Page 33 of A Match Made in London
“Why is it,” she said through gritted teeth, “that I constantly find myself alone in your company in this park?
“You’re lucky, I suppose.”
“Luck? You call this luck?”
“Oh, most definitely. There are many women who would love to trade places with you.”
Seemingly against her will, a laugh broke free from her lips. “You must be joking.”
“No, I am utterly serious. Why, look right there,” he said, pointing to a young girl gaping at him. “That lady cannot keep her eyes off of me.”
Miss Merriweather’s lips twitched. Tristan could not tell if she was annoyed or fighting down mirth. “She is not even out of the schoolroom. She hardly counts.”
“Picky are we? Very well, there is an entire group of ladies down the lane there that is quite envious of your place at my side,” he declared, inclining his head in said group’s direction.
She did laugh then as she eyed the gaggle of elderly women blatantly staring at them. “And they are old enough to be your grandmother.”
He shrugged, even as he fought the urge to grin in triumph at having gotten her to laugh. It was the first he had ever heard her react in amusement in the weeks he had known her. “Flattery is flattery, Miss Merriweather, and I shall take it where I can get it. If they wish to ogle me, I give them my blessing.”
“You are horribly vain. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“Often, and loudly.”
She laughed again. The sound was so wonderful, so free, he was stunned by the strange joy it gave him. It seemed Miss Merriweather did not often allow herself to let loose in such a manner.
“You should laugh more often, you know.”
The look on her face changed in an instant, transforming to careful distrust. The typical expression she used when looking at him.
Damn and blast.He and his big mouth.
“I do not often laugh because there is not much worth laughing at,” she said in faintly censorious tones.
“Come now, Miss Merriweather. Surely there is something that gives you joy.”
She stopped in the middle of the path and faced him. Anger colored her cheeks, turned her eyes feverish. “Do not presume to tell me how to react, sir. You do not know what I have lost.”
“You refer to the sister Carlisle mentioned.”
He didn’t know what prompted him to say it. But he immediately saw his error, for she looked as if he’d struck her.
“Forgive me,” he mumbled. “It is only that I was not aware you even had a sister.”
“Why would you have had cause to know it?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to quip that he’d been in her company daily for more than a fortnight so he should know something of her by now. But realization struck, making his mouth close with a snap. For he didn’t know a blasted thing about her. He had conversed with her about inane things, of course. And had talked with Miss Gladstow in her company often.
But he had never once tried to draw Miss Merriweather into a meaningful conversation, had never asked her about herself, or her life, or her thoughts on more than the weather.
“You’re right, of course,” he murmured. “That was not well done of me. Won’t you tell me of your sister now?”
She appeared struck dumb, confusion marring her brow. He took the chance to offer his arm again, and they were soon making their way along the path.
“You wish to know of Guinevere?” she asked after a painfully long silence.
“If you’re willing to speak of her.”
“Oh, I’m always willing to speak of her. But that is difficult to do when everyone who knew her is gone.”
