Page 68 of A Match Made in London
Rosalind gasped and clapped with the rest, then accepted a second—or was it a third?—cup of punch from the waiter. Something had loosened in her tonight; she could not remember a time she had enjoyed herself more. Their small group was in high spirits, even shy Miss Weeton proving herself a lively member.
Tristan stood. “I propose we take a promenade. For while the food is incomparable, the sights will enthrall.”
As one the group stood and moved into the mingling crowds. There was an easy pairing off. Lord Kingston offered his arm to Miss Weeton, who accepted with a blush and a smile. Mr. and Mrs. Weeton linked arms and followed after the pair. Mr. Carlisle looked to Rosalind, and she expected him to suggest they stroll together. But Lady Belham intercepted him, pulling him along behind the Weetons.
Then there was only Rosalind and Tristan.
She stared at him as he sauntered toward her, fascinated by how the lantern light gave even more depth, more fire to his gaze. His lips quirked in a small smile as he held out a hand to her.
“Walk with me, Rosalind?”
His quiet voice shivered a delicious path down her spine. She accepted with a nod, reaching out with trembling fingers. Withinfinite care, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, holding it close to his side.
They walked in silence for a time. Perhaps she should have taken the chance to study the scenery, to watch the people and immerse herself in the experience of the place. Instead her entire focus centered on the strength of the arm beneath her fingers, at the way the corded muscles, felt even through the layers of his clothing, bunched beneath her touch.
“You looked so sad when we entered the gardens,” he said, so low she could hardly hear him over the swelling music and laughter that surrounded them. “And then even more melancholy when Carlisle came to your side.”
“Yes.”
He remained silent, and she knew he would leave it there if she so wished it, would not press her to continue.
But she wanted to continue. She wanted to confide in this man, who had shown himself to be so kind, so fair, and quite unlike what she had first thought him to be.
Even so, it was a difficulty to get the words out, to purposely make herself vulnerable. She sucked in a slow, steady breath, heart thumping like mad in her chest. Then, before she could think better of it, “I was thinking of Guinevere.”
“Your sister.”
She nodded, looking out across the grounds. “As you know, she was in London many years ago. When I first entered this place, I remembered a letter she had sent me, telling me of her time here. It all sounded quite magical, and at the time I believed she embellished it for me. Even so, I cherished that letter, for never had she sounded happier.”
“And now that you have been here?”
She shrugged, smiling up at him, “I realize she was telling me the truth. This place truly is as magical as she made it out to be. Even more so, really.”
“And Carlisle?”
“He was here that night, when Guinevere walked these very same paths. He was kind enough to share his memories of that time with me. I perhaps shouldn’t have allowed it to sadden me as it did. She spent some of the happiest hours of her life here.”
“You miss her,” he said simply. With an incredible amount of understanding.
They reached the end of the long line of supper-boxes, each full to bursting with ruddy-faced people, their merriment like a living thing in the air. Beyond, Rosalind caught sight of the darker paths veering off beyond the bright lights. She had a mad wish for a moment that he would continue, off the well-lit path, and find a secluded place to kiss her senseless.
Instead he guided her in a right turn, keeping to the populated area where a multitude of lanterns burned bright, like stars captured and brought down to earth.
She fought down her disappointment, a surprisingly difficult thing to do. “You have lost someone close to you.” She said, remembering his eyes when she spoke of her sister. It had not been the strain he had shown that afternoon when they’d talked of his half-brother. No, this went much deeper.
“My mother.”
The answer was quick, his mouth pressing in a hard line, as though he were fighting down a great pain.
She tightened her fingers on his arm in a show of comfort. “How long ago did she pass?”
“Oh, years ago. I was just a boy, five, maybe six at the time.”
“I don’t think it matters how much time passes after losing a loved one, there is always the hole in your heart they once occupied. That pain, while it can dull and change, never leaves you.”
He looked at her, and she saw it then, that same banked pain that she felt over Guinevere, that could flare unexpectedly at a memory.
“I always felt weak for letting it affect me as it has.”
