locket at her throat, now held in place by a length of black ribbon. But she had been a fool for being lulled by him, and an even greater fool for giving so much of herself to him after what had happened to Guinevere. She could see that clearly now, and that the path she had taken since waking this morning was the right one. She would not be the fool her sister had been, would not allow herself to be destroyed by her love for a man.
So why did she want so badly to see him again, to laugh with him, talk with him…to love him?
She would focus on Lady Belham, she decreed as she entered the mansion beside her employer. Even so, as they passed into the front hall, as they greeted their host and they made their way into the ballroom, Rosalind found her eyes scanning the heads towering above her, looking for those telltale golden locks. Her lips twisted in disgust. It seemed her head was in full agreement with her. But her heart, that traitorous organ, would take some more convincing.
Lady Belham, thank goodness, was in high spirits. She was quickly set upon by all manner of men who would secure a dance with her. As soon as the music started up for a set, a gentleman was there to lead her off. And as soon as the music ended she was back at Rosalind’s side, her eyes sparkling, her lips at Rosalind’s ear as she whispered all kinds of scandalous comments, both good and bad, about her partners.
Yet Rosalind could not fail to notice that Lady Belham left the waltz open. Nor could she fail to see the sinking of the woman’s spirits when that dance came and went and she remained at Rosalind’s side.
It was not a blatant change of mood. She still smiled, still conversed with Rosalind. But she could see the way her employer’s eyes tightened at the corners, how she scanned the room for something or someone. Had she been hoping for a particular man to claim her for the dance? Surely not, for Lady Belham had shown no favor to any of the men this evening, or any evening before this.
The dance ended, and Lady Belham’s next partner arrived to claim her for the next set. As she placed her hand in his, a sudden commotion went up from the orchestra balcony. Their host stood there, looking pleased as he called for attention. The roar of conversation dwindled and as one the assembled guests turned their attention to him.
“I thank you for humoring me,” he said, his voice booming over the sea of heads. “I know you wish to get back to your dancing, but I have received the most glorious news and I was given the very great honor of sharing it with you all. My very dear friend, you see, has gotten himself engaged, and I could not be more pleased. And so, without further ado, may I present Lord Bilton and his future wife, Miss Georgiana Harvey.”
A roar of well-wishes erupted from the partygoers. Rosalind clapped along with them as the newly engaged couple took their places beside their host. The gentleman she recognized as having danced with Lady Belham on more than one occasion. He looked down at his future wife with a small smile, while she beamed and blushed. Such was the commotion from the announcement that Rosalind did not immediately notice Lady Belham still at her side—nor the woman’s changed pallor.
It was when her employer began to sway, however, that Rosalind understood that all was not right. She hurriedly put an arm about her. “My lady, are you unwell?”
The woman did not answer. She looked to be in more distress as her eyes remained fixed to the balcony. “It can’t be,” she muttered weakly.
“Lady Belham?” The woman did not seem to know Rosalind was there at all. Her lips worked silently, tears pooling in her eyes. Without warning she listed to the side.
Rosalind stumbled under the shift in weight but managed to hold her ground. She looked about, desperate for help, hoping someone might see and assist. Yet no one paid them the least mind. Blessedly a footman spied them and rushed over.
“Please,” she panted as Lady Belham’s head lolled. “Please help me get her to a quiet place.”
The man sprang into action, lifting Lady
Belham as if she weighed no more than a feather, hurrying through the crowd and out of the ballroom. Rosalind followed, scurrying after him. All about them people were in high spirits, calling out congratulations, partaking of the glasses of champagne that had been brought out. Not once did a person show concern for Lady Belham. Their eyes passed over her as if she were a trivial inconvenience.
Fury pounded through Rosalind. She had begun to enjoy her time in London, had begun to look forward to outings. All because of Tristan.
Yet since she had woken, since the spell he had wound about her had fallen away, all she could see was the falseness of it all. The people in this city cared only for their own pleasure. And she was tired of it all. So damn tired.
The footman led her to a sitting room off the front hall. But as he made to move into the room he gasped, then backed out. Frustrated, only wanting to get Lady Belham to a couch where she could be revived, Rosalind peered around him.
There, in the depths of the room, a couple was in an amorous embrace. At any other time she would have hurried away. In that moment, however, she was well beyond caring what anyone thought of her. She had no more delicate sensibilities. They had fled along with her innocence the night before.
“Please leave,” she called out in a strident voice, moving into the room and waving the footman in after her. “A lady has fainted and we require use of the space.”
There was a scurry of movement, as clothing was put to rights. Soon the couple was hurrying out. They were passing her when she chanced to look at the man’s face.
“Lord Kingston,” she gasped.
He jerked, his gaze finding hers. But there was not an ounce of guilt in his eyes as he smiled sheepishly. “Ah, Miss Merriweather. What a surprise to see you here.”
“No doubt,” she replied coldly. She was vaguely aware of the footman moving to a settee, of him lowering Lady Belham to it. But she could not take her eyes from Lord Kingston. Here was Tristan’s good friend, the man he had vouched for, saying he would be a perfect match for Miss Weeton.
Speaking of which. “That was not Miss Weeton,” she remarked, narrowing her eyes.
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