Page 50 of A Match Made in London
They entered the hallway where guests were mingling. Mr. Carlisle immediately flagged down a footman, taking up two glasses of champagne. She took hers gratefully, all the while scanning the surrounding area for Tristan. Where the devil was he?
“Shall we head this way, then?” she asked her companion. Before he could answer, she started off down the hall. Mr. Carlisle she assumed trailed behind. She wasn’t quite certain, for she never looked back to check. She was much too busy scanning the heads that towered above her, peering into the rooms on either side, trying with all her might to find that telltale pale hair.
When she had begun to give up and head back to the music room and her employer, she spotted him in the entrance hall. She strode across the gleaming floor, stopping not a foot from him. “Sir Tristan, Miss Weeton.” She smiled and curtsied.
He looked at her as if she were demon spawn from hell. “Miss Merriweather. You are not with my cousin?”
“Very astute of you,” she said archly, biting back a smile as he glowered. “As you can see, I have run into Mr. Carlisle, and he was kind enough to escort me to refreshments, for I was so very parched.”
She turned to indicate the gentleman. To her surprise he was nowhere to be seen. Flushing hot, for she must have lost him in her eagerness, she was about to return her attention to Tristan when she caught sight of Mr. Carlisle pushing through the crowd and hurrying toward her.
He grinned at Tristan. “Miss Merriweather has led me on a merry chase, but I have caught up with her. Never knew a woman who moved so fast. Good to see you again, Sir Tristan.”
“And you Carlisle.” Tristan made introductions all around. “And this is my good friend Lord Kingston,” he finished, indicating a swarthy, incredibly tall man she had previously overlooked. “We were at school together.”
“Lord Kingston,” Rosalind acknowledged, eyeing the newcomer with suspicion. Was Tristan planning on using his matchmaking skills to bring together Miss Weeton and this man? For he had all the indications of being the worst kind of rake.
He cemented those suspicions a moment later as he bowed over her hand and winked roguishly. “Miss Merriweather, it is a pleasure.”
She scowled mightily at him, transferring that scowl to Tristan as the other man returned his flirtatious attentions to Miss Weeton.
“What?” he whispered to her as Mr. Carlisle joined in the other couple’s conversation.
“You are planning on matching Miss Weeton with that…that…libertine.” Her lip curled on the last word, as if it were the worst curse. Which to her, she supposed, it was.
“There is nothing at all wrong with Rafe.”
Her mouth dropped. “Rafe? His name isRafe? You cannot be serious.”
He actually had the audacity to roll his eyes. “Rafe is short for Rafael, a completely normal name.”
But their frantic whispering was beginning to draw odd looks from the others. She forced a smile. She did not need Miss Weeton to think any worse of her. “We will discuss this later,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
“Highly doubtful,” he mumbled back before redirecting his charming persona to the threesome.
“Challenge accepted,” she muttered.
• • •
“We have a discussion to continue, if I remember correctly.”
Tristan did not bother biting back his groan. He briefly considered turning right around and heading out of his study. He had alcohol in other rooms, after all. Rooms that did not contain the very distracting, very maddening presence of Miss Rosalind Merriweather.
But he refused to allow her to see how deeply she affected him. Without even a glance her way, he went to the small table in the corner and poured himself a drink. “You should be in bed, you know.”
“As should you,” she quipped.Of course.
He threw back the drink, feeling the burn of the whiskey straight to his gut, before pouring himself a second glass. “Would you care for some?” he asked in a casual manner, his tone a far cry from the way he truly felt.
There was a pause before she replied, with false bravado, “Yes, please.”
He poured a second glass before, picking both drinks up, he turned to go to her. There was a small fire lit in the hearth, the butler being fully aware of his propensity to visit his study for a drink after a night out. It was a low-burning thing, but enough to give a golden glow to Rosalind’s skin where she sat curled up in one of the overstuffed leather chairs placed before it.
It was such a homey scene. Rosalind was wrapped in a simple cotton dressing gown, her feet tucked beneath her like a child’s, her dark hair in a thick plait over one shoulder. The firelight caught in the strands, giving them a burnished glow. His chest ached from looking at her.
He realized in that moment that the desire he suffered for her was nothing compared to this. For this was longing, plain and simple. Yes, he wanted her body. He’d known that for weeks. But this was so much more. He wantedher. In his home, waiting for him at night, in his bed in the mornings.
He started so violently he nearly lost the contents of the glasses in his hands.
