Page 93 of A Match Made in London
His throat worked for a time, his eyes shining. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her forehead before rising. “Thank you, Rosalind. For everything.”
With that he was gone.
Rosalind sat there for a moment, staring at the place he had been. After a time she reached out with shaking hands and poured herself a cup of tea. But it was cold and tasteless on her dry tongue, and she pushed it aside hardly touched. She rose. She would go to her room,finish packing. But when she reached the hall she found herself going, not to her own room, but to Tristan’s.
She didn’t know why. She had never been in his bedroom, had never passed the threshold, had never even looked inside. Yet she went in now, as if it was natural, as if she belonged. And a moment later she knew why. For he was here, in every bit of rich fabric, in every strong curve of the dark oak furniture, even in the scent of him that permeated the air.
She had thought men like him were the enemy. For years it had sat like a stone in her chest, affecting each decision she made, word she spoke.
But she had been wrong. At the bed she ran her fingers over the pillow and wondered what else she had been wrong about.
A noise sounded in the hall. She jumped. But it was only a maid passing by, soon gone. She should not be here. She would be gone in the morning, and he would be behind her, a memory that she would recall on cold Scottish nights to warm her. A lesson that she had learned.
For though Mr. Carlisle’s revelations had rocked her to her very core, she must not forget that she had given herself to Tristan without him declaring himself, without him promising a future. That he had taken her innocence and never meant to marry her.
Even so, she found herself wandering about the room. She trailed her fingers over the table beside his bed, over the smooth surface of the desk in the corner, across the intricately carved doors of the armoire, imagining him using these pieces.
When she came to the mantle she paused. For there stood two miniatures, women both of them. One was Grace, albeit a much younger version. The other, though, was unknown to her, and depicted in clothing several decades out of fashion.
It was his mother, whom he said had died so young. It had to be. She could see now as she peered closely at the painting the same shape of the eyes as Tristan, the same golden hair. There was a wear mark near the edge of the frame, as if rubbed over and over. She could imagine Tristan standing here, mourning the mother hehad lost so young, his thumb rubbing that spot until the varnish wore off. His grief wearing on him just as he wore down that small wooden frame.
As she’d worn down the delicate design on the locket she’d saved with the memory of Guinevere’s son inside.
She cleared her throat of the lump that had formed in it. Taking a step back, she determined to leave as quickly as she could. This was doing her no good, only causing her more pain. But as she turned to go, a small inlaid box near the miniature caught her eye. Its lid was not fitted quite right, and the edge of a crumpled paper stuck out.
It was so out of place in a room that was neat as a pin. Curiosity momentarily overcoming her, she gingerly lifted the lid and extracted the paper.
It was twisted, crumpled, as if he had smashed it in his fist. If so, why had he kept it? And why was there weight to it? She should put it back. Of course she should. It was not meant to be seen.
But when had common sense stopped her? For if her tongue could not listen to reason and stay still, what made her think her fingers could?
The crackle of the paper was overloud in the hush of the room as she opened the small bundle. An item, small and shining, fell out. It bounced across the carpet, coming to rest under a nearby chair.
But she did not immediately follow it. For something on the paper had caught her eye: her name, written in an elegant script. Heart pounding in her ears, she smoothed the paper flat.
What she read stopped her breath. It was a special license, signed by the archbishop himself, proclaiming that Sir Tristan Artemis Douglas Crosby was to marry Miss Rosalind Merriweather.
He had meant to marry her? All along, he had meant to marry her? She searched the document, found the date. May the seventh. The day after their trip to Vauxhall.
That was where he had gone off to that morning, where he had traveled to after he had left her bed. He had not abandoned her. He had meant to marry her.
She thought then of how she had acted when he’d returned, how cold and cruel, to protect her heart from the pain that had taken her sister’s life. And all the while he’d had this in his pocket.
“What have I done?” she moaned.
It was then she remembered the object that had fallen from the paper. She dropped to her knees, scrambling for the chair, reaching into the shadows. Her fingers brushed something hard and cold. She grabbed at it, bringing it into the light.
A gold ring lay in her palm, the metal formed into whimsical curlicues. And at the center, gleaming brilliant, a deep blue sapphire surrounded by seed pearls.
The breath left her in a soft exhale. He had meant to give this to her?
She had to find him, to take it all back, to tell him she was sorry for pushing him away. She scrambled to her feet, intending to do that very thing.
But he was gone, wasn’t he? And he did not plan to return until she and Grace had departed. He had bid her farewell when last he’d seen her. It was over between them, for it appeared the words she had spewed in defense of her heart had worked all too well.
“Rosalind.”
She gasped and looked up to find Grace in the doorway. The other woman’s face was softened in understanding.
“You are staying, then?”
“No,” Rosalind hurried to say. She frowned, holding the paper and ring close to her chest. “That is, I don’t believe so. That is…”
Grace embraced her. “Darling, do what is in your heart,” she murmured in her ear. “If you choose to stay, I shall not stop you. And if you wish to join me, I will gladly have you.”
She pulled away, smiling encouragingly at Rosalind before walking out of the room. Leaving Rosalind with her battered heart and a frightening decision that would change the course of her very life. If she had the strength to make it.
