Page 59 of A Match Made in London
Chapter 18
What in blazes is Rosalind doing here?
Tristan stared across the expanse of the theatre, stunned. He perhaps should not have seen her so quickly. The performance had not yet begun, and the theatergoers were busy making sure they were seen. Every box had movement, people squawking and preening and fluttering like so many colorful parrots.
But he had seen her the moment she entered the box. She was a beacon. Even from this distance he could behold her in painful detail, her brown hair catching the light from the sconces, wearing a deep amethyst gown that was no doubt one of Grace’s cast offs. The dark color had an incredible effect on her skin, turning it the palest porcelain. As he watched, transfixed by the sight of her, she was helped into a seat by…Hugh Carlisle?
What the devil was she doing with him? An uncomfortable feeling settled between his shoulder blades, making the hair of his nape stand on end. He tightened his hands into hard balls on his thighs. It took him a moment to realize what he felt was jealousy.
Damn it, he had no right to feel jealous. Even so, he could not help the question swirling around in his brain: Was Carlisle courting her? And why the hell did he care if the man was? If anything, it should be a cause for celebration. Being a companion could not be easy. She deserved happiness, a home of her own, children.
But the very thought of her with Carlisle nauseated him beyond belief. No, it wasn’t that it was Carlisle in particular, for Tristan had nothing against the man. He seemed a good sort, jolly and polite to a fault. The kind of fellow ideal for matrimony, who would remain faithful and provide a good life for his family.
What had him feeling sick to his stomach was Rosalind withanyone. A troubling realization, indeed.
Before panic took hold, however, he spied Carlisle helping a second person to their seat. Grace.
The reason for Rosalind’s presence became clear. She was there with his cousin, who was related by marriage to Carlisle. Of course that explained it. Relief such as Tristan had never known coursed through him. Which was much more worrisome than the jealousy, to be honest. Rosalind was not his, he told himself fiercely. He’d best get it through his head.
“Who are you staring at with such a glower?” Rafe asked, looking out over the crowd with a curious expression.
“No one,” Tristan muttered.
But his friend was anything but dense. “I say, is that your cousin across the way? You should invite her over. My box is able to hold their party as well.”
“No!”
Rafe started, looking at him in surprise. And no wonder, for in his horror at his friend’s suggestion, he’d been much louder than he’d intended.
“Ah, that is,” he continued, trying for an easy smile, “it is so much more pleasant with a smaller party at these kinds of things.”
The surprise on Rafe’s face transformed to amusement. “Where is my friend and what have you done with him? For the Crosby I know would never say such a thing. Why, I’ve known you to stuff a dozen or more people into this box and still look for more to join us.”
Which was all too true. Yet that kind of wild socialization seemed to no longer hold the same draw for him. “It’s merely the natural progression of life, I suppose,” he said. “We’re past those days.”
“Bite your tongue,” Rafe admonished. Even as he teased Tristan,however, his eyes searched for and found Miss Weeton on his other side.
The girl, talking to her mother, caught them looking at her and turned as pink as the lace of her gown. Tristan smiled to himselfas Rafe began a low conversation with her. The girl was flustered as she ever was. Tristan had quickly learned that she was not easy with people, more specifically with men. Yet when she looked at Rafe there was something more, a softness in her eyes not typically present.
As for his friend, he had worried at first the man wouldn’t respond to Miss Weeton. He was a lively fellow after all, always found at the center of whatever social celebration was being had.
In the past year, however, he’d appeared discontent more than not, and increasingly restless, as if he were looking for something but unable to find it. Was the man searching for a wife? Several telling remarks indicated he rather was. Then along had come Miss Weeton, with her dilemma and shyness. Put the girl before Rafe, he’d reasoned, and his friend would see her in a whole new light, would see past what society saw, to the gem within. And Miss Weeton could not fail to be enchanted by Rafe. He was not one of the darlings of London society for nothing, after all, and could put anyone at ease with his good-natured, easy-going ways.
Thus far he’d been proven correct. For in the course of the past week Rafe had grown utterly enchanted with the lady. And Miss Weeton too was responding to his friend in a wonderful way that was quite unlike her usual reticence. If things progressed as they were, Tristan would see another conquest in the form of an engagement announced within the fortnight.
He vowed then and there to pour his focus and energy into matching Miss Weeton to Rafe and ignore Rosalind’s presence. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult to do.
• • •
By the time intermission arrived, however, Tristan wanted to bash his pathetically optimistic past self over the head.
For no matter how he tried, he could not avert his gaze from Rosalind. She seemed bound and determined to keep her head turned his way as well.
He might have thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Perhaps it was simply coincidence that had her looking his way every time he happened to peer across at her. Yet he could not ignore the fact that she seemed far more interested in his side of the theatre than was necessary.
Especially when he caught her peering at him through a pair of quizzing glasses, of all things.
It was a relief when intermission came. At least now he did not have to pretend interest in the stage. Sighing, he openly turned his head to look Rosalind’s way.
