Page 45 of A Match Made in London
Chapter 14
Rosalind’s intentions to provide Lady Belham with the companionship she so desperately craved worked beautifully in keeping her occupied. She saw Tristan, but from a distance, and had no trouble focusing on her very important job.
Until, that was, a debonair younger man—who could not keep his eyes from her bosom—approached her employer.
The instant attraction between the two fairly permeated the air with a tangible energy. Lady Belham appeared fifteen years younger. She flirted coyly with the man, tapping him on the shoulder with her fan when he gave her a compliment, used that same fan to draw the man’s attention to her endowments. Really, it was fascinating to watch, a veritable art form. And the man responded. When he askedLady Belham to dance, she accepted readily enough. Before she wentoff, however, she turned to Rosalind and whispered in her ear, “Bestnot wait for me, darling. Head on home when you tire of the place andsend the carriage back for me later.” And with a wink and a grin, she was off through the crowd, clinging tightly to her gentleman’s arm.
Rosalind worried her lip as she watched them go, a twinge of disquiet deep in her gut. Lady Belham needed a friend, not an affair.
A moment later and she shook her head. Lady Belham was a grown woman. She knew what she was about. Who was Rosalind to judge her? She was nothing, a mere companion. Yes, the man looked a rake. Yes, Rosalind despised all men like him. But Lady Belham was not some young debutante out on the marriage mart needing to worry over her chaste reputation. She was a widow, with all the freedoms that entailed.
Rosalind buried her disquiet as she watched them dance a touch closer than was proper on the floor and did what she had been bid. Though she certainly didn’t need time to tire of the place before leaving. For she hadn’t wanted to come in the first place.
Forcing her attention from her employer, she turned for the door. And was fairly slapped with the vision of Tristan across the room, giving a plain young woman The Look.
She had seen the expression before, of course. It was the same he’d used on Miss Gladstow. And it made distrust—and a fair amount of jealousy, though she wouldn’t focus on that—swell up in her breast. The man was up to something. Again.
She should head home as she had planned. It was no business of hers what Tristan did with the young woman. But Rosalind found she could not let it go. If something were to happen with that girl, and Rosalind suspected and did nothing to prevent it, she would never forgive herself. Letting loose a long sigh of disgust, she looked around, finding a quiet corner to hide in while she watched the couple. She would stay a short while, ensure Tristan had not planned anything nefarious for the girl, and be on her way. He didn’t even know she was here, after all. He would be none the wiser, and she could at least sleep easier tonight.
What she had not taken into account, however, was the assault on her senses as she stared at Tristan. She had spent so much of the eveningnotlooking at him, she hadn’t realized what it would do to her when she did. The man had the same effect he always did on her, sending her good sense right out the window. Only now she found it had grown much worse in the last hours. For now she knew what it was to be held by him, to be kissed by him. And her body responded. Goodness, but it responded.
She took up her fan, snapping it open and plying it vigorously over her face and bosom.I am strong, she repeated silently to herself, a repetition of words she fully believed would sink in if said enough.I am not a ninny. I am strong. And he is just a man.
She turned the words over and over in her mind as he fetched the lady a punch. She repeated it fiercely as he smiled, his eyes crinkling and teeth flashing. And she very nearly said it out loud as he gallantly bowed to the woman and led her to the floor for a dance.
She had seen him dance before, of course, in the half dozen times he had taken Miss Gladstow out onto the floor. For a tall man he was ridiculously graceful, the moves of the dance showcasing his trim form to perfection.
But that was before she knew what said body felt like pressed to hers. Now she could admire it in a completely different manner. She plied her fan faster.
The dance was quickly over, the couples dispersing. Rosalind kept her gaze on Tristan, determined not to lose sight of him. He brought the lady to the side of the room and into the company of a young woman Rosalind remembered as being Lady Daphne Masters. After some minutes of polite conversation he was off.
…Leaving Rosalind feeling not a little deflated. She blew out a breath. She had been so sure he was up to no good. Yet his actions bespoke nothing of the sort.
Which was preposterous. She frowned, starting around the perimeter of the room. He was not a benevolent person. He was a rake. Men like him used people, women in particular. They did not cater to the lonely and the shy. They ate them up.
Which, of course, led to thoughts of mouths, and tongues, and other delicious bits that she had recently become acquainted with.
If she hadn’t been fairly blinded by such recollections, perhaps she might have seen the man in question lurking by the doors leading to the garden. And perhaps she might have been able to avoid him.
But, through perverse fate, she did not. A hand on her arm jerked her back to the glaring present. “We need to talk,” Tristan growled. Without waiting for her to agree, he dragged her out the doors and into the darkness of the night beyond.
The air was cool. Which was a blessing, as Rosalind’s skin was decidedly and unexpectedly warm. Especially where Tristan’s hand clasped her arm. She pulled from his grasp, before that heat flared into the dangerous inferno from the afternoon.
“You have been watching me.”
The accusation came hurtling at her from the shadows. Rosalind’s eyes were not yet adjusted to the dimmer light of the balcony. Even so she could see the tense line of Tristan’s jaw. “Yes, I have.”
He started, having not expected candor. “Why?” he demanded.
“Well, it is certainly not because I wished for more kisses,” she snapped, then immediately wished for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.
Through her embarrassment, however, his features were quickly becoming clearer in the indirect light from the ballroom. An unmistakable guilt twisted his lips. “Ah, yes. That.” He cleared his throat. “Please allow me to apologize for my actions. I fear I wasn’t myself.”
That made two of them. But she could not admit that. Instead, face burning, she mumbled, “Please, don’t mention it again. We shall forget it ever happened.”
“Yes, certainly.” He stood awkwardly for a time. Rosalind, seeing it as the ideal opportunity to escape and slink back home, where she could wallow in her embarrassment in peace, gave a jerky kind of curtsy and turned to go. His voice held her back.
“You have not answered my question.”
