She hugged her middle, as if she could hold herself together by sheer force of will, and dropped heavily into her chair. Everything she had ever believed, everything that had driven her over the past years, was a lie.
She had been led to believe that a rake—for that was how Guinevere’s friend had described Lester—had taken advantage of her sister. She thought he’d been a man with no care for Guinevere, who only wished to use her for his own pleasure and then had abandoned her.
Instead here was this gentle, kind man, who was utterly destroyed by the news of what he’d inadvertently done. A man who had loved her sister, who had been refused when he’d offered the protection of his name.
She felt as if she’d been told that up was down, that right was wrong. Nothing made sense any longer. The foundations of deep-seated beliefs had been stripped away.
Why had Guinevere refused this man? She had to have known what had happened. She could have held on to her honor, would have been loved and protected.
But even as she asked herself these things she knew. She remembered Guinevere calling Lester’s name while overcome with the pain of her labor and knew. She had loved that man with everything in her, though he could not return it. She had been dramatic, and bold, and led by her emotions. And when she’d loved, it had been with her whole heart, her whole soul. She would have seen it as a betrayal to her very heart to marry another. Even if it could have saved her life.
“Damn it, Guinevere,” she whispered.
“I am so sorry.” Mr. Carlisle was back to staring at the locket, and Rosalind did not know if he was talking to her or the wisp of the child that still lived behind glass, a child he would never know.
But then he looked at her. “I am so sorry, for everything. If I could take it all back I would. What I did to her, what I have done to you…” He swallowed hard, and for a moment she thought he might begin to cry in earnest. Instead he gathered strength and said, “I shall never forgive myself for what I have done. I shall never, ever forget. But perhaps I can help you a bit. Please let me help you.”
She frowned. “Help me?”
“I am not a rich man. But I can provide for you, give you independence.”
Her frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”
But he was sitting forward, a new determination in his eyes. “I have a cottage. It’s not grand, or large. But it is mine. It was left to me by my mother, came with her marriage portion. I can give it to you. You can live there in peace, without being beholden to anyone, without having to live a life of service for one more day.” When she began to shake her head, confusion and hope and fear building in her, he rose, hurried around the low table, knelt in front of her. Taking up her hand, he pressed it to his heart.
“I loved your sister. So very much. She gave birth to my child, who never had a chance to live, and whom I shall never know. You are all I have left of both of them. Please, Rosalind, let me do this for you. Let me give you the life you deserve and that I took from you in one stupid, ill-conceived moment.”
She stared into his agonized yet still gentle eyes, and a bud of hope began to bloom in her chest. She should accept what he offered. She should not have this life, after all, should have had a life quite different. And even though she had found a place with Grace, though she loved her like a sister, she was still in service and could lose this life any moment on a whim.
She imagined herself then in a home of her own, doing what she wanted when she wanted. Having to answer to no one. It was incredible and frightening all at once.
But something held her back from accepting this great gift. Because inside she felt empty. And she knew that filling the hole in her heart with the life he offered would not ease the ache of it.
“I can’t,” she whispered helplessly.
A look of sad understanding softened his face. “Is it Sir Tristan?”
He must have seen the shock and agony that coursed through her. “I am so sorry. It is none of my business, of course. But please know that my offer still stands should you ever need it.”
He sighed, opened his hand, looked down at the locket that still rested open in his palm. Rosalind, too, gazed down at it, taking in with new eyes the small curl of hair that she had worn so faithfully for nine long years. It was nearly the same hue as Mr. Carlisle’s hair, she realized now.
He moved, faltered, then held it out to her, his jaw set. “Thank you for sharing this with me, for telling me what happened. Though it brings me more pain than I ever imagined, I am glad I know.”
She reached for it, then at the last minute closed his fingers around it.
He gasped softly. “You are giving this to me?”
She smiled gently. “Have a good life, Mr. Carlisle. And try to forgive yourself. You deserve to be happy.”
His throat worked for a time, his eyes shining. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her forehead before rising. “Thank you, Rosalind. For everything.”
With that he was gone.
Rosalind sat there for a moment, staring at the place he had been. After a time she reached out with shaking hands and poured herself a cup of tea. But it was cold and tasteless on her dry tongue, and she pushed it aside hardly touched. She rose. She would go to her room, finish packing. But when she reached the hall she found herself going, not to her own room, but to Tristan’s.
She didn’t know why. She had never been in his bedroom, had never passed the threshold, had never even looked inside. Yet she went in now, as if it was natural, as if she belonged. And a moment later she knew why. For he was here, in every bit of rich fabric, in every strong curve of the dark oak furniture, even in the scent of him that permeated the air.
She had thought men like him were the enemy. For years it had sat like a stone in her chest, affecting each decision she made, word she spoke.
But she had been wrong. At the bed she ran her fingers over the pillow and wondered what else she had been wrong about.
A noise sounded in the hall. She jumped. But it was only a maid passing by, soon gone. She should not be here. She would be gone in the morning, and he would be behind her, a memory that she would recall on cold Scottish nights to warm her. A lesson that she had learned.
For though Mr. Carlisle’s revelations had rocked her to her very core, she must not forget that she had given herself to Tristan without him declaring himself, without him promising a future. That he had taken her innocence and never meant to marry her.
Even so, she found herself wandering about the room. She trailed her fingers over the table beside his bed, over the smooth surface of the desk in the corner, across the intricately carved doors of the armoire, imagining him using these pieces.
When she came to the mantle she paused. For there stood two miniatures, women both of them. One was Grace, albeit a much younger version. The other, though, was unknown to her, and depicted in clothing several decades out of fashion.
It was his mother, whom he said had died so young. It had to be. She could see now as she peered closely at the painting the same shape of the eyes as Tristan, the same golden hair. There was a wear mark near the edge of the frame, as if rubbed over and over. She could imagine Tristan standing here, mourning the mother he had lost so young, his thumb rubbing that spot until the varnish wore off. His grief wearing on him just as he wore down that small wooden frame.
As she’d worn down the delicate design on the locket she’d saved with the memory of Guinevere’s son inside.
She cleared her throat of the lump that had formed in it. Taking a step back, she determined to leave as quickly as she could. This was doing her no good, only causing her more pain. But as she turned to go, a small inlaid box near the miniature caught her eye. Its lid was not fitted quite right, and the edge of a crumpled paper stuck out.
It was so out of place in a room that was neat as a pin. Curiosity momentarily overcoming her, she gingerly lifted the lid and extracted the paper.
It was twisted, c
rumpled, as if he had smashed it in his fist. If so, why had he kept it? And why was there weight to it? She should put it back. Of course she should. It was not meant to be seen.
But when had common sense stopped her? For if her tongue could not listen to reason and stay still, what made her think her fingers could?
The crackle of the paper was overloud in the hush of the room as she opened the small bundle. An item, small and shining, fell out. It bounced across the carpet, coming to rest under a nearby chair.
But she did not immediately follow it. For something on the paper had caught her eye: her name, written in an elegant script. Heart pounding in her ears, she smoothed the paper flat.
What she read stopped her breath. It was a special license, signed by the archbishop himself, proclaiming that Sir Tristan Artemis Douglas Crosby was to marry Miss Rosalind Merriweather.
He had meant to marry her? All along, he had meant to marry her? She searched the document, found the date. May the seventh. The day after their trip to Vauxhall.
That was where he had gone off to that morning, where he had traveled to after he had left her bed. He had not abandoned her. He had meant to marry her.
She thought then of how she had acted when he’d returned, how cold and cruel, to protect her heart from the pain that had taken her sister’s life. And all the while he’d had this in his pocket.
“What have I done?” she moaned.
It was then she remembered the object that had fallen from the paper. She dropped to her knees, scrambling for the chair, reaching into the shadows. Her fingers brushed something hard and cold. She grabbed at it, bringing it into the light.
A gold ring lay in her palm, the metal formed into whimsical curlicues. And at the center, gleaming brilliant, a deep blue sapphire surrounded by seed pearls.
The breath left her in a soft exhale. He had meant to give this to her?
She had to find him, to take it all back, to tell him she was sorry for pushing him away. She scrambled to her feet, intending to do that very thing.
But he was gone, wasn’t he? And he did not plan to return until she and Grace had departed. He had bid her farewell when last he’d seen her. It was over between them, for it appeared the words she had spewed in defense of her heart had worked all too well.
“Rosalind.”
She gasped and looked up to find Grace in the doorway. The other woman’s face was softened in understanding.
“You are staying, then?”
“No,” Rosalind hurried to say. She frowned, holding the paper and ring close to her chest. “That is, I don’t believe so. That is…”
Grace embraced her. “Darling, do what is in your heart,” she murmured in her ear. “If you choose to stay, I shall not stop you. And if you wish to join me, I will gladly have you.”
She pulled away, smiling encouragingly at Rosalind before walking out of the room. Leaving Rosalind with her battered heart and a frightening decision that would change the course of her very life. If she had the strength to make it.
Chapter 28
Tristan burst through the door of his Upper Grosvenor Street home early the following evening, eager after a day and a half on the road to find Rosalind.
He knew, even as he sprinted up the main staircase to the second floor and the family apartments, that something wasn’t right. The house was too quiet, too empty.
Even so, he could not stop from rushing to her room and throwing open the door. He stood in the doorway, looking at the bed where they made love. It was as neatly made as it ever was. Everything was in its place. But it was more than that; it was as if her very presence had been stripped from the room. It felt barren, achingly so. Even her scent, the wonderful perfume of roses and lavender, was barely discernible.
Yet still he needed proof. He strode to the armoire, peered inside, went to the dressing table, the small table beside the bed. Everything was empty, stripped bare.
She was gone. She had left.
He was too late.
Desolation swept over him. Needing to escape the room and the memories that permeated the very walls, he left, walking blindly down the hall. At the doorway of his study, Danielson found him.
“Sir Tristan, welcome back. We did not expect you so soon.”
“Good afternoon, Danielson. Lady Belham and Miss Merriweather have left, I see.”
“Yes, just this morning.”
“I don’t…” He cleared his throat, tried again. “I don’t suppose they left a letter or message for me?”
The butler’s normally impassive expression faltered, a look of what appeared to be pity flaring in his eyes before his calm demeanor slid back into place. “No, sir, there was nothing.” He paused. “Will there be anything else, sir?”
“No,” Tristan mumbled, the brief hope that had flared snuffed out completely. “Not a thing.”
The butler bowed and left. Tristan stood there for a time, utterly weary, before, with a sigh, he entered the study.
He sank into the chair behind the massive desk. He should go to the cabinet, pour himself a healthy glass of whiskey, drown himself in the stuff until he could no longer think or feel. It did seem like a sound plan. But he did not have even the energy for that, and so the next best thing it would be. He would drown himself in work.
He flipped listlessly through the large pile of letters that had accumulated on his desk. Several were from his steward back at Sainsly, one from his solicitor, a few from merchants on Bond Street. And one from Josephine.
The old anger tried to find purchase as he looked on his stepmother’s delicate handwriting. The woman would not listen. He had told her time and again to go through the proper channels in reaching him. They had nothing to say to one another, not after the years of hurt that separated them.
He dug deep, found a shred of outrage to hold onto, and gripped the letter tight to rip it asunder.
At the last moment Rosalind’s voice drifted to him, from that magical night at Vauxhall.
Perhaps it is time for you to heal from the pain your father caused you and reconcile with her. She could be lonely, could be wishing to make amends.
The outrage drained from him as quickly as it had come. How many letters had she sent in the past weeks? Three? Four? Perhaps Rosalind was right, and she was lonely. She had no other family, after all, from what he knew.
With a glance up to the heavens for guidance, he sighed and opened the letter.
It had been written nearly a week ago. The letter started off with talk of the local families, of births and deaths, repairs that had been made upon his orders. Everything he already knew from his steward’s many letters. She must know that, he thought in frustration as the letter rambled on.
Finally he came to the end.
“I do not know if you are receiving my letters,” it read. “I wish that things were different between us. I am for London to visit an old family friend, and should be there by the end of the week. I had hoped to see you while there. It has been too many years, Tristan. If you do not choose to see me I want you to know I understand. But I have enclosed the address, should you decide in favor of such a plan. I hope you do.”
She signed it, “With love, Josephine.”
He stared at it for a long moment, waiting for the anger, the bitterness, the hurt that had typically accompanied all thoughts of her to rear up. To his surprise they were muted. Instead a sadness enveloped him. Was she truly lonely as Rosalind had suggested?
But it was madness to think he could have a relationship with her after all this time. Damn it, she had never once fought his father on making sure Tristan was included. She had been more than happy with her little family, without her husband’s heir coming in and mucking up everything.
As he looked over her carefully penned letter, however, he only saw the loneliness echoing within her words. She wrote as if she had penned him a hundred letters like it, speaking out into the void. Begging for a word back.
The butler materialized as if out of the ether. “Yes, Sir Tristan?”
“I’m heading out. Have my horse saddled and readied before I change my bloody mind.”
“Very good, sir.”
• • •
Within a half hour he was standing in front of the little house on Green Street. The entire ride here he had not thought twice about his hasty decision. Now that he was faced with seeing Josephine, however, he found himself frozen, unable to even lift his hand to knock.
He did not have time to change his mind, however, for the front door was thrown wide. And there was Josephine, staring at him as if he was a ghost.
“Tristan,” she breathed, her hands clasped before her breast. “How you’ve changed. I almost did not recognize you.”
He could only stare at her, this woman he had hated for so long. She was much older than he remembered. How long had it been since he’d been home? Arthur’s funeral? No, his father’s, shortly after. That had to be eight years ago. He had not been back to Sainsly since.
Her hair had grayed and thinned from the thick mass of curls he remembered. She had lost weight, too, and her face was heavily lined. She no longer resembled the woman who had taken his mother’s place, the elegant creature he had despised.
“Oh, but how rude of me,” she said, her hands fluttering in agitation. “Please come in. My friend is out and so we may talk at our leisure.”
Hesitating only a moment, he followed her into the house. His mind whirled. She was nothing like he expected, nothing like he remembered. She even moved differently, more nervous than before.
“Rose,” she called to a maid who was hovering in the front hall, “please bring a tea tray in.”
The maid bobbed a curtsy and disappeared, and Josephine showed him into a small front parlor done up in a riot of flowery fabrics and dainty furniture.
A Match Made In London Page 27