A Match Made In London Read online

  No, there was only one thing that would bring her out of the cocoon of anxiety she was currently wrapped in.

  “Tell me of your home.”

  Her eyes glazed with longing, as he knew they would, though doubt that he was genuinely curious kept her silent. He smiled in encouragement. In the next moment she began to speak, the words issuing with amazing rapidity from her lips. Within the space of ten minutes he learned the color of her sitting room, where her favorite shady grove was located, even the name of her horse. He encouraged her unexpected volubility with mmms and ahhhs of interest and questions designed to draw out even the most reserved lady. He may be rubbish in most aspects of his life, but never say he did not excel in this.

  As they conversed, however, he could not fail to be aware of one particular set of eyes directed unwaveringly their way. Not Miss Gladstow’s mother, of course. That woman was currently gushing over whatever Lord Ullerton was spewing—egad, but he hoped the woman wasn’t planning to pair her daughter off with that damned reprobate. No, the eyes in question were a warm cinnamon brown, and set in a pixie-like face that had struck him to his core the moment he’d spied her.

  Miss Merriweather.

  Quite against his will, his eyes drifted over Miss Gladstow’s shoulder to settle on that woman, blessedly far down the table. As it had been the last half dozen times he’d looked her way, her direct, suspicious gaze was settled unnervingly on him. And as before his whole being reacted, tensing, awareness coursing through him.

  There was no earthly reason for it, of course. Yes, she was lovely in a quiet way. And yes, he’d felt an instant pull to her. But this reaction to her had nothing to do with her appearance and everything to do with the way she looked at him: as if she knew his every secret shame and saw to his true self, to the pathetic, useless person within.

  His smile must have faltered, for Miss Gladstow, sensitive girl that she was, tripped over her words, her eyes going dull with uncertainty.

  Taking a deep breath, he grinned and held out a plate of blanched asparagus to her. “You were saying something about your dearest childhood friend?”

  As he hoped, her expression cleared and she was off again, taking a small portion of the vegetable as she launched into a story of her friend, a young man whom Tristan was beginning to suspect was a bit more than a friend. As she talked he got the distinct feeling that this was the first time anyone had truly listened to her in a long while.

  Enough of his imagined worry over Miss Merriweather and her too-sharp eyes. Miss Gladstow, shy, lonely, and miserable in her new position as debutante, was exactly what he had been searching for.

  He managed to do splendidly the rest of the meal. And when the men left the dining room later on that evening to rejoin the ladies in the drawing room, he fully intended to seek Miss Gladstow out once more and continue where they had left off. Until, that was, a small hand on his arms waylaid his plans.

  “Sir Tristan, may I have a word?”

  He just managed to bite back the groan that threatened. Instead he gifted Miss Merriweather with his most charming smile, hoping to blind her into forgoing whatever mad notion she may have gotten into her head. He was not a vain creature, but he was not stupid, either. Well, not unduly so. He knew women found him pleasing to look at, had even used it to his advantage quite often.

  But his efforts were wasted now, as they had been before. Miss Merriweather’s eyelashes didn’t so much as flicker as she gazed up at him in what he assumed was her typically forthright manner. With that stubborn little chin of hers and the small line that seemed to perpetually indent the space between her eyebrows, she seemed formidable indeed. Despite the fact that she didn’t even reach his chin.

  Mayhap if he feigned stupidity he could put the girl off. For he had a feeling that, as before, whatever she had to say would not be pleasant in the least. He tilted his head in a quizzical manner. “It was Miss Merriweather, wasn’t it?”

  She scowled, further deepening that maddening little groove. “Yes, as I’m sure you remember quite well.”

  “Now what would make you say that?”

  She looked him up and down, and he had the disturbing sense that he’d been weighed and measured and found wanting. “Oh, you have the look of someone who never forgets a face.”

  A startled laugh burst from him. “Do I?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I don’t know whether I have just been complimented or insulted.”

  “You may take it as you wish, of course. But I can assure you, I did not mean it in a complimentary manner. If you were curious.”

  He stared at her. “You are most singular, Miss Merriweather.”

  “Yes,” she mused, “it has gotten me more in trouble than not.”

  “I can imagine,” he replied with what he thought was an impressive lack of humor, though inside he felt the first true stirrings of real amusement. And intrigue. Goodness, but he’d never met a woman like her. “I suppose it is hard to hold on to a position when one is so very outspoken.”

  “You’ve no idea,” she muttered, shooting a look across the room and flushing.

  He followed her gaze. As expected, Mrs. Gladstow was glaring their way. He had nothing to fear from the woman, yet still he shivered in apprehension from the furious fire in her gaze.

  “Mayhap you’d best see to your charge,” he said. As much as he wished to escape Miss Merriweather’s presence, he was more concerned about the repercussions she might reap after talking to him.

  She turned back to him then. “I’m sure I can handle my employer, sir, though I thank you for your concern. Now, then, about why I pulled you aside.” She cleared her throat. “You and Miss Gladstow were in close conversation during dinner.”

  He quirked an eyebrow, not quite sure where she was going with this. “Yes?”

  “Do you not think you were a bit too focused on her?”

  He laughed. “You accuse me of giving the girl too much attention?”

  “Certainly. It will not fail to have been noted. I would not have Miss Gladstow talked of.”

  For the first time in the exchange, Tristan felt a true smile lift his lips. “You are to be commended for your concern. Miss Gladstow is lucky to have such a champion.”

  But his praise only had her scowling more. “You think to patronize me?”

  He blinked, the smile falling away. “Of course not. I merely meant to compliment you on your fierce defense of her.”

  “You mean because I am in their employ, why would I care, do you not?”

  Tristan stared at her, utterly flummoxed. Truly, why was it he could not seem to say the right thing to this woman? “You mistake me, madam.”

  “Hmm,” was her only response. That, and the suspicious look she gave him, as if she expected him to sprout devil horns and spit fire and brimstone at her.

  But if kindness and levity would not do the trick with this woman, perhaps having a strong offensive attitude would. He leaned over her, so she had to crane her neck to look at him. “Miss Merriweather,” he said, letting his voice dip to silkiness, “I get the distinct impression that you do not like me.”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  He very nearly laughed, she surprised him so with her sarcastic drawl. Blessedly he managed to hold onto his serious mien. “I do believe, though please correct me if I’m wrong, that you are on the cusp of accusing me of nefarious purposes with your charge.”

  “Aren’t you?” she shot back.

  “Not in the least. I happen to like Miss Gladstow. She is a lovely young woman, who is in a strange city and not at all happy about it. I had hoped to give her some comfort by lending a sympathetic ear. Do you condemn me for that?”

  For the first time in the exchange, uncertainty clouded her eyes. “Of course not.”

  “Then please give me the benefit of the doubt. I do not appreciate my honor being questioned, especially when the one questioning it has no basis for th
eir suspicions.”

  That seemed to stun the words from her. She bit down on her lower lip.

  A punch to the gut could not have taken the breath from his body so effectively. His eyes zeroed in on the small movement, fairly devouring the way her small teeth dug into the plump pink lip. He had the strangest desire to bend down, to replace her teeth with his own, to taste of those lips.

  Mrs. Gladstow’s voice, too close to his side, yanked him back from the precipice of desire.

  “Miss Merriweather, might I remind you of your position.”

  Stunned, feeling as if he’d taken a plunge in an icy lake, Tristan stumbled back a step. What the devil was wrong with him? He was in a roomful of people, at the home of one of the premier hostesses in London. And he had been damn near to kissing Miss Merriweather.

  He was going mad, that must be it.

  Apparently unaware of his turmoil, Mrs. Gladstow took Miss Merriweather’s arm in what looked to be a punishing grip and whispered fiercely in her ear. Miss Merriweather, for her part, looked completely unfazed. All but for the slight flicker of what looked to be fear in her eyes, and the barely perceptible tightening around her mouth that resembled nothing so much as a wince of pain.

  Fury coursed through him, hot and swift. “Mrs. Gladstow, I suggest you unhand Miss Merriweather this instant.”

  The woman froze, turning shocked eyes his way. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You should, though Miss Merriweather deserves it far more than me.” He looked pointedly at her fingers, which were digging into the tender skin of the younger woman’s arm.

  Mrs. Gladstow released Miss Merriweather as if she’d been burned. “My apologies, Sir Tristan,” she said stiffly. “I was merely letting the girl know her place. She should not have been bothering you as she was.”

  “She was not bothering me, I assure you. I merely asked her if she enjoyed her first foray into a true London dining experience and she was indulging me.”

  Miss Merriweather looked at him sharply, no doubt surprised at the small fib. Blessedly, she was smart enough to keep silent. Mrs. Gladstow, for her part, looked only slightly mollified. To further distract from her annoyance at her companion, he said, “By the way, your daughter is a lovely dinner companion, Mrs. Gladstow. I was so happy to have secured a seat beside her. She charmed me quite completely.”

  As expected, the woman’s expression—and attention, thank goodness—changed in an instant. Her meager chest puffed up with pride. “I am so happy to hear you say so, Sir Tristan. As I have told my Sarah repeatedly, she need only apply herself and she will turn heads.”

  As the woman rambled on, listing her daughter’s attributes as if she were trotting out a broodmare for sale, Tristan was aware of the long, considering look Miss Merriweather gave him. Escape, you daft thing, he thought. At long last she did just that, moving off silently to join Miss Gladstow across the room.

  As he listened with a rapt expression to Mrs. Gladstow, however, his mind stayed with Miss Merriweather. The woman was such an unexpected creature. He’d never known another like her. He was utterly surprised by her. But, more than that, his physical reaction to her left him not a little dazed.

  He was sure it had been the heat of the moment. And his lack of female companionship for—what was it, several months now? Egad, he’d best see to that, and soon. Surely then his strange desire for the very outspoken Miss Merriweather would be completely eradicated. Yes, that was it. He would visit one of his willing widows with all haste. And he would think no more of Miss Merriweather and her delectable mouth.

  Chapter 3

  Over the next fortnight, Sir Tristan was not the only male who haunted the Gladstows’ drawing room. But he was by far the most palatable. Rosalind should be nothing but happy for Miss Gladstow, that she had a suitor who treated her with such respect, who made the shy girl laugh.

  But she found she could not be. For despite his protestations that first night that he was not up to nefarious purposes, Rosalind could not trust him. Not one bit.

  A better woman would have taken a gentleman at his word, of course. Especially after that gentleman had been so kind as to save her from the terror that was Mrs. Gladstow. But even with him coming gallantly to her rescue like a knight of old—granted one wearing a cravat and embroidered waistcoat instead of a shining suit of armor—she had a deep mistrust in the veracity of his words.

  That mistrust had grown considerably in the two weeks since.

  Rosalind swatted at a bug that was buzzing about her ear, returning her gaze to the back of Sir Tristan’s gilded head. He was twenty paces in front of her, Miss Gladstow’s hand tucked into the crook of his arm as they meandered down a shaded path in Hyde Park. As she watched he said something to the girl, causing her to give a quiet laugh.

  Miss Gladstow was never so relaxed as when she was in Sir Tristan’s presence. Rosalind might have thought the girl was falling in love with him.

  Except there was nothing remotely romantic about their interactions.

  As if to prove her point, Miss Gladstow gave Sir Tristan a playful swat on the arm. It was something a sister would do to a brother. Certainly not the actions of an infatuated woman, a woman hoping to be wooed and wed.

  Rosalind’s eyes narrowed as Sir Tristan chuckled, then turned to greet a couple passing by. The baronet seemed an open book, friendly and engaging with everyone he came across. Yet to Rosalind he was an enigma. For why was the most popular man in town—truly, he was Society’s darling—pursuing Miss Gladstow, who could easily be the shyest girl in the kingdom?

  It could be Miss Gladstow’s dowry, of course. Her parents had put it about that she would come with a tidy sum upon her marriage. Rosalind may have been ignorant of most of Society’s quirks, but she was fully aware of one glaring fact: men born into great houses were not necessarily born into the wealth required to keep up their lifestyles. More often than not a sacrifice had to be made, in the form of some poor bait of a girl who was dangled with her father’s money like a lure about her neck. If Sir Tristan was in dire straits and after the girl for a relief from his financial woes, he would certainly not be the first.

  But something deep inside Rosalind told her this was not the case now. If he was so desperate he surely would be pulling out every trick in his arsenal to secure Miss Gladstow. He would be courting her, not sharing this strange, platonic friendship with her. And as men of his ilk did not have mere friendships with girls like Miss Gladstow, and he did not look as if he was planning to marry her, she was back to her original assumption regarding his unexpected interest in the girl, the only other assumption she could fathom.

  He meant to ruin her.

  Well, she’d be damned if she would let him take advantage of Miss Gladstow in such a way. Yes, Rosalind had been ordered by Mrs. Gladstow to keep her distance from the couple, all the better to promote Sir Tristan’s interest.

  But when had Rosalind ever been good at following orders?

  Her legs, though short, quickly ate up the space between her and the couple. “Pardon me for intruding,” she said as she pushed between the pair, effectively separating them. “But it has gotten quite lonesome back there. I don’t suppose you would be so kind as to let me join you?”

  Miss Gladstow looked thoroughly startled, though she quickly acquiesced. Sir Tristan, however, appeared suspicious. Amused, yes, but suspicious all the same. And no wonder. For she hadn’t exactly hid her dislike of him over the past two weeks, yet here she was, practically begging to be in his presence.

  “I do beg your pardon,” he said with a small bow. “We would, of course, be delighted if you joined us.”

  She bobbed a quick curtsy of thanks. But instead of going around him to take his other arm, as he no doubt intended, she grabbed onto the arm closest to her, then proceeded to link her other arm through Miss Gladstow’s. If the girl’s mother ever caught wind of this, Rosalind would surely be let go on the spot. But Miss Gladstow would not b
e bringing home tales, that she knew. The girl barely spoke a word to her mother as it was. She was certainly not about to incur the woman’s wrath herself by letting it be known she’d let their companion run roughshod over her.

  “So,” Rosalind said brightly when they started down the path again, now tucked safely between them, “what was it you were discussing when I interrupted you?”

  “Miss Gladstow was just telling me of some of the places she would like to visit while here in town.”

  “Such as?”

  Sir Tristan smiled across Rosalind to Miss Gladstow. “May I?”

  The girl gave a shy nod, her cheeks flaming, stuck back in the painful shyness that she was typically mired in now that Rosalind had intruded.

  “Miss Gladstow is quite anxious to see Madame Catalini perform at the King’s Concert.”

  “Really?” Rosalind looked to Miss Gladstow. This was the first she’d heard of this very particular desire. The girl had never given any indication of having interest in a select performer before, much less in music in general.

  To her surprise Miss Gladstow was nodding away, her eyes bright on Sir Tristan. “Oh yes. I have heard such incredible things about her performance. Did you know, they completely exclude all modern music there? It is quite intriguing, don’t you agree?”

  “Certainly,” Sir Tristan replied, leaning farther over Rosalind. “And, as you are such a lover of music, you really must not miss hearing the new Philharmonic Society play in the Queen’s Concert Rooms. They have only recently begun putting on performances, yet already their talent is remarked upon.”

  And once again Rosalind was ignored, as effectively as if she’d remained twenty paces behind. The two continued to converse, one on either side of her. Frustrated, Rosalind cut in again.

  “That sounds lovely. You are kind to tell her of it. Miss Gladstow, you must tell your mother about your wishes.”