Page 8 of A Match Made in London
Once again the girl seemed to deflate before her eyes. “Oh, I’m not sure Mama would care for it at all.”
“She could not deny you. Not if you told her how passionate you are about such things.”
But she heard how ridiculous that sounded the moment the words were out of her mouth. She did not need Miss Gladstow’s disbelieving expression to tell her that. Mrs. Gladstow had one goal for their time in London, and that was to see her only daughter married well. Anything that did not promote such a venture would be summarily squashed.
An uncomfortable silence fell. Sir Tristan, ever the gallant, spoke into the tense void. “I do believe it is time to return you home, Miss Gladstow. I would not have your parents think I am monopolizing your time. Where are you for tonight?”
“Lord and Lady Jasper’s, I think.”
He grinned. “What a coincidence. I am as well.”
“Some coincidence,” Rosalind muttered.
Once again thick silence reigned. When would she learn to hold her tongue? She shot a glance up at Sir Tristan. His gaze was hooded, leaving no hint as to his thoughts. He opened his mouth, no doubt to give her a proper set-down. Or, more likely, to smooth over the great gaping hole of discomfort her words had brought about.
Presently a figure approached them, effectively cutting off whatever the baronet had been about to say. “Miss Gladstow,” the newcomer said in somber tones.
Beside her, Miss Gladstow squeaked. “What on earth are you doing in London?”
The level of alarm in the girl’s voice surprised Rosalind. She looked closely at the man. Oh, but of course, he was Miss Gladstow’s friend from back home. Rosalind had met him several times in the months she’d been with the Gladstows.
“Mr. Marlow,” she said, “how lovely to see you.”
The man, who had up until that moment not taken his eyes from Miss Gladstow, blinked and looked at her. “Ah, Miss Merriweather wasn’t it? How d’ you do?”
Before she could answer, he turned back to the other girl. “How have you been?”
She flushed. “Fine, thank you.”
The two of them stood staring at one another. Rosalind looked back and forth between the two, utterly flummoxed. They had never shown such a degree of tension between them. Back home they had always appeared at ease with each other, the very picture of old friends.
She opened her mouth to say something, anything to break them from the strange tableau they were frozen in, when Miss Gladstow started. “Oh! But I’m being rude. Mr. Marlow, this is Sir Tristan Crosby. Sir Tristan, this is Mr. David Marlow, the friend I was telling you about.”
Making the situation more bizarre than it already was, Sir Tristan’stypically carefree countenance went cold. He considered Mr. Marlow, seeming to size him up before offering his hand. “Marlow.”
Mr. Marlow’s attitude was equally baffling. He glared at Sir Tristan’s hand before, with great reluctance, he took it, then released it as if burned. He turned to Miss Gladstow.
“Would you be so kind as to walk with me a bit?”
Miss Gladstow looked to Sir Tristan. The baronet smiled, his surliness of a moment ago gone in the blink of an eye. “Do go on. I’m sure you wish a few moments with your friend. Miss Merriweather and I shall follow presently.”
Miss Gladstow, looking as dazed as Rosalind had ever seen her, swallowed hard and nodded, turning to Mr. Marlow and placing trembling fingers on his proffered arm.
Rosalind watched the young couple in confusion as they started down the path. Frowning, she made to go after them.
Her arm, however, was still linked with Sir Tristan’s. And he did not seem inclined to let her go.
She returned her attention to him, to demand he release her at once. He spoke first, cutting her off.
“You have been with the Gladstows how long?”
Rosalind blinked. Whatever he’d been about to say, it certainly wasn’t that. “Er, five months now. Nearly six.”
“And you have gotten to know Mr. Marlow in that time?”
“A bit. Not well.”
“Would you say he is a good man?”
