Rafe gaped at him. “What the devil has gotten into you?”
“Tell me,” he demanded, leaning in close, until he could smell the whiskey on his friend’s breath. “The whole of it. Before I do something we both regret.”
“I don’t know what she told you to set you off to such a degree, but it was only a bit of fun.”
Tristan’s vision went red at the edges. “I repeat, and you had best answer truthfully, what have you done to Miss Merriweather?”
“Not a blasted thing. Unless you count offending her innocent sensibilities.”
“Rafe,” Tristan growled in warning.
His friend—if he could still call him that—held his hands up in surrender. “So she saw me with another woman. It’s nothing to her.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, Tristan stared at Rafe blankly. “So you did not proposition Miss Merriweather?”
Rafe laughed. “Gad, no. Why would I want to do that?”
Relief such as he had never known flowed through Tristan. He slumped back, accepting his coffee from a cautious-looking waiter. “Damn it, I’m sorry, man. I’m out of sorts.”
Rafe leaned back with a grin. “You had me scared there for a second. I’ve never seen you in such a state.”
Tristan lifted the coffee to his lips, taking a scalding gulp, feeling the burn of it fill him, down through his chest, into his gut. And with it came a clear-headedness.
…As well as a realization of what Rafe had unwittingly revealed.
He slowly lowered his cup, peering closely at his friend. “What do you mean, she saw you with another woman?”
But Rafe did not heed the dangerous undercurrent in the question. He crossed one booted foot over the opposite knee. “Oh, I was only having a bit of fun with Mrs. Shreeves last night and Miss Merriweather barged in. I thought she would bring fire and brimstone down on my head, with the fury that was in her eyes.” He chuckled.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Shreeves? But what of Miss Weeton?”
“What of her?”
“I was under the impression you were courting her?”
“Oh, I am. I fully intend to marry the girl.” Rafe grinned. “But that does not mean I’m dead.”
With slow, careful movements, Tristan placed his hot cup of coffee down on the table beside him. “Do you mean to tell me that you do not intend to give up your inamoratas when you marry?”
Rafe scoffed. “Course not. Would you wish to drink only one beverage for the rest of your life, partake of only one type of cake? I thought you knew me better than that, Crosby.”
So did I, Tristan thought as he looked on the other man with new eyes. A pounding started up at his temples. This was a man he had trusted, someone he thought would treat Miss Weeton with all the respect she deserved.
He had been wrong. So damned wrong.
Rosalind’s recriminations hit him then, nearly stealing his breath. She had seen from the beginning that Rafe would not suit, that he was a bad choice for Miss Weeton. And Tristan had fought against every one of her valid concerns.
He stood, needing to escape Rafe’s presence. But first, something needed to be said.
“You will stay away from Miss Weeton.”
Rafe looked up at him in surprise. “What was that?”
“You heard me. I don’t want you near her.”
Letting out a bark of laughter, Rafe turned his attention back to his drink. “Good joke, old man.”
“It is not a joke.”
But Rafe only chuckled and took a sip. Tristan knocked the glass from his hands.
Rafe surged to his feet, staring in dumbfounded outrage at Tristan. Whiskey stained his snowy white cravat, dripped from his nose. “Damn it, Crosby, what in hell are you about?”
Tristan was distantly aware of the room having grown silent, of the other occupants staring at them. He didn’t give a damn. Stepping closer, he said, his voice deadly calm, “You will stay away from Miss Weeton, or you will hear from me.”
“You have no right, no right at all to warn me away from anyone.” Rafe pulled himself to his full height. “If I wish to court Miss Weeton I shall. It’s not as if I don’t care about the girl, after all.”
“If you cared about her you would not be cavorting with other women. You would not be planning to betray her once wed.”
“It’s the way things are done with our set.”
“I don’t give a bloody damn how things are done. I believed you a better man than that, Rafe. Else I would not have directed your attentions to her.”
“I would have found her eventually. You cannot take all the credit for it.”
“Would you have?” Tristan came back hotly. “You have known the girl for two years now. Can you tell me with utmost certainty that you would have eventually seen the gem that she is without the fact being thrust under your nose?”
For once Rafe looked uncomfortable. His eyes slid away from Tristan’s, unable to admit such a falsehood.
Tristan felt suddenly weary to his very bones. “Go look elsewhere. There are plenty of women out there who would not be utterly destroyed by your lack of devotion. But stay away from Miss Weeton. For all that is between us, please.”
His defeated, heartsick tone must have finally reached something in Rafe. His friend peered at him before, releasing a harsh breath, he nodded once.
Tristan released a breath he had not realized he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he said, before he turned about and left.
But even with the relief Rafe’s agreement brought, the weariness did not leave him. He would have told himself it was the sleeplessness of the past two nights catching up to him. Yet he knew in his heart that was far from the reason.
He had been wrong about so many things in the past weeks. First in being blind to Grace’s plight, allowing her to fall prey to a libertine. Then in being so devastatingly mistaken about Rafe.
More than anything, however, was thinking he could claim Rosalind for his own, and the fact that he was no longer furious with her, but rather with himself. He had been a fool in more ways than one, but none worse than believing he was worthy of the love of a woman such as she.
Even as he made his way to the street and his carriage, dreaming of a soft bed and the blessed oblivion of sleep, he knew there was more he had to do before he rested. First and foremost, there was a young lady in need of his apology. He only prayed Miss Weeton would not take his news regarding Rafe too hard. His soul could not bear to have her heartbreak piled onto it.
• • •
It was a mere hour later that he departed from the Weeton’s townhouse. Miss Weeton had done her best to hide her hurt over Rafe’s actions, but Tristan had seen it there, clouding the gentle depths of her eyes.
He did not deserve her gracious acceptance of his apology, did not deserve the emphatic way she insisted he was not at fault, that her heart, while not unscathed, was only slightly wounded and would heal in a very short time. But he would take it, and gladly.
Exhaustion weighed heavy on him. Though even the call of his bed and the oblivion of sleep was not enough to make him wish to return home, where he would see Rosalind around every corner. In the end he decided to go to the only place he knew he could find some semblance of solace: to Willbridge’s Brook Street house and the friendly ear he could find in Daphne.
But even that was denied him as he was directed to the sitting room and caught what was undoubtedly the most somber look ever to cross her perpetually cheerful countenance.
“What is it now?” he groaned as he came closer.
“It is Lord Sumner.”
Tristan dropped into a chair across from Daphne. “Don’t tell me Imogen has done away with the man after the idiotic thing he has done.”
Daphne did not even crack a smile at the pathetic attempt at a joke. “She has not. But he has died nonetheless.”
Tristan gaped at her. She was jesting. By al
l accounts the man had barely received a scratch in the carriage accident that had taken the life of his latest mistress. But the seriousness of Daphne’s face told him it was nothing but the truth.
He lurched forward, taking her hand in his. “Damn me, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. You could not have known.” She sighed, the weight of the world in it. “We received word not an hour past. It seems an infection set in from the minor injury he sustained. Mama says we are to leave with all haste, before the day is even done.”
He squeezed her hand. How this must weigh on her. Daphne, who had so looked forward to her first London Season it had been all she could think or talk about for the year before. And too, he knew her genuine like of Lady Sumner. First, as their neighbor of many years back at the family seat, Willowhaven, but more so now through Imogen and Caleb’s marriage.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
She shook her head morosely. They sat in silence for a time, listening to the chaos that trickled down from above, no doubt the household being turned on end as Daphne’s mother, the dowager Lady Willbridge, saw to their hasty packing. He should depart, leave the family to their preparations. Yet even faced with Daphne’s grief he could not bring himself to leave.
He stilled. Why did he have to? Daphne could use a friend in the days to come. Willbridge would appreciate his sister and mother having a travelling companion on a trip that would doubtlessly be difficult for them. It would be perfectly natural for him to lend his services to them, being as close to the family as he was.
And if hying off to Willowhaven gave him time and distance to come to terms with his heartbreak over Rosalind, so much the better.
“Let me go with you,” he said.
Daphne frowned at the suggestion. “I would not want to impose.” He could not fail to see the glimmer of relief in her eyes.
“You silly thing, I think of your family as my own. Of course you would not impose.”
Finally a hint of a smile lit her face. “Oh, Mama will be so relieved. She has been in such a state since we received word, has been in such a frenzy of activity, I feared for her nerves during the long trip home. Now we may have some comfort.”
They wasted no time in locating Lady Willbridge. The dowager was directing servants in the family quarters, her graying copper hair frizzy, her clothing mussed. When Daphne apprised her of Tristan’s offer, her eyes filled with tears.
“Oh, my darling boy, you cannot know what it means to me. We shall be more than happy to have your company and protection on the long trip to Willowhaven.”
After quickly discussing the schedule, Tristan was off. It was necessary to pack, surely. More important than that, he must say goodbye to Grace. For he had a bone deep feeling she would be gone by the time he returned to London, headed back to Scotland.
And perhaps he would have the chance to bid farewell to Rosalind and close that painful chapter of his life for good.
• • •
“Rosalind.”
Having spent the better part of an hour standing at the ground floor parlor window, watching as Tristan’s gleaming black carriage was made ready for a long journey, Rosalind was unprepared for the quiet, somber voice behind her. But it did not startle her so much as steal her breath with the pain it caused.
So he had come to say goodbye. She had not expected it, not after the way things had ended between them.
Regret nearly choked her. For the way things had ended, yes, but also that they had ended at all. Such anguishing thoughts had begun to encroach on her, though better sense told her she had done the right thing to protect herself from further hurt.
Silencing the mournful voice in her head was not easy. Over the last two days it had only grown louder and more insistent. Focusing on the memory of Guinevere hanging about her neck on its borrowed ribbon, and the constant reminder of the heartache in Grace’s face, she turned to face him.
“Sir Tristan.”
His mouth pressed tight, his eyes flashing with what appeared to be pain. No, she told herself firmly, he was annoyed and nothing more. In the next instant his face cleared and he took on a distant, businesslike mien as he entered the room.
“I have come to say goodbye.”
“Where are you going?” She cursed herself. The question had been burning in her mind the past hour, so much so that it burst forth quite without her permission. “Not that you need tell me. I am merely a paid companion.”
“You were never merely anything, Rosalind.”
His words, low and intense, stunned her silent. Before she could wrap her head around them, he spoke again, breaking the momentary spell.
“There has been an unexpected death in Lady Willbridge’s family. I am accompanying Lady Daphne and her mother back to Northamptonshire.” He paused, looking out the window at the carriage, searching for the right words. With effort, he said, haltingly, “I do not know when I shall be back. I expect you and Grace to have departed by then. But I wished to say goodbye before I left, as I may not see you again.”
Tears, sudden and unexpected, nearly choked Rosalind. But what was this? She was not weak. This was a blessing. She need not see Tristan any longer, need not be faced with the monumental mistake she had made in opening her heart and body to him. She could silence the regret fermenting in her gut and put this all behind her.
Swallowing forcefully, she held out her hand to him. “Goodbye, Sir Tristan. I wish you safe journey.”
He looked at her hand for a long moment, until her fingers began to tremble. When she thought he would not take it, he reached out, gripping it in his warm grasp.
The contact of his skin on her own, even something so innocuous as a handshake, was like an electric jolt through her body. She gasped, softly.
His eyes, as blue as the sky on a cloudless day, darted to her mouth. The clear blue darkened, turning stormy. His fingers tightened, infinitesimally, and for a moment she thought he might pull her close and bring his mouth to hers.
To her horror, she found she wanted that, with every bit of her heart.
After what seemed an eternity, he released her and stepped back. There should have been only relief, but Rosalind found herself fighting bitter disappointment.
“Farewell, Rosalind,” he murmured. Then, with one final, shuttered look, he turned and left.
For long minutes she stood there, listening with greedy ears to the sounds of his departure. The sharp, staccato click of his boots as he crossed the entry hall, the timber of his voice as he spoke indecipherably to the butler, the heavy echo of the door as it shut behind him. And then the muffled closing of the carriage door, the sharp call of the driver, the clomp of the horses’ hooves and the roll of the carriage wheels as the equipage started off.
It was only then Rosalind could draw a deep breath. But it was a shaky thing, filling her lungs with moans of loss that she refused to let loose. Smoothing out her skirts, patting her hair with trembling fingers, she left the room with determined steps.
By the time she reached Grace’s room she had almost convinced herself that she would quickly get over his leaving, that things would now return to normal. She expected to find the other woman abed, as she had hardly left it since the previous evening’s heartbreak.
To her surprise, Tessa was helping Grace on with a walking dress.
“Are we going out then?” Rosalind asked hopefully. It broke her heart to see her employer brought so low by the actions of one despicable man.
Grace gave her a bracing smile. “I am tired of lazing abed. A spot of fresh air shall do wonders for me.”
In no time at all they were headed out into the fitful afternoon sunlight. Grace breathed in deeply, allowing out a sigh.
“I am so glad I decided on this. It is helping immensely.” She turned her gaze to Rosalind and linked arms with her. “I suppose you know Tristan has left town.”
Again, she felt starved of air. “Yes, he made s
ure to bid me farewell,” she managed. “It was kind of him to do so.”
Grace was quiet for a time, as immersed in her own thoughts as Rosalind. “I have given it much thought, and with my cousin’s leave-taking I believe I have come to a monumental conclusion. Rosalind, darling, how do you feel about Scotland?”
Rosalind blinked. Of all the things Grace could have asked her, this was most unexpected. “I have to admit I have not given it much thought. It’s to the north, and there are kilts. I do know you lived there for some time. Beyond that my knowledge is sadly lacking.”
“Would you like to expand upon that minimal knowledge?”
Rosalind frowned, for Grace appeared positively uncertain. “I don’t quite understand what you mean.”
“Over the last days—no, it started before that.” Grace seemed to be struggling with something. After a time she continued, her voice slow and careful. “I thought I was well and truly rid of Manderly. It had been more of a prison to me for more than half my life, you know. But when I made the Weetons’ acquaintance and began reminiscing about the beauty of it all, I admit I began to grow homesick. Then, when this whole debacle with Bilton came to a head, I realized I had missed it much more than I ever expected I would. I have decided I’ll leave London before the week is out and return.”
Rosalind stumbled to a stop on the pavement and stared, stunned, at her employer. “Oh.”
“Would you miss England so very much if you were to accompany me?”
“You wish me to go with you?”
“Of course, darling.” Grace smiled at her. “I could not imagine leaving you behind. You have become much too important to me. Unless,” she conceded, looking closely at Rosalind, “you have a reason to stay?”
Immediately a memory flashed, of Tristan holding her in his arms, his mouth on hers as he moved inside her. She blinked, and the image was gone. But not the feel of it, which would forever be imprinted on her heart if she did not put distance between them—and the sooner the better. “No,” she said, more firmly than she thought possible. “No, nothing is holding me here.”
A Match Made In London Page 24