Page 35 of A Match Made in London
Chapter 11
Three days had passed but things had not improved between Rosalind and Sir Tristan.
Not that she was actively trying to improve things. No, for all she cared he could go jump in the Thames. Being drenched from head to toe might make the man a little less physically appealing, after all, thus helping her out considerably in squashing her completely irrational desires for him.
She paused on her way down to the ground floor as an image came to her: Sir Tristan dripping wet, hair slicked back, clothes clinging to him.
Then again, she thought as she hurried downstairs, going hot with mortification—and something altogether different—mayhap not.
But why was she even thinking of him? And why had it only grown worse in the past few days? Granted, she was seeing him much more often than before. Which was only to be expected, seeing as she was staying in his home. But it was more than that. For more often than not her mind wandered to their conversation in the park, when he had brought her out of her melancholy spirits, then had proceeded to ask her about her sister.
No one had been willing to talk about Guinevere in ages. It had loosened that bit of herself that she had bundled up in a protected ball in the pit of her stomach, hiding it away from the harshness of the world. That vulnerable bit of herself that she had never wanted to see the light of day again, yet was now clamoring to get out.
And it frightened her witless.
Which was, of course, why she had attacked him as she had. It had been more for self-preservation than true anger at the man, confronting him with her suspicions regarding Miss Gladstow. She had needed it to be said aloud, to remember why she distrusted him so. For she could not open up to him. Ever.
But she was growing agitated thinking of it. And as Lady Belham did not need her presently, she refused to waste her precious time thinking about Sir Tristan and the danger he posed to her. She would instead find a private spot to mull over the other issue that had taken up a good portion of her waking thoughts.
Mr. Hugh Carlisle.
It had been a shock to meet someone who remembered Guinevere. Her sister had not travelled in exalted circles during her time in London, after all. And it had been some time since that ill-fated trip.
Mr. Carlisle’s fond recollections of Mr. Lester, however, were altogether different. Mr. Lester had always played the part of a monster of the worst kind in her imaginings. The man who had ruined her sister, who had broken her spirit, could not be anything but. To hear him being spoken of as if he had been a good man had been a blow.
She made the ground floor then and stood for a moment undecided, unsure where to go. A book would not do her any good now. Her mind was in too much of a tangle to wrap it around prose. No, what she needed was mindless relaxation. And in a place she could be fairly confident she would not run into a certain libertine.
Decided, she spun about and hurried for the back of the house. The garden it was, then. Sir Tristan did not appear to be the sort to sit among the flowers and daydream. She would be safe there.
She stepped out into the warm afternoon air and let her gaze rove over the vegetation. Blessedly there was nothing overly formal about the space. There were no severely clipped hedges, no heavily trimmed trees, no sterile paths. It was not that it was unkempt. Not in the least. She was sure a warning must have been given to each weed and fallen leaf, for there was not a one in sight. Yet there was something wonderfully natural about it all, as if the plants had been given leave to grow at will and had thus thrived.
It did not take her long to find what she needed: a wide bench tucked in the natural alcove between two shrubs. She sank down on the cool stone, arranging the skirts of her gown, and gave a small, relieved sigh. Being on a side path and thus out of sight of the house, with plants hugging her from behind, it felt like the most private place in London.
Until she heard the unmistakable sound of boots on the path. Boots she knew would be encasing strong calves, leading up to the most wickedly handsome man in existence.
Rosalind gave a little sigh. For the first time she understood a little of what had prodded her sister off the path of chastity. If Mr. Lester had looked anything like Sir Tristan then her sister, a romantic of the first order, would have been defenseless indeed.
But he was headed her way. She could hear it in the way the sound of the ground beneath his feet changed from paved brick to the gravel of the side path she was on.
Rosalind bit back a groan and sent up a prayer instead.Please let him pass by without seeing me. I’ll be good, I swear it, if you’ll only grant me this.
And for a moment it seemed her prayers had been answered. He came into view, head down, hurrying along the path. She tucked farther back in her bower; if she could only remain still enough, he would continue on blissfully unaware of her presence and she could continue to brood in peace.
But then his steps slowed. And he turned in her direction.
It was only when he was nearly on top of her that he noticed her at all. He started in surprise, his boots skidding to a stop barely a foot from the hem of her gown.
“Miss Merriweather,” he said, belatedly dipping into a small bow.
“Sir Tristan.” She thought that would be that. Yet the man simply stood there, staring down at her. She frowned. “I’m sorry, did you need me for something?”
For a split second his eyes appeared to go molten. Something deep in her responded, turning liquid. Then he blinked, and it was gone.
At least, the strange look in his eyes was. The unexpected warmth in her belly was not so easily discarded.
“Ah, no,” he said. “Though it appears you and I have the same idea when it comes to relaxation.” He indicated the bench with a wry tilt of his head.
“Oh! I’m sorry, is this where you come to relax, then?”
