Page 36 of A Match Made in London
“On occasion. But please,” he continued, holding out a hand when she would have risen, “don’t leave on my account.”
Rosalind had no choice but to fall back to the bench. His close proximity, as well as the abrupt movement of his hand, ensured that.
But after her body’s strange reaction mere seconds ago, she was in no hurry to remain close to the man.
“I never meant to usurp your bench,” she said. “Please let me up and you can rest at your leisure.”
He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hardly usurping. I am not some king bent on ruling all in my purview. Besides, there is more than enough room for the both of us.”
Rosalind froze. “You cannot be serious.”
One eyebrow rose. “I assure you, I am.”
“I am not sharing a bench with you,” she blurted.
A relieved chuckle escaped him. “Ah, I am glad we are past the cool politeness and you are back to telling me what you think.”
He proceeded to sink down onto the bench beside her. Seeing her chance to escape, Rosalind rose with alacrity.
“I did not think you a coward, Miss Merriweather,” Sir Tristan murmured.
She spun to face him. Her hands balled at her sides. “I am no coward, sir.”
He looked her straight in the eye—no hard task; she was not tall to begin with, and even when he was sitting she did not have many inches on him—and said, clearly and distinctly, “Prove it.”
Rosalind fought it with everything she had in her. She was not so stupid that she would respond to a taunt. She would turn and march away and that would be that.
Only apparently her pride was out in full force today. And she really was that stupid.
She sat.
He smiled, a wide thing that used every muscle in his face. She might almost think he was proud of her. “Now,” he said as she arranged her skirts so that not a fiber of them touched his leg, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
She would not answer him. He would only tease her more. Surely she could manage to ignore him, to simply go about whatever it was she had been doing before he arrived. Though they shared a bench and the same small alcove, they needn’t converse.
Sir Tristan, however, was of a different mind.
“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”
“Mmm,” she answered noncommittally.
“Overcast, of course. But most days are in London.”
She nodded, keeping her gaze fastened on the lazy buzzing of a bee among the rose bushes across the path. Bees didn’t have to worry about distracting rakes with clear blue eyes and beguiling smiles. Lucky things.
“I had planned on taking a ride later,” he continued, completely undaunted by her non-answers.
The bee drifted toward her, hovering over her knee before flying off. Her eyes followed it as it disappeared over the garden wall. If she were a bee she would do the same. Instead she was stuck here, pride holding her to this bench as she tried her damnedest to ignore the heated presence of the very large, very male person beside her.
“Will you go out with my cousin later to walk or ride?”
“I hardly know,” she replied in as cool a voice as she could manage. Which, she was pleased to find, was quite cool indeed.
Still the man did not catch on to the fact that she wished to be left alone. “I am heading to Lady Harper’s ball this evening. And you?”
Accepting the fact that the man was either too dense or too stubborn to understand her wish to sit silently and enjoy the small space of freedom she was allowed each day—though Lady Belham wasno horrible taskmaster, Rosalind was here to work—she let out an exaggerated breath of frustration and pivoted in her seat to face him. “We are not attending Lady Harper’s.”
He did not so much as blink an eye at her surly tone. If anything, his smile widened. “Where are you for, then?”
