Page 25 of A Match Made in London
“None taken,” she replied with a cheeky grin, “for I certainly have no wish to marry you, either.”
Willbridge groaned. “The both of you shall send me to an early grave.”
Imogen patted his hand. “All the better to prepare you for fatherhood, Caleb. Our son will be as incorrigible as you, so you’d best get used to such talk.”
“You mean our daughter,” Willbridge declared officiously, with a superior look that let Tristan know this argument was a familiar one, even at this early stage. “And she shall be as sweet-tempered as her mother.” He brought Imogen’s hand to his mouth and kissed it.
Daphne made a gagging sound. “What did I tell you?” she muttered to Tristan. “Absolutely sickening.” He could not fail to see the misty light in her eyes, however, as she gazed on her brother and his wife.
“Says the woman who has been in love not once, but twice already this Season,” he muttered back.
“Quiet you,” she hissed as Willbridge and Imogen continued to murmur lovingly to one another. “I told you that in the strictest confidence.”
He smirked, only saved from her wrath by the arrival of the tea tray. Blessedly the Masters’ cook did not skimp on heartier sustenance in addition to the small cakes and biscuits that were the typical fare. He wasted no time, helping himself to a heaping plate of sandwiches. “I shall miss this once you’re out of town, Willbridge,” he said in between bites. “My cook isn’t nearly so talented.”
“You may come over any time you wish after Caleb is gone, you know,” Daphne said, pouring out the tea. “Mama will adore having you here.”
“You know I can’t, imp,” he said, reaching for a biscuit. “With your brother gone, it will seem suspect if I visit too often. They’ll be thinking I’m after you for more than friendship.”
“So let them,” Daphne grumbled. “All these rules are ridiculous, anyway.”
“I don’t care what your opinion is on the matter,” Willbridge said severely. “Those rules are in place for a reason, and I will not see you break them.”
“Says the man who made a name for himself by doing as he pleased,” Daphne muttered.
“Daphne,” Willbridge warned.
Imogen quieted him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Caleb, Daphne is a bright girl. She will not make a spectacle of herself.” She turned her wide turquoise eyes to her sister-in-law. “Isn’t that right, dearest?”
It was amazing, the power in those gentle words. For Daphne was all meek sweetness as she said, “Of course.”
“How will we ever keep her in line while you’re gone, Imogen?” Tristan drawled, only half-joking.
Imogen smiled as she accepted a cup from Daphne. “Goodness knows.”
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly. But Daphne was a popular lady and Tristan knew he’d best become scarce before a barrage of admirers descended. He made his farewells and headed for home, whistling a jaunty tune. The sun was warm on his back, the breeze light. And while London air was never the most fragrant, with the blue sky above and birds chirping merrily in the trees, he could almost forget that faint attack on his senses.
As he had forgotten Miss Merriweather.
Tristan stumbled to a halt, the whistle dying on a sputter.Well, damnation. And here he had been doing so well.
He made for his house then and bounded up the front steps, letting himself inside. Wasn’t there someplace he needed to be? Some shy miss he needed to visit, some friends he could meet in Hyde Park? It didn’t much matter where he went, really. Calling to his butler to have his horse readied for him he marched across the marbled front hall, taking the stairs two at a time to the upper floors. He could be changed into his riding gear and out of the house in a thrice.
He was nearly to his bedchamber, could see the door. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a small female came barreling out of the bedroom in front of him. His first thought was that his cousin Grace, staying with him until she found a place of her own, certainly didn’t possess such nondescript brown hair. Then the woman’s elfin face came into view, and Tristan groaned.
He blinked, hoping it had been a figment of his imagination. But no, there she was, staring at him with outraged cinnamon eyes.
“Miss Merriweather,” he ground out, “what in blazes are you doing here?”
