A Match Made In London

  EverAfter Romance

  A division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1004

  New York, New York 10016

  www.EverAfterRomance.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Christina Silverio

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  For more information, email info@everafterromance.com

  First EverAfter Romance edition May 2019.

  Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63576-615-8

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63576-618-9

  This book is dedicated with love to my mom, Vickie Jetté.

  Thank you, Moppy, for never censoring my reading, even

  when I was thirteen and bringing home steamy romances

  by the dozen. Who knew it would lead to this?

  I love you.

  Chapter 1

  Miss Rosalind Merriweather surveyed the lords and ladies gathered before her with trepidation. Of all the places she had never expected—or wanted—to be, a London drawing room had certainly topped the list.

  Distaste roiled in her already unsettled stomach. London. The place of her sister’s ruin, the beginning of the end of her family.

  She touched the locket at her throat, more out of habit than any real comfort, her fingers gliding over the worn filigreed gold and turquoise cabochons. A reminder of what happened the last time a Merriweather stepped foot inside the borders of this illustrious city. A somber lesson on the vagaries of men…and how easy it was for a young woman to lose everything on the whim of a moment.

  Not that she was all that young. Or anyone worth noticing in the first place. Even so, she would be a fool to let down her guard. Especially as her charge, Miss Sarah Gladstow, was one of those young, impressionable things who was fair game to rakes and libertines.

  “Miss Merriweather, attend me,” a shrill voice called close by.

  Rosalind heaved a sigh and hurried to Mrs. Gladstow, the girl’s mother. As her current employer, the woman was last in a long line of them and by far the worst. Truly, the collection of aging spinsters and elderly widows that had come before her, all fussy and difficult to a one, seemed the most generous and kind collection of patrons ever assembled compared to Mrs. Gladstow.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Rosalind asked.

  The older woman scowled. It was her perpetual expression, one that had left deep grooves around her thin lips and between her hard eyes. Yet the expression seemed even fiercer than usual. “Remember what I told you, girl,” she hissed. “You are to stay close to my daughter’s side, help her to engage in conversation with others, but under no circumstance are you to overshadow her. We are here to find Sarah a husband, not to stroke that ego of yours. Is that understood?”

  “I hardly think I possess an ego, ma’am. I would think nine years as a companion would have effectively banished that particular sentiment, if I ever had one—”

  Like lightning the woman’s hand shot out, her skeletal fingers digging like talons into Rosalind’s arm. Too stunned to react, Rosalind could do no more than stumble along as she was pulled to the side of the vast room.

  “You have been with us how long, Miss Merriweather?” Mrs. Gladstow’s voice had gone silky as custard. And as hard to stomach as a spoiled one.

  “Five months, ma’am.”

  “And before that, where were you?”

  Like the woman didn’t know. “With your Great-Aunt Lavinia, ma’am. For three years,” she added before the woman could ask that as well. And before that with Mrs. Kester, Aunt Lavinia’s closest friend. Preceded by her first post, with Mrs. Kester’s niece by marriage and Rosalind’s own distant cousin, Mrs. Harper. She had been passed around as a companion to those ladies like a plate of particularly unappetizing food at a party.

  Only to wind up here, with a woman who had never wanted to take her on in the first place. It all seemed like some horrible comedic play. If it wasn’t her life, she might laugh.

  Mrs. Gladstow pursed her lips as she considered her. “I don’t believe you’re stupid. You don’t look stupid. And yet, time and again, you run off at the mouth in the rudest manner possible. How, I wonder, did my great aunt stand it?”

  “She was deaf.”

  “Yes, she was,” Mrs. Gladstow mused. “And yet I did not question her when she asked me, practically on her death bed, to take you on after she passed. That was quite noble of me, I think.”

  The woman looked at Rosalind in expectation, no doubt waiting for her to burst forth with undying gratitude. When none came she frowned mightily.

  “I’ll have no more out of you, Miss Merriweather,” she hissed. “I have no qualms about throwing you out on your ear, deathbed promise to my aunt or no.”

  It was not anything Rosalind had not heard before. Mrs. Gladstow wielded threats the way an artist might wield paints and brushes; she was a master. Yet that did not stop the twinge of fear that slithered up Rosalind’s spine. For she knew—as did Mrs. Gladstow, damn her—that Rosalind had no place to go if she lost this position. There was no post waiting in the wings this time. And Mrs. Gladstow would assure that there would be no reference to help Rosalind find that new post on her own.

  The older woman’s eyes narrowed, no doubt seeing the fear that Rosalind strove to hide. She flapped her hands in the air as if shooing a fly. “I’ve no more time for you, girl. Do as you’re told.” With that she pasted a wide smile on her face—a frightening expression, truly—and glided away.

  Rosalind took a steadying breath. And so it starts. The next few months in London would be like swimming in shark-infested waters, a fan and her wits as her only weapons. She gazed about the room, making a mental note of the men that appeared the most dangerous to a young woman of virtue. Her eyes lit on one blond Adonis in the corner. Ludicrously attractive, with a sparkling smile that would positively draw one in, he was the epitome of a London libertine. A heartbreaker of the first order. Here was the exact creature she should be wary of. The type of person her sister, romantic that she was, would have been defenseless against.

  Guinevere’s face floated into her mind then, happy and vibrant. But it was too ephemeral. For, as it always did, that long-ago memory transformed into the sister Rosalind had gotten back after that fateful trip to the capital, when grief had sapped all the life from the beautiful girl she had been.

  Yes, Rosalind thought as her eyes narrowed on the rake again, it was imperative she guard against men such as him. For she would be damned if she, or anyone in her care, would be duped as her sister had been.

  • • •

  Although, she learned some time later, smiling and nodding woodenly to some pompous lord as he prattled on about his incredibly large kennel of hounds, it was quite possible that a debonair rake was the least of her problems.

  Miss Sarah Gladstow, for her part, stood like the famed biblical pillar of salt at Rosalind’s side, not even attempting to respond to the man, just as she’d done for the three who had come before him. Rosalind had come to learn something of the girl in the past five months, chiefly that she was painfully shy. Now she was being forced into conversation with strangers, surely her worst nightmare come true. Rosalind might have felt pity for her if s
he was not so annoyed that the brunt of the effort to keep Miss Gladstow appearing interesting fell to her shoulders.

  “You were blessed with a litter of fifteen puppies?” she said to the man now—a Lord Something-or-other with wobbling jowls that Rosalind was hard-pressed not to stare at in fascination. He nodded, and they danced about as if possessing a mind of their own.

  Tearing her eyes from the sight, she turned to Miss Gladstow. “Isn’t that fascinating, Miss Gladstow? You are a great lover of canines, are you not?”

  Please, she silently begged as she watched the girl swallow hard, please respond to the man and relieve me from this hell. But Miss Gladstow darted one quick look up to Lord Jowls, blushed mightily, and dropped her eyes to the floor again, giving only a quick nod as she did so.

  Rosalind just managed to fight back a groan. At this rate she would be out on her ear in a fortnight. Even worse, Lord Jowls was completely ignoring Miss Gladstow. Instead an interested gleam entered his eyes as he considered Rosalind. She had already learned in the five minutes they’d been in conversation that the man was widowed and without issue. No doubt he was on the lookout for a wife. He could not possibly be interested in her, a penniless companion. He would be wanting a wife of good standing, a wife with a dowry.

  Yet Rosalind did not want to take any chances.

  She looked to some spot behind him, widening her eyes in what she hoped was a believably surprised manner. “Oh! But Mrs. Gladstow requires her daughter. Do forgive us, my lord.”

  Without waiting for the man’s response, Rosalind took hold of Miss Gladstow’s arm and hauled her away. The girl came without protest, years of being browbeaten by her mother making her docile to a fault. Surely Mrs. Gladstow would have another less jowly man for her daughter to “charm.”

  Mrs. Gladstow, however, was not pleased with their return. “You have left Lord Ullerton already?” she hissed. “He is highly eligible, Sarah, and an earl. You could do worse.”

  Not by much, Rosalind thought. By the look on Miss Gladstow’s face, she was of the same opinion. Besides, this was the girl’s first true foray into society. Would her mother have her land a husband already?

  The older woman shook her head. “Never mind. For I’ve a family I want you to meet.” She leaned in closer to her daughter, her lips mere inches from the girl’s ear. Even so, Rosalind could hear the hiss of a whisper as she said, low and fierce, “Get in good with them, Sarah, and you are golden.”

  Soon they were being propelled through the crowd—heading right for the blond Adonis. Rosalind stared in disbelief, praying Mrs. Gladstow would change course. She could not possibly mean to introduce her daughter to that man. But no, she headed right for him and his party, her steps determined, never faltering.

  Mrs. Gladstow dropped into a deep curtsy when they reached them. “Pardon me for intruding once more,” she said, her voice sickeningly sweet, “but I did so want to introduce my daughter. This is Miss Sarah Gladstow, light of my life. Her father and I quite dote on her.” She smiled beatifically at the younger girl.

  She then went into a rambling introduction of the other party. Rosalind’s mind spun as name after name was spoken. First Lord Willbridge, a handsome marquess with copper hair and twinkling gray eyes, followed by his pretty, bespectacled bride. Next was the dowager Lady Willbridge with her daughter Lady Daphne Masters, a ravishing beauty of a girl out for her first Season. Beside her was Miss Mariah Duncan, younger sister to the young Lady Willbridge and, with her flaxen hair and cornflower eyes, even more stunning than Lady Daphne.

  And of course, last of the bunch was Sir Tristan Crosby, the blond Adonis. He grinned with a disgusting amount of confidence as his name was spoken.

  The group smiled at them and murmured warm greetings. “Curtsy, dear,” Mrs. Gladstow hissed through her smile when her daughter continued to stand stupidly staring at her toes.

  The young Lady Willbridge gave her a small, commiserating look and stepped forward, taking up her hands. Miss Gladstow jumped, looking up with wide eyes into the woman’s kind face.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Lady Willbridge said, her voice melodic and sweet. She smiled in encouragement.

  The effect on Miss Gladstow was instantaneous. A tentative answering smile spread over her face. “The pleasure is mine, my lady,” she whispered.

  Lady Willbridge smiled in delight. Something in Rosalind’s chest loosened. She had come to care for Miss Gladstow in the past five months, despite the fact that she could hardly tease a word out of her. That this woman was being kind to her, as so few had been before, touched her deeply.

  A deep voice interrupted. “But you have forgotten someone, Mrs. Gladstow.”

  Rosalind sucked in her breath, her eyes flying to the blond Adonis, the one she now knew as Sir Tristan Crosby. He eyed her with interest, his blue eyes amazingly warm for all their icy color.

  Her mind seemed to fly off for an instant. She forgot her position, her purpose in London, even her own name. For a single, frozen second she was merely a young woman staring back at the most devastatingly handsome man she had ever seen.

  Which was as she feared would happen. Instant fury boiled through her veins. Granted, some of it was for him. He no doubt knew what he was doing with those intimate looks and melting smiles, the cur. But most of her anger was reserved for herself alone. She had known to be on her guard. And yet here she was, practically a drooling mess over one glance.

  She would not—could not—be caught off guard again.

  Mrs. Gladstow’s voice thankfully dragged her back from the island of self-reprimanding disgust where she had marooned herself.

  “Her? Oh, she is my daughter’s companion, Miss Rosalind Merriweather.”

  Sir Tristan grinned. “It is a pleasure, Miss Merriweather.”

  She might have rolled her eyes. If she had not been too busy fighting the flock of butterflies that had taken up residence in her stomach. Blessedly her mind was not so overtaken that she forgot to curtsy. The rest of the group greeted her before Mrs. Gladstow claimed their attention again. As Rosalind made to blend back in with the scenery, Sir Tristan stepped toward her. She looked at him in suspicion as he bent his head in an attempt at conversing privately with her.

  “Are you new to town, Miss Merriweather?”

  She briefly considered turning her back and ignoring the man entirely. But she had her position to think about. Mrs. Gladstow would surely not like her giving the cut direct. She said, in as clipped a manner as possible, “Yes.”

  “And how do you like London?”

  So this was to be a conversation, was it? She drew herself up to her full height—not very impressive, considering she did not even reach his chin—and leveled a cool stare on him. “As well as can be expected.”

  He grinned, flashing disgustingly straight teeth. “And what is it you expected?”

  “Do you truly wish me to answer that, sir?” she gritted.

  “Certainly. As it can run the gamut anywhere from a veritable paradise to the very bowels of hell itself, you can be assured my curiosity is piqued.”

  “If you truly wish to know.”

  His grin widened. “Oh, I do.”

  “Very well.” She looked to Mrs. Gladstow, ensuring the woman was still deep in conversation with the rest of the group before returning her attention to Sir Tristan. She cleared her throat. “It is in my very decided opinion that London is full of men who think only of their own pleasure and do not care who gets hurt in its pursuit. It is full of spoiled people with nothing better to do than to preen and gloat before others. It is a place of heartache and vice. And I wish I never had to come.”

  The man’s smile did not falter. But there was something deep in his eyes that changed, sobering. She might not have seen it had she not been watching him so closely. “That is a very decided opinion, Miss Merriweather. And do you think there is nothing that might change your mind?”

  “No, nothing. And if I ma
y be so bold, Sir Tristan?”

  “I do not think I could stop you if I wanted to, but I find I am most anxious to hear what you have to say.”

  “Very well. To be honest, everything I have seen thus far has only cemented those opinions.”

  For a single moment his expression altered. And she felt she could see to the depths of him. Before she could process it his debonair smile was back in place, his eyes twinkling merrily again.

  “That is such a shame. For I think you would find there is much to recommend London—and its people—if you only open yourself up to it.”

  Before she could think of how to reply to that the butler entered, announcing dinner. Sir Tristan gave her a polite nod, stepping past her and offering Miss Gladstow his arm.

  “I hope you are not opposed to my escort into dinner, Miss Gladstow?” To Rosalind’s surprise, the girl placed her hand readily enough on his arm—it must be that smile, damn him—and they walked off toward the massive double doors, leaving Rosalind to look after him with not a small amount of confusion.

  Chapter 2

  If there was anything Tristan was good at, it was charming even the most irascible dame. Which was how he found himself seated next to Miss Sarah Gladstow during dinner, their hostess turning to warm butter in his hands at the mere mention of more informal seating.

  Never say he didn’t have his talents.

  He turned to Miss Gladstow. “How do you like London?”

  The answer was always the same with the shy ones, of course. And so he was not in the least surprised when she said, “It’s all a bit…overwhelming.”

  He nodded in understanding. “You have not been here long?”

  “This is my first social event.”

  Well, at least her mother had not shoved her immediately into a crowded ballroom full to bursting with hundreds of noble elite. The woman was a social climber if he ever saw one, but hopefully this small mercy on her part showed love for her daughter.

  But, as he had learned in the past, talking about London only increased anxiety in women such as Miss Gladstow. And right now, her fingers were wrapped so tight about her spoon he thought she might bend the metal. She had not looked at him once, her eyes quite firmly fixed on her soup, which sat untouched in all its creamy splendor.