Page 65 of A Match Made in London
“Certainly.” She flushed and followed him to the small garden at the back of the house.
It was a natural thing for him to lead the way then, to find the small alcove with the stone bench that he so loved to spend time in. He often retreated here, after all, in troubling times. But as they sat on the cool stone, Tristan realized the reason for Rosalind’s small blush when he had suggested the garden. For it wasn’t long ago that he had kissed her in this very same place, on this very same bench. Merely thinking of it now had him aching to do the very same, to take her in his arms and claim her mouth with his own.
He clenched his hands on his knees and slid across the seat to the farthest corner. They had barely begun to grow friendly. He would not ruin that blossoming friendship with a renewal of those attentions she had been so vocal in proclaiming a disgust for.
“Now,” he said a touch too loudly, determined to make this as normal a situation as he could manage, “you were saying something about listing all the reasons why your Mr. Carlisle will win Miss Weeton’s heart?”
She seemed to relax at the return of their playful banter. At least as much as one person could relax while nearly hugging the edge of the bench. “Yes.” She cleared her throat. “First off, may I say what a brilliant idea it was to take a trip to the country for a picnic. Never have I seen Miss Weeton so relaxed.”
He blinked. “Why, Rosalind, never say you are complimenting me.”
She flushed again. “It would be rude of me not to say anything. As a matter of fact, I must commend you on your integrity throughout this entire affair. You have kept your word, which I certainly never thought you would do.”
“You overwhelm me with your praise,” he drawled.
“That is,” she hurried to say, aghast, “I never believed men such as you would keep their word. I mean,” she gasped, turning as red as the roses across the path, “you…I… Oh,” she moaned, putting her hands over her face, “can we please forget the past minute ever occurred?”
He might have chuckled and waved it off. Instead he reached out, gripping her slender wrist in his hand, gently tugging until her face was exposed, every reddened, horrified bit of it. “Rosalind, were you or someone you loved hurt by a man like me?”
From the misery that darkened her eyes, he realized he had deduced the truth of the matter. For so many weeks she had treated him like the enemy. Now that they had begun to be friends, he realized there was something much deeper at work here. She had been hurt by a man’s perfidy. And had painted all men similar to him with the same broad brush.
Had Rosalind been the one to reap the fruits of such a man’s betrayal? The very idea sent a shaft of fury through him. But no, it could have been anyone she had cared about. A friend, a neighbor.
A sister.
At once he knew he was right. Especially when he saw her fingers once again at the small locket that graced her throat. It was the perfect size to contain a memento of someone she had cared for and lost. Who better than the sister she still mourned?
He wanted to question her on it. More than anything, he wanted to know the secrets deep in her heart. But looking into her eyes, he saw the fragile trust there. Trust that she was only beginning to form with him. A trust he had not realized until that very moment he wanted so badly. He would not destroy the new bud of it before it had a chance to blossom, would not destroy the chance for it to grow into a natural and lasting thing.
He smiled gently. “Well, I must say I’m glad you have decided to bestow your trust in me. But you needn’t be surprised. For I vow I shall never give you cause to doubt my word.”
She seemed to melt under his regard. They stared at one another for long minutes. It was only then he realized his hand had moved from her wrist, that her fingers were in his, that his thumb was drawing circles over her knuckles.
He dropped her hand as if it were a hot coal. “Now then, where were we? Ah, yes, you were proclaiming me the best of men, the most trustworthy creature in existence. You may continue.”
She laughed a bit breathlessly, though he could not help but see out of the corner of his eyes how she was slow in bringing her hand back to her lap. “At least I may know that no compliment is too small for the likes of you, for you shall inflate it to suit. Now then,” she continued, suddenly all business, “you wished to know why I think Mr. Carlisle will win the day?”
He inclined his head to indicate she should continue.
Rosalind cleared her throat, and he was put in mind of a barrister standing up before the courts. “You may have noticed,” she said, “how at ease Miss Weeton has become with Mr. Carlisle. Andthough she can claim the same ease with Lord Kingston, at times she is positively flustered around him. Mr. Carlisle, however, never brings about such a malady in her.”
“So let me see if I have this right, you believe that, because Miss Weeton is not as affected by Mr. Carlisle, that she prefers him?”
“Yes, quite.”
He laughed. “My dear Rosalind, if that is your belief then I am heartily glad I was the one to take up matchmaking and not you. For it is precisely Miss Weeton’s flustered state when dealing with Rafe that tells me he is the one she wants.”
She frowned. “How so?”
“Well,” he hemmed, “I’m not sure you would be at all willing to hear my excuse. For it tells of a certain knowledge of the inner workings of the human heart.”
She swallowed visibly. “You have…been in love then?”
“No.”
Relief flared in her eyes. His heart leapt. Was she troubled by the idea of him being in love? And why did that make his heart sing?
But she quickly frowned, banishing the softer emotion. “But if you have not been in love, how do you know how a person in love acts?”
