Page 17 of A Match Made in London
Rosalind stared at her. It was then she felt it, the most peculiar warmth spreading through her chest.
It was something she had not felt since before her sister died.
She might have made an utter fool of herself and hugged Lady Belham on the spot. Thankfully the woman continued.
“But I digress. You were right, in that I’m quite new to town. I arrived not a week ago from Haddington, in Scotland, and am staying with my cousin until I secure a house of my own.”
“You don’t sound Scottish.”
“No. My husband, however, had property there, and preferred to spend his time at that remote estate and far away from London life. He passed away a little more than a year ago.”
“I am sorry,” Rosalind said.
“He was a good man,” the woman said stoutly. “But he was considerably older than me, and it was his time.”
Before Rosalind could react to that blunt statement, Lady Belham continued. “But you haven’t told me your name yet.”
Rosalind jumped, dipping into a curtsy. “Miss Rosalind Merriweather, my lady.”
“What a beautifully melodic name. Full of so many dips and turns. It quite delights the tongue. Rosalind is the daughter of the exiled duke inAs You Like It, is she not?”
“Yes, she is that,” Rosalind’s lips lifted in a wry smile. “I’m afraid my parents were dreamers of the worst sort. They thought that by giving me a whimsical name, it would help to inspire all manner of artistic endeavors in me.”
“And did it work?”
“Not a bit.” Rosalind held up her hands. “All thumbs.”
Lady Belham’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “And what of poetry?”
“Completely beyond me. If I had a suitor, one stanza from me would see them right off.”
“Well, I do suppose you could make a new career for yourself if you wish, writing bad verse for the women of thetonwho are eager to put off unwanted beaus,” she drawled.
Rosalind laughed. “I could at that. Unfortunately I haven’t the time to pen poorly written poems for debutantes.”
“Pity that,” the woman said. “But is that who you were watching then? Miss Gladstow?”
Recalling herself and her self-appointed job as protector to the girl, Rosalind turned her gaze back to the crowd on the floor. It took what felt an eternity before she located Sir Tristan and Miss Gladstow. Both were laughing as they did a promenade. Rosalind let out the breath she was holding.
“Yes,” she replied.
“I notice she’s partnered with Sir Tristan Crosby,” Lady Belham said with interest. Too much interest.
Rosalind turned to her. “You know of the gentleman then?”
Lady Belham gave a small laugh. “Of course I do.”
Before Rosalind could wonder at the woman’s strange answer the music came to a flourishing close. Startled, she peered over the dancers, but they were already exiting the floor. To her frustration and alarm, she could not discern Sir Tristan in the crowd.
“Blast it,” she muttered. “I’ve lost them.”
Lady Belham gave a startled laugh. “If you mean Miss Gladstow and Sir Tristan, I do believe I see them heading to the doors leading to the front hall.”
Rosalind went cold. She could not let them escape. Before she could hurry away, however, Lady Belham spoke, stalling her.
“I like you, Miss Merriweather. I haven’t many friends in town. If you’re ever up for a visit, please do stop by an afternoon. I would so love to continue our exchange.” So saying, she held out a thick, creamy card. A hand-written address graced one side.
“Thank you so much, my lady,” Rosalind said hastily, stuffing the card into her own bag. “I would like that.” Dipping into a quick curtsy, she bounded away, following in Sir Tristan and Miss Gladstow’s wake.
