A Match Made In London

by Christina Britton

  He chuckled, and fury pounded up her spine. “You know how things are. Temptation and all.” He leaned in closer in a conspiratorial manner, and Rosalind clenched her hands tight in her skirts to keep from scoring his face with her nails.

  “I don’t think I have to mention that it would be best if this is kept between us,” he murmured meaningfully. Giving her a wink, not waiting for an answer, he sauntered off.

  Rosalind stared after him. She wanted to rage. She wanted to weep. She should have known this would happen, had felt it from the start. But she had begun to believe Tristan, to hope that he was right, that a rake could be turned, that men were not evil beasts bent on exploiting and conquering…

  More fool she.

  But he did not deserve even a second more of her time. She had more important things to take care of. Rushing to Lady Belham’s side, she immediately began to chafe her hands. “Please fetch me a vinaigrette,” she said to the footman, who still stood beside the settee.

  Before he had taken a step, however, Lady Belham began to rouse. Her head thrashed on the pillow, a frown marring her brow. “No,” she moaned. “No, it cannot be.”

  “Lady Belham.” When the woman only moaned the more Rosalind took hold of her arms and gave her a shake. “Lady Belham. Grace!”

  The woman gasped, her eyes flying open. “Goodness, what happened?”

  “You fainted.” Rosalind peered at her closely, watching as confusion clouded her employer’s eyes. “Do you remember what happened to put you in such a state?”

  It was as if realization crashed down on her then, taking the very color from her cheeks. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes clouding with pain. “Rosalind, darling, I need to get home. Now.”

  Rosalind frowned. “It’s best if you rest. You need to regain your strength—”

  “What I need,” the other woman said, struggling to rise to a sitting position, “is to get away from here with all haste.”

  Beyond the pain, beyond the strange grief that colored her employer’s face, there was also a stubborn determination. Rosalind could see it in the mulish tilt of her chin, in the steely glitter in her eyes.

  “Very well,” she replied with reluctance. She rose, giving Lady Belham her arm to assist her in standing. She looked to the waiting footman as her employer found her balance. “Please have our carriage brought around. We’ll be departing immediately.”

  “Very good, Miss.” With evident relief, the footman hurried off.

  “Lady Belham,” Rosalind said as the man disappeared, leaving them blessedly alone, “what is going on? What happened in the ballroom to cause you such distress?”

  A sad smile flitted across the older woman’s face. “I promise to tell you all once we are safe at home,” she rasped. A swell of sound was heard then, music starting, and cheers. Her eyes found the door to the hall, a look of intense pain contorting her features for a moment before she smoothed them and returned her attention to Rosalind. “And darling, don’t you think you had better start calling me Grace? For I can promise you, you are the very dearest friend I have ever had.”

  Rosalind’s throat closed. She squeezed the other woman’s hand. “Very well, Grace.”

  Grace returned the pressure. “I am so very glad I had the good sense to hire you on, dearest,” she whispered thickly.

  “You saved me,” Rosalind managed.

  “I do believe we have saved each other,” Grace whispered with a watery smile.

  Chapter 24

  The strength that had been roused in Grace proved temporary. The moment they arrived home and reached the seclusion of her bedchamber, the soft snick of the door announcing their privacy, the woman’s composure crumbled like the thinnest pastry.

  Sobs wracked her body, so violent she could hardly breathe much less stand. Rosalind supported her as best she could, guiding her to a chair, feeling more helpless than she had in nearly a decade. What kind of comfort could she give? What comfort had she been able to give Guinevere all those years ago?

  She pushed down the hopelessness. Now was not the time. Grace needed her. She moved to help the other woman with her outer garments, to make her more comfortable. But Grace’s hand gripped hers tight. Giving up her ministrations, she perched on the arm of the chair and pulled her into her embrace.

  As the woman let loose her sorrow, shaking their bodies with the force of it, memories assailed Rosalind again, unearthing the pain of a past that too closely mirrored the present. Only once had Rosalind witnessed such grief. The night of Guinevere’s return from London, well after they had all retired for the night, Rosalind had heard it: muffled wailing, as if dredged from the very depths of a person’s soul.

  She had found Guinevere then, curled up on the floor in her room. Rosalind had not understood the despair her sister felt, much less the cause of it. But she had held her as her sister cried herself insensible, until dawn had come and her weeping had subsided. Guinevere had been a shell after that night, walking the halls of their home as a specter. Had Rosalind known in the beginning what had caused her to grieve so, perhaps she might have been able to help. But she had given her sister space, and thereby had lost her more and more each day.

  She would be damned if she’d lose Grace in the same way.

  “Who is he?”

  Grace’s sobs hitched at the gentle question before falling away altogether. She lay quiet in Rosalind’s arms then until, with a shuddering breath, she began to speak.

  “I did not intend to begin an affair. Despite my outlandish, flirtatious ways, I have only ever been with one man. I am not naturally a promiscuous creature.”

  Rosalind remained silent, knowing that, more than anything, Grace needed the time to gather her thoughts. At length, she spoke again, weariness coating every word.

  “But the moment I saw Lord Bilton I was lost. And, by some miracle, he seemed to feel the same for me. It all happened quickly, so quickly I was carried away by it all. He made me feel beautiful, and adored, and young again. I never had a Season, never came to London in my youth. The moment I was of age I was married off to Lord Belham and spirited off to Manderly. Eventually I came to care for Belham, in my own way. He was not unkind, tried to make me happy.” She took a deep breath. “But I always felt I had been deprived of experiencing that which all young women were given: a chance to be young, to have admirers, to flirt and dance and be courted.”

  She pulled back, looked up at Rosalind as if begging her to understand. “Bilton gave me all that. He told me I was the most beautiful creature in existence. He told me he loved me, that we would be together forever.” Her lips twisted, but it was an expression more of pain than humor. “I should have known he did not mean to marry me. Oh, I knew it was expected of him, that he should find a nice biddable young girl who could give him a large dowry and sons. But, fool that I am, I allowed myself to hope he meant to marry me. Even when he insisted that we meet in secret so we could revel in our new love. Even when he took me to his bed without promise of tomorrow.”

  The words struck to the heart of Rosalind. For they too closely mirrored her own situation, her own hurt.

  “I should have known,” Grace continued, her voice turning into a low moan of sound. “Why would he want me? A woman past her youth, who failed to give her husband a child in all the years of her marriage? No, I was a fool, a damned fool for believing it.”

  Rosalind took Grace’s face in her hands. “You are the least foolish woman I know. You are kind, and strong, and brilliant. If anyone is a fool it is Lord Bilton, for not seeing the treasure he had in his grasp.”

  Grace collapsed against her, insensible again. Rosalind rubbed her back, murmuring soothing, nonsensical words into her hair. Were all women fools then? And were all men destined to destroy their very hearts?

  She should be glad she ended things with Tristan when she had, though she had lost her innocence and her heart to him before finding the wisdom to do the right thing. Even so, as s
he held Grace, she wished his arms were around her, and wanted to weep for it.

  • • •

  It was dawn before Tristan stumbled through the front door of his house. He would have stayed away longer if he could. But even broken-hearted fools needed a shave and a change of clothes from time to time.

  The house was quiet, chambermaids hurrying about, doing their work before the household awoke for the day. One spotted him, squeaking before hurrying off. As he made his way down the upper hallway leading to his bedchamber, he endeavored to keep his steps light. He did not wish to rouse Grace. Or, rather, he did not wish to field the questions she was sure to have regarding his terse words to her yesterday afternoon, his sudden abandonment of her.

  But as he made to pass his cousin’s door it was thrown wide. He turned sheepishly to face her, feeling like a green lad being called to the carpet.

  Instead he came face to face with Rosalind.

  Despite the hurt she had given him, despite his anger at her usage of him, he stood dumbly for a time, drinking her in. God, she was beautiful, her chin in that little point, her bow of a mouth. And those eyes, like warm chocolate, huge enough to drown in.

  It took him several long seconds before he realized how disheveled she was, that the line between her brows was deeper than ever. He opened his mouth to question her. She spoke before the words could form in his fuzzy brain.

  “Your cousin needs you.”

  Instantly the fog of alcohol he had cloaked himself in since yesterday afternoon lifted. “Grace? What is wrong with her?”

  In answer, Rosalind stepped aside. He hurried past her, into his cousin’s room. He was barely aware of the soft sound of the door closing as he rushed to Grace’s bedside.

  She was tucked under the blankets like a small child, her hair in an inky plait over the pillow. Her skin was pale, her eyes red-rimmed. He had never seen her looking so vulnerable and frail.

  He sank with care onto the bed, taking her hand. At his touch, her eyelashes fluttered up. “You’re home.”

  “By the looks of you I should have never left.”

  Her lips quirked in a ghost of a smile. “Look that hideous, do I?”

  “Quite,” he teased softly. But the small smile left his face as quickly as it had come. “Are you ill?”

  “Only in heart.” She let out a sigh before pushing herself to sitting. “I have been a fool, Tristan, though my darling Rosalind tells me otherwise.”

  “Tell me everything,” he demanded.

  “I shall not.” She raised her chin, a bit of her typical fire returning. “There are some things a woman must keep, secrets of her heart that cannot be told, even to the dearest cousin. Suffice it to say, I did something incredibly stupid. I fell in love.” A look of acute pain crossed her face. “Though I wanted something permanent from it, he had other ideas.”

  Heat raced under his skin. Stunned, it took him a moment to recognize it for what it was: fury. Toward the unknown man, yes, for hurting his cousin, for breaking her heart.

  But also toward himself. How had he missed the signs? How had he completely overlooked this important thing that had been going on in his cousin’s life? He hated himself then for the bastard he was, to be so wrapped up in his own troubles and pleasures that he had abandoned Grace to the machinations of a libertine.

  He understood then some of the desperate hate Rosalind had felt for rakes. And he could understand more fully her refusal to open her heart to him, to use him as her sister had been used. The pitiful hope he’d unknowingly harbored in his breast that Rosalind had been lying, that she might truly love him and he might have a future with her, was snuffed out in an instant.

  Rage crashed through him then, for all he had been deprived of in his childhood, for all he had lost after being foolish enough to believe he might find his place with Rosalind. He focused it on the faceless man who had caused his cousin pain, until it was all he felt. “Tell me who it is,” he growled.

  “I most certainly shall not. For I won’t have you doing anything idiotic for my mistake.”

  “Tell me, Grace,” he ordered again.

  “No.”

  He let out a frustrated breath, rising, running his hand through his hair as he went to the window. “Why? Why can’t I know?”

  “Because, dearest cousin, I happen to like you and don’t wish you to leave this world with a bullet lodged in your skull.”

  He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “You think I would lose?”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But it is not something I wish to chance. Besides, I am not some innocent, that you need to protect my honor. My heart shall be the only casualty of this fiasco.”

  He ground his teeth together, looking out over the back of the house and the garden below it. Dawn was lighting the sky in faint oranges and pinks, but the garden remained in shadow. Even so, he could just make out the edge of the bench where he had first kissed Rosalind.

  It seemed a lifetime ago. Things had changed so much between them, first for the better, then for the worst. Did she truly not care for him? Had she truly used him? He could not believe it, not after the way she had opened to him, had given of herself, had trusted him.

  Yet he could not put from his mind the cold look in her eyes when she had turned him away, the cruel certainty of her words. His own father had thought little of him; was it such a stretch to believe Rosalind did too?

  “She stayed with you all night.”

  “Rosalind?” Grace’s voice grew soft. “Yes, she did.”

  “And she knows who broke your heart?”

  There was a pause. “She will not tell you, you know. She will keep my secret.”

  He snorted. “That I believe. Rosalind does not do anything she does not wish to do.”

  “You have had a falling out.”

  It was not a question. It did not deserve an answer, not after Grace’s own secretive manner. Yet he answered it all the same. “Yes.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

  He turned to look at her. “Men have secrets as well,” he murmured, unable to keep the sorrow from his voice.

  She held out her hand. He went to her, took it in his, pressed a kiss to it.

  “Was it a mistake, I wonder,” he mused somberly as he studied the lighter skin on the finger where her wedding band used to reside, “to invite you to London?”

  “I wanted to come.”

  His lips twisted. “You do not answer the question.”

  She pressed her lips tight. “That is because, if there was a mistake, it was mine to make. You did not force me to come, Tristan.”

  He ignored her. For he was, once again, too far along in his self-hatred to pay any attention to any platitudes she might offer. “You were happier at Manderly, even with that husband you did not want.”

  “I do not know if you can call it happiness when I was so numb I hardly felt a thing.”

  He squeezed her fingers once more before releasing them and stepping back. “What will you do?”

  She shrugged, looking suddenly weary. “I hardly know. But I do know that I am the one who has to make the decision. As much as I hate to admit it, I am a grown woman, Tristan, and must act like one.”

  He gave her a small, sad smile before moving for the door.

  “You are going out again.”

  Once more, it was not a question. And again, he felt compelled to answer it regardless. “Yes. But I will be back later. You will tell me your decision the moment it is made?”

  “Of course, darling,” came her soft reply.

  With a nod he let himself out into the hall. I will not look to her door, he told himself as he strode to his bedchamber. Even so, his eyes slid along the wall until he found her room. At his door he stopped, remembering how she had looked when he had seen her that night, before she wound up in his arms. If Grace did as he suspected and returned to Scotland, would she take Rosalind with her? The idea tore into him, steal
ing his very breath. He hurried into his room, closing the door with as much finality as he closed the gate on his heart.

  Chapter 25

  Not an hour later Tristan stormed into the Coffee Room of White’s. Because why not? He’d spent the better part of last night here. He might as well make it his permanent refuge. He briefly wondered what the waiters would do if he set up a makeshift cot in the corner. For he did not think he could spend another night under the same roof as Rosalind.

  He caught sight of Hugh Carlisle across the room. The man was deeply immersed in his paper to the point that he remained unaware when a waiter deposited a steaming cup at his elbow. Thank the heavens, for Tristan had no wish to make conversation with the man. It was too much of a painful reminder of the past few days, and Rosalind, and what she deemed the perfect man. Here was the type of gent women would marry, not Tristan and his reputation and his rakehell ways.

  So immersed was he in self-recriminations, he was nearly upon Rafe before he saw him. Without waiting for an invitation—for when had he ever needed one from his friend?—he dropped into a chair beside him.

  “I had hoped I would find you here,” he growled. Motioning to a waiter, he barked, “Coffee, and make it black and hot enough to scald my tongue off.”

  He expected all manner of teasing from his friend. Rafe had often joked about Tristan’s seeming inability to be anything but cheerful, and here he was being decidedly not. But his friend looked surprisingly sober when Tristan looked his way.

  “Miss Merriweather told you then, has she?”

  Tristan could only stare at him. What the devil was he on about? And why had he mentioned Rosalind?

  Before he could even begin to formulate a question of his own, Rafe’s lips twisted. He lifted his drink—definitely not coffee, that—and took a healthy swig. “I told her it was nothing, the silly woman. Why she had to go running to you, I’ve no idea.”

  Tristan straightened, gripping the chair arms tight to keep from taking the man by the cravat and shaking him. “What did you do to Rosalind?” he said in a low, dangerous voice.