Page 56 of A Match Made in London
Chapter 17
Nearly a week later and Rosalind was no closer to befriending the very shy, very skittish Miss Weeton.
She had not been short on opportunities—nor the drive to succeed—but there was always something that seemed to go wrong. Such as the punch she spilled on Miss Weeton’s hem during one unforgettable ball. Or the stumble she’d taken in the park, propelling her into Miss Weeton and nearly sending the poor girl arse over head into the bushes. Or when she’d suggested Miss Weeton play after dinner one evening, not knowing the paralyzing fear public performance had on her.
Really, she thought morosely as she hurried to Lady Belham’s room for their afternoon walk, if awards were being given out for tormenting the poor girl, Rosalind would have received a number of medals by now.
And then there was Lady Belham herself. For she seemed to be plagued at times by low spirits. That and her growing tendency to eschew Rosalind’s company had begun to prey on Rosalind’s mind. What did it mean? Did Lady Belham mean to let her go?
To her relief, Lady Belham appeared in good spirits today. As Rosalind entered she gave her a glowing smile and motioned to the two pelisses her maid Tessa was holding out.
“Which one of these do you think goes with my gown, Miss Merriweather?” Lady Belham asked.
“The pale cream, I think,” Rosalind answered. “It is a beautiful contrast to the amethyst of your gown and makes your dark hair even more striking.”
Lady Belham smiled in delight, letting Tessa help her on with the pelisse before turning to admire herself in her looking glass. “Miss Merriweather, you are a gem. You truly have an eye for these things.”
“Thank you, my lady. Are you ready? Shall we be off?”
Lady Belham’s face fell. “Oh, but didn’t I tell you? I had planned on a solo outing this afternoon.”
Rosalind’s heart dropped to her stomach. “Are you certain, my lady?”
“Oh, yes.” Lady Belham tugged on her gloves, holding them out to Tessa to be secured, and sent a smile Rosalind’s way. “Relax this afternoon, darling, and I’ll see you when I return.”
Rosalind left the room as her employer busied herself with her bonnet. She shouldn’t fret over it, she told herself as she returned to her room to drop off her things. It was nothing. So the woman was enjoying some time alone. It certainly didn’t mean Rosalind was not wanted.
But a creeping voice inside of her warned that it could very well mean Rosalind was no longerneeded. Which was a death knell for companions. For if Lady Belham decided she could do without her, where did that leave Rosalind?
She had often feared losing her position in the past. And with Mrs. Gladstow that had been a daily concern, a constant ball in the pit of her stomach that could not be eased.
Now, however, it was more than the position she feared losing. It was Lady Belham herself. For Rosalind cared for the woman much more than she ever dreamed she could. It was almost like having Guinevere back.
She did not know what she would do if she lost that now.
Much soberer than before, Rosalind emerged from her room after a time and descended to the first floor. She would escape to the library and forget her troubles in a book.
But as she wandered down the hall that led to Tristan’s study she heard his deep voice rumbling from its depths. Her steps slowed, then stopped. She found herself moving closer the better to hear him. She had not expected him to be home, as he often took himself off in the afternoons now. No longer did he attempt to join Lady Belham on her walks. No longer did he force his company on Rosalind. Oh, he was never anything but polite. After their talk nearly a week ago, he had been unfailingly proper with her.
Even so, Rosalind felt the loss of his easy smiles and quick, teasing wit like a blow.
“I won’t need a carriage tonight, Danielson,” Tristan was saying. “Lord Kingston will be here at eight with Miss Weeton and her parents, and I shall ride with them to the theatre.”
Rosalind’s back teeth ground together. She had tried so hard over the past week to protect Miss Weeton as best she could from Tristan and his friend. Yet nothing had worked. She felt like a bystander watching a carriage accident. She was utterly helpless, with no recourse at all to protect the girl from the attentions of such charmers.
Even worse, her own common sense seemed to be crumbling to dust where it came to the man. For her heart, traitor that it was, was pining in the worst way for the return of the attentions he had shown her before.
“Very good, Sir Tristan,” the butler intoned, pulling her from her discomfiting thoughts. Just then the man’s voice dropped, carrying a tension that she had never heard from him. “Another letter has arrived from Sainsly.”
There was a rustling of paper followed by a thick silence. Then, to her shock, Tristan’s voice, tight with some barely controlled emotion.
“Burn it,” he growled. “I have told you on numerous occasions to burn anything that comes from her.”
“Very good, sir,” the butler said, his tone once again devoid of anything but calm deference.
There was another bit of rustling, then a crackle as the offending letter hit the fire. That sound finally snapped her back into herself. Her present position could only be construed as eavesdropping. And Danielson would no doubt be leaving the study any moment—as the approaching footsteps announced loud and clear.
Rosalind bolted for the nearest door, a seldom used sitting room, hiding herself inside. And just in time, for from her vantage she could make out the butler as he exited the study, followed not a minute later by Tristan.
