Page 14 of A Match Made in London
Chapter 5
Rosalind fidgeted in her chair, her bottom having gone numb on the hard wood long ago. She and Miss Gladstow had been seated in the wallflower line at Lord and Lady Jasper’s ball for what seemed hours now, though in reality it could not have been above a half-hour at the most. With each second that passed, however, she felt the noose of expectation tightening about her throat. That sensation was only underscored each time Rosalind caught sight of the girl’s mother. For Mrs. Gladstow had not changed her mind regarding the instructions she had set forth for Rosalind, if her furious head jerks were anything to go by. She would have her daughter lay claim to the earl before anyone else did, come hell or high water.
Not that Rosalind thought the woman had anything to worry about. It certainly did not appear as if Lord Jowls was in any great demand by the debutantes of London. But reason Mrs. Gladstow would not listen to, as Rosalind had learned to her detriment.
She caught sight of Lord Jowls in that moment. He was some distance away and talking to another gentleman, his jowls undulating with each expressive cast of his meaty hands. He caught her looking. With a smile and a dip of his head in her direction he returned to his conversation.
A prickle of guilt settled within her. The man had never been anything but unfailingly polite to both her and Miss Gladstow. Yes, he was not the most attractive man in London, and had to be old enough to be Miss Gladstow’s father. But was that any reason to think ill of him? Were her innate prejudices blinding her to the fact that he might actually be a good choice for Miss Gladstow? Surely the girl wished for security and status, and by all accounts the earl could provide them. Would she deny Miss Gladstow these things because of her own unreasonable dislike of the man?
She let loose a mournful sigh. She had best get to it then. But where the devil was Sir Tristan? She cast about, looking over the crowded ballroom. Yet there was no sign of his blond head towering over the masses—something she had grown quite adept at locating in the past fortnight, to her disgust. Despite his devil-may-care attitude, she knew he was not typically tardy to these affairs. And once arrived, he never failed to search out Miss Gladstow. Perhaps his absence now meant he wasn’t coming at all?
But no, he had promised he would see them. Mayhap he was here, and had been waylaid by friends. All Rosalind knew was, for every second that ticked by that Sir Tristan was not in Miss Gladstow’s orbit, doing his bit to unknowingly pique Lord Jowls’s interest, the better chance Rosalind had of being thrown out before the evening was through.
It seemed she would have to take matters into her own hands. As disturbing as that was.
She turned to Miss Gladstow. “Are you overheated, miss?”
The girl gave her a distracted smile. “No, I’m comfortable,” she replied in her quiet voice.
“Are you certain? Perhaps we can take a turn about the room. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“Not particularly.”
Rosalind fiddled with her fan a moment, blowing out a small puff of air. Miss Gladstow seemed determined to stay put in her seat. Not that Rosalind had any particular desire to dive into the crowd herself. But one could not very well find someone in a mass of people if one were stuck to one’s seat like the proverbial barnacle. That, along with the daggers Mrs. Gladstow shot her way as Rosalind unconsciously glanced at her again, made Rosalind more nervous by the second.
“Mayhap you would like a bit of punch,” she blurted.
“I’m not thirsty, thank you,” Miss Gladstow said.
The girl appeared composed enough. Yet there was something off about her tonight. Her fingers, resting in her lap, were wrapped so tightly about themselves it appeared as if she were going to snap the delicate bones with the force of it.
Now that she thought of it, Miss Gladstow had been out of sorts since their walk in the park that afternoon. Rosalind had been so preoccupied, first with her quarrel with Sir Tristan, followed by the horror of Mrs. Gladstow’s threats, she had not paid the proper attention to the girl. Now that she was, however, it seemed glaringly obvious.
“Did Sir Tristan do something to upset you?” she blurted.
“Pardon?” the girl looked at her as if she’d grown another head. “No. No, of course not. He is never anything but kind.”
“Are you certain? You have seemed upset since our outing.” Then a thought sparked. She frowned. “Was it Mr. Marlow?”
A furious blush spread over the girl’s cheeks. “You know, Miss Merriweather, I do believe I am horribly parched. Would you be willing to fetch us some punch?”
“Oh! Certainly.” Rosalind fairly bolted from her chair. Granted, she had not managed to pry the girl from the side of the room. But at least she could search out Sir Tristan herself.
She hurried through the crowd, weaving in and out of the swell of people, doing her best to locate Sir Tristan. She soon found, however, that being several inches shorter than the great majority of guests present put her at a distinct disadvantage. She could see even less from this angle than she had been able to while seated against the wall. For a moment she looked longingly at the orchestra balcony, stretched on one side of the vast room. Surely no one would notice if she snuck up and peeked out.
Before she could think better of it she was off, working toward the far side of the room. There must be a door there somewhere that led to the upper reaches. After a bit of searching she found it, hidden behind a heavy red velvet curtain. She ducked behind the fabric and made to open the door there.
A low conversation on the other side of the curtain snagged her attention, halting her progress.
“And have you any prospects for brides, Ullerton?”
“Several. There is a fine contingent of young misses out this year. Though I admit there is one lady I have my eye on.”
“And who might that be?”
Rosalind blanched. Lord Ullerton was on the other side of the curtain? She turned the handle, intending to slip into the passage beyond. She certainly had no wish to overhear what the man had to say.
But his next words once again stalled her.
