A Match Made In London

by Christina Britton

  A look of sadness passed over Grace’s face before she smiled and took up Rosalind’s hand. “Well then, I am glad. After our walk we shall return home and begin packing for our journey. Be ready, my dear,” she said, a decided twinkle entering her tired eyes, “for a grand adventure!”

  Chapter 26

  The days since Tristan’s arrival in Northamptonshire with Daphne and the dowager marchioness had been long. Instead of staying at Willbridge’s Willowhaven home, they had moved into the late Lord Sumner’s country seat within an hour’s distance. Imogen would not hear of leaving her sister Lady Sumner for even a moment.

  But after three days of watching his wife, wearier by the hour, scurry after her sister with mounting helplessness and frustration, Willbridge put his foot down.

  Tristan and his friend, along with Imogen’s younger sister Mariah, lay in wait at the front hall early in the afternoon of that third day. It had been decided that Tristan would provide brute strength should Willbridge fail to hold his wife back. Secretly Tristan hoped he wasn’t needed, for if Willbridge was unable to convince Imogen to stop, he knew his own efforts would be wasted.

  Eventually Lady Sumner hurried by, Imogen fast on her heels. Willbridge stepped forward and snaked an arm about Imogen’s waist. “You are done for the time being, my love,” he stated when she made to protest. “Your sister Mariah can do as good a job as you, without the added burden of carrying my child.”

  “I am fine,” she argued. Even so, she went pliant in her husband’s arms, her constant forward momentum having been halted.

  Mariah stepped forward at Willbridge’s nod, a signal they had agreed on earlier in the day when this plan had first been hatched. “You are not fine,” she said with sisterly concern. “You need rest.”

  “But Frances—”

  “Has more energy than ten of you right now, love,” Willbridge said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “Have no fear, dearest,” Mariah said when Imogen looked about to argue regardless. “I know you worry over Frances so. But let one of us see to her for once.” Planting a quick kiss on Imogen’s cheek, she was off, hurrying after Lady Sumner’s retreating form.

  Imogen watched her go, frustration plain on her face, before turning back to her husband. “You are a devious man,” she grumbled. Yet when he pulled her to the drawing room, Tristan following, she made no protest. And when they all seated themselves on the least offensively ostentatious furniture, Willbridge and Imogen close together on the sofa, she yawned and rested her head on his shoulder.

  Tristan eyed her in concern as he tried to get his long frame comfortable in a high-backed chair close by them. The woman was utterly exhausted. And no wonder, for Lady Sumner had not taken to her bed with grief nor allowed her mother—with whom she appeared to have a rather uneasy relationship—to take over a bit of her duties. Thus Imogen had been forced to run hither and thither after her in her determination to be close by should the woman succumb to emotion.

  Tristan rather thought she never would, for the woman had certainly held no love for her husband. At least not in the end, when his blatant carousing had caused her so much humiliation.

  “I shall only sit for a moment,” Imogen declared sleepily.

  “Wife, if you think I am about to let you go after I have finally secured your attentions, you are sadly mistaken.”

  They bantered quietly for a bit, their voices low and intimate. Imogen let loose a low chuckle and swatted his arm. Willbridge caught her hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

  Tristan’s heart twisted. With what, he wasn’t sure. Longing? Loneliness? Jealousy? But surely not, for he could not be happier for his friend. And he had determined not to think of Rosalind at all during his stay. Surely time and distance would cleanse the memory of her from his mind. By the time he returned to London again she would be gone, all trace of her swept from his home. And he could go on as if she had never barged into his life, turning it on its head.

  Even so, there were times like these when he saw the utter contentment of his two closest friends Willbridge and Morley, both newly married to women they adored, when the pain of losing Rosalind hit him. It was then he knew, with a certainty that frightened him, that he would never be free of her. He would grieve over the loss of her for years to come.

  As if to further underscore those dismal thoughts, Malcolm Arborn, Viscount Morley entered with his own bride, the former Lady Emily Masters and Willbridge’s own sister, now Lady Morley.

  When Emily saw Imogen looking so haggard she released her husband’s arm and hurried to her. “Imogen, are you unwell?”

  “Not a bit, my dear,” Imogen hurried to say, straightening away from Willbridge. She could not hide the slight sway her body gave, however, as she fought to stay upright.

  “You should retire to your room immediately,” Emily said, sitting beside her and putting an arm around her. “You need rest.”

  “I am fine,” Imogen soothed. “I shall be right as rain in a few moments.”

  “I must insist, dear. You are exhausting yourself.”

  Both their voices were as gentle as they ever were. Truly it was the politest argument Tristan had ever witnessed. “My goodness,” he drawled, “what have you two reprobates done to these women? They used to be the tamest, quietest little things. Now I can hardly hear myself over their squabbling.” He chuckled.

  “You think they are tame, do you?” Morley murmured, looking on his wife fondly as she continued to gently insist that Imogen retire. “You may not countenance it, but Emily has a fiery temper when roused.”

  “Imogen, too, has been known to blister my ears on occasion,” Willbridge quipped, watching his wife as she continued to calmly and affectionately counter Emily’s interference. “A calm exterior does not necessarily mean there is no fire beneath the surface.”

  “Never tell me the two of you are in accord on something,” Tristan remarked, leaning back in his chair—as far back as the blasted uncomfortable thing would allow—and stretching out his legs to cross his booted feet. “I had begun to think, Morley, that Willbridge would forever despise you for how badly you mucked up things with Emily before ultimately doing the smart thing and securing her hand.”

  “Oh, I have not forgiven him,” Willbridge remarked flippantly. “Not in the least.”

  “Yes you have, you fool,” Morley growled.

  “Have not.”

  “You have.”

  Tristan grinned. “There seems to be some disparagement in your opinions on the subject.”

  Morley waved a hand in the air. “He’s being a bloody stubborn imbecile. Of course he’s forgiven me. Look how happy I make Emily.”

  “Well, I suppose that’s true enough,” Willbridge admitted with unconcealed reluctance.

  It was then Emily rose, helping Imogen up as she did so. All three men rose as well.

  “I’ll be taking Imogen up to her room,” Emily said to her brother.

  Willbridge’s hand was immediately at his wife’s elbow, his head lowered close to hers. “Do you wish me to join you?”

  “No, my love,” she murmured. “Emily will stay with me. If, Morley, you can bear to be parted from her for so long,” she teased.

  “I shall endeavor to survive until her return.” The look he gave Emily, however, was full of heated promise. She returned the look, a faint blush staining her face, the scar that cut across her left cheek from her temple to the corner of her mouth standing out in relief without detracting from her loveliness.

  “Are you certain?” Willbridge asked.

  “Very much so. I shall be fine. Besides,” Imogen continued, her voice dropping meaningfully, “don’t you think this is the perfect time?” Her turquoise eyes slid meaningfully to Tristan. Beside her Emily nodded.

  Tristan did not miss a bit of the exchange. “The perfect time for what?” he demanded. But Imogen and Emily only gave them small smiles before leaving the room.

&nbs
p; “The perfect time for what?” Tristan repeated as they returned to their seats.

  Willbridge shot Morley a meaningful look. They both appeared exceedingly uncomfortable.

  “If only we could go out riding,” Willbridge grumbled.

  Morley nodded. “It would make it easier, that is certain.”

  “Damn Lord Sumner, going and dying after such an idiotic carriage accident. If it wasn’t frowned upon to speak ill of the dead, I’d be in the churchyard now, giving him a piece of my mind.”

  Morley chuckled darkly. “I think you would have to wait in line behind your wife, old man, for no one is as incensed by the jackass flaunting his mistress for everyone to see than Imogen.”

  Willbridge’s expression lightened. “That is too true. Damn me, but she’s glorious when incensed.”

  Tristan looked from one to the other in mounting frustration. “Truly? Come on, out with it you two, before I knock your skulls together. And I’ve truly no wish to do it, for I happen to like your wives.”

  Willbridge’s face fell again. “Very well. But know this is not coming from us.”

  “It’s our wives,” Morley chimed in. “They’ve insisted we speak to you on, as they term it, a matter of immense importance.”

  Tristan’s eyes narrowed as he considered them. “And what is this matter of immense importance?”

  Willbridge cleared his throat and actually squirmed in his seat. Tristan knew with mounting apprehension it was not due to the uncomfortable furniture this time. “It seems they’ve been talking to Daphne.”

  Hurt exploded in his breast. He recalled the conversation he’d had with her regarding Rosalind. As well as his belief that she would keep his revelations to herself. More fool he. “Have they?” he asked coldly.

  “They have,” Morley confirmed, his black brows drawn together in worry. He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Won’t you tell us about it?”

  Tristan let out a harsh breath, exploding from his seat and pacing across the plush carpet. “It’s not something I wish to discuss.”

  “Perhaps we can help,” Willbridge suggested.

  “There is nothing you can do,” he growled. “It is over.”

  “Mayhap things are not as dour as you think,” Morley replied. “It is quite possible that, by putting our heads together, we may come up with a solution.”

  “A solution to what?” Tristan snapped, spinning to face his friends. “Securing Rosalind’s hand when she has no wish to marry me? Making her look beyond her prejudices to see we will suit?”

  Both men went utterly still. But as Morley frowned in confusion, Willbridge’s pale gray eyes changed with shock.

  “Rosalind? Surely you don’t mean Miss Merriweather.”

  “Of course I do,” Tristan snapped. But then an inkling of suspicion settled under his skin, chilling his fury. “Wait, do you mean to tell me you didn’t know a thing about Rosalind?”

  The guilty looks on their faces told him the answer to that question.

  “In our defense,” Morley said, “we did not know our line of questioning would work quite so well.”

  “We had hoped it would, of course,” Willbridge chimed in, “but you can be remarkably close-mouthed when you’ve a mind to and so we warned our wives that we might fail spectacularly, might even make you retreat back to London without learning a thing.” He turned to Morley. “That did work better than I ever dreamed. Good idea of yours, old man.”

  “Thank you. I had hoped. But you know Tristan.”

  “Yes.”

  Tristan sliced a hand through the air, cutting off their back-and-forth with a curse. “What was that about your wives talking to Daphne? That was all a ruse?”

  Morley shrugged. “It was the only thing we could think of, the only way to get you to reveal what has you so out of sorts. By her closemouthed manner we knew she was in possession of information. Feigning that she revealed that information to Emily and Imogen was our best bet to trick you into disclosing it to us.”

  As Tristan tried to wrap his head around this devious and convoluted way of thinking, Willbridge spoke.

  “Daphne will flay us alive, I think, should she learn of this.”

  Morley nodded morosely. “Emily did say she had never seen her sister so reticent in her life. She figured it must be dire indeed to keep her so uncommonly secretive. But even in all our imaginings we never thought it was about a woman.”

  Tristan gaped at him. “What the devil did you think was wrong then?”

  “Gambling?” Willbridge suggested.

  “Ruin?” Morley supplied.

  “You’ve taken to alcohol?”

  “You are wanted for killing a man in a duel?”

  “A secret life of crime?”

  “You all think highly of me, I see,” Tristan said, narrowing his eyes on each friend in turn.

  “Not at all,” Willbridge denied. “But you must remember it was not long ago when Morley and I were living the same lifestyle you currently are.”

  “And you are a flighty fellow,” Morley chimed in. “There’s no secret in that. Look at your brief infatuation last summer with Daphne, after all.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Willbridge growled, rising. He strode to the ornate cabinet in the corner, grabbing up a decanter of brandy and pouring out three snifters of alcohol. He brought them over and passed them out, one to each of them. “We had no wish to question you, man,” he explained. “It’s never been our way. We are all three of us silent support for the others. But Imogen and Emily got it in their heads that our way wasn’t the way to go about it this time. And, as usual, my brilliant wife and my sister are right. Perhaps this bit of liquid courage shall help us get through the conversation that must now be had.” He raised his glass, looking on Tristan and Morley in expectation.

  Morley rose with alacrity, clinking his glass against Willbridge’s before turning to Tristan. “Come on, man,” he said, his voice gentler than Tristan had ever heard it. “You know we love you as a brother and only want what’s best for you. Open up to us.”

  Tristan considered them cautiously. And as he looked on these two men who had been there for him unerringly since he was eleven years old and fresh from the betrayal of his father’s second marriage, he saw the concern in their eyes and knew they only spoke the truth. They truly were like brothers to him.

  He let out a breath, his shoulders slumping, and brought his glass to theirs. “You’d best bring over that whole damn decanter then, Willbridge,” he said with a sad humor coating his words. “For we shall need it.”

  • • •

  At the end of an hour Tristan fell silent. He felt eviscerated, laid raw. There was nothing else in him to give. He raised his glass, which had sat untouched for the whole of his speech, bringing it to his mouth with trembling fingers, letting the smooth taste of the brandy slide over his thick tongue and down his parched throat.

  Morley and Willbridge were silent. Their expressions had not changed since he started talking. But he could see when he chanced a look at them something working in the depths of their eyes, like cogs in a clock whirring away.

  And was it any wonder? For he had not only told them all that had happened with Rosalind—minus their love-making, of course, and any specifics regarding her sister, for he was not a cad—but also what he had failed to tell them over the years regarding his father. Every hurt, every tragedy, every insecurity he had was spread before them, like a feast of pain and suffering.

  Unable to bear looking at them while they soaked in the glut of information he had poured out for them, he studied his glass, the way the late afternoon light played through the amber liquid, struggling to get through the dark, rich color. In one swallow he downed it, then brought the crystal glass back in front of his face. The light poured through, clear and unfettered.

  That was what his chest felt like this moment, he realized. As much as it had pained him to reveal so much of himself t
o anyone, even these men whom he loved like brothers, it was freeing. It was like his soul had been wiped clean.

  He wondered now if he would have ever found the strength to tell them if Rosalind had not first freed him to do so. She had loosened something in him, had given him permission to take what had shaped him and face it head on.

  How would he continue to find that strength without her?

  “So,” Willbridge said, “you have fallen in love.” He reached for the decanter at his elbow, refilling all their glasses to the brim before settling back and taking a sip.

  “So it would seem,” Tristan responded dryly.

  Morley tapped one finger on the rim of his glass. “And you are certain she does not return your feelings?”

  Tristan felt his back teeth clench as the memory of Rosalind’s cold eyes and cruel words bit into him. “Quite certain,” he managed. “She was most emphatic herself, and so I have no reason to doubt her.”

  “And you do not believe she could have been lying to you?” Willbridge asked after a long, thoughtful pause.

  “What reason would she have to lie to me?” He let lose a sharp, angry laugh. “I was going to propose to her, damn it.”

  “And did she know that?”

  Morley’s quiet question stopped his anger in its tracks.

  “You said her sister’s life was destroyed when she gave her heart to a man who did not return her affections,” his friend continued. “She may very well have seen a parallel to her own situation, would have been desperate to protect herself from the same fate.”

  But Tristan was already shaking his head. “No. No, that’s not possible. I was going to offer for her—”

  “Did she know?” Willbridge asked gently, echoing Morley’s question.

  Tristan frowned. “She had to have known that I would offer for her after…well,” he hedged, clearing his throat.

  Willbridge chuckled. “My friend, you are brilliant, from all accounts, with a woman’s body. But you are rubbish when it comes to knowing the workings of their hearts.”

  “Hell,” Morley piped up, “I’m still rubbish at it. But I’m blessed to have a woman who at least knows the workings of my heart and has chosen to overlook my many, many blunders.”