Page 81 of A Match Made in London
Chapter 25
Not an hour later Tristan stormed into the Coffee Room of White’s. Because why not? He’d spent the better part of last night here. He might as well make it his permanent refuge. He briefly wondered what the waiters would do if he set up a makeshift cot in the corner. For he did not think he could spend another night under the same roof as Rosalind.
He caught sight of Hugh Carlisle across the room. The man was deeply immersed in his paper to the point that he remained unaware when a waiter deposited a steaming cup at his elbow. Thank the heavens, for Tristan had no wish to make conversation with the man. It was too much of a painful reminder of the past few days, and Rosalind, and what she deemed the perfect man. Here was the type of gent women would marry, not Tristan and his reputation and his rakehell ways.
So immersed was he in self-recriminations, he was nearly upon Rafe before he saw him. Without waiting for an invitation—for when had he ever needed one from his friend?—he dropped into a chair beside him.
“I had hoped I would find you here,” he growled. Motioning to a waiter, he barked, “Coffee, and make it black and hot enough to scald my tongue off.”
He expected all manner of teasing from his friend. Rafe had often joked about Tristan’s seeming inability to be anything but cheerful, and here he was being decidedly not. But his friend looked surprisingly sober when Tristan looked his way.
“Miss Merriweather told you then, has she?”
Tristan could only stare at him. What the devil was he on about? And why had he mentioned Rosalind?
Before he could even begin to formulate a question of his own, Rafe’s lips twisted. He lifted his drink—definitely not coffee, that—and took a healthy swig. “I told her it was nothing, the silly woman. Why she had to go running to you, I’ve no idea.”
Tristan straightened, gripping the chair arms tight to keep from taking the man by the cravat and shaking him. “What did you do to Rosalind?” he said in a low, dangerous voice.
Rafe gaped at him. “What the devil has gotten into you?”
“Tell me,” he demanded, leaning in close, until he could smell the whiskey on his friend’s breath. “The whole of it. Before I do something we both regret.”
“I don’t know what she told you to set you off to such a degree, but it was only a bit of fun.”
Tristan’s vision went red at the edges. “I repeat, and you had best answer truthfully, what have you done to Miss Merriweather?”
“Not a blasted thing. Unless you count offending her innocent sensibilities.”
“Rafe,” Tristan growled in warning.
His friend—if he could still call him that—held his hands up in surrender. “So she saw me with another woman. It’s nothing to her.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. When they did, Tristan stared at Rafe blankly. “So you did not proposition Miss Merriweather?”
Rafe laughed. “Gad, no. Why would I want to do that?”
Relief such as he had never known flowed through Tristan. He slumped back, accepting his coffee from a cautious-looking waiter. “Damn it, I’m sorry, man. I’m out of sorts.”
Rafe leaned back with a grin. “You had me scared there for a second. I’ve never seen you in such a state.”
Tristan lifted the coffee to his lips, taking a scalding gulp, feeling the burn of it fill him, down through his chest, into his gut. And with it came a clear-headedness.
…As well as a realization of what Rafe had unwittingly revealed.
He slowly lowered his cup, peering closely at his friend. “What do you mean, she saw you with another woman?”
But Rafe did not heed the dangerous undercurrent in the question. He crossed one booted foot over the opposite knee. “Oh, I was only having a bit of fun with Mrs. Shreeves last night and Miss Merriweather barged in. I thought she would bring fire and brimstone down on my head, with the fury that was in her eyes.” He chuckled.
Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “Mrs. Shreeves? But what of Miss Weeton?”
“What of her?”
“I was under the impression you were courting her?”
“Oh, I am. I fully intend to marry the girl.” Rafe grinned. “But that does not mean I’m dead.”
With slow, careful movements, Tristan placed his hot cup of coffee down on the table beside him. “Do you mean to tell me that you do not intend to give up your inamoratas when you marry?”
