Page 77 of A Match Made in London
Rosalind stumbled under the shift in weight but managed to hold her ground. She looked about, desperate for help, hoping someone might see and assist. Yet no one paid them the least mind. Blessedly a footman spied them and rushed over.
“Please,” she panted as Lady Belham’s head lolled. “Please help me get her to a quiet place.”
The man sprang into action, lifting Lady Belham as if she weighed no more than a feather, hurrying through the crowd and out of the ballroom. Rosalind followed, scurrying after him. All about them people were in high spirits, calling out congratulations, partaking of the glasses of champagne that had been brought out. Not once did a person show concern for Lady Belham. Their eyes passed over her as if she were a trivial inconvenience.
Fury pounded through Rosalind. She had begun to enjoy her time in London, had begun to look forward to outings. All because of Tristan.
Yet since she had woken, since the spell he had wound about her had fallen away, all she could see was the falseness of it all. The people in this city cared only for their own pleasure. And she was tired of it all. So damn tired.
The footman led her to a sitting room off the front hall. But as he made to move into the room he gasped, then backed out. Frustrated, only wanting to get Lady Belham to a couch where she could be revived, Rosalind peered around him.
There, in the depths of the room, a couple was in an amorous embrace. At any other time she would have hurried away. In that moment, however, she was well beyond caring what anyone thought of her. She had no more delicate sensibilities. They had fled along with her innocence the night before.
“Please leave,” she called out in a strident voice, moving into the room and waving the footman in after her. “A lady has fainted and we require use of the space.”
There was a scurry of movement, as clothing was put to rights. Soon the couple was hurrying out. They were passing her when she chanced to look at the man’s face.
“Lord Kingston,” she gasped.
He jerked, his gaze finding hers. But there was not an ounce of guilt in his eyes as he smiled sheepishly. “Ah, Miss Merriweather. What a surprise to see you here.”
“No doubt,” she replied coldly. She was vaguely aware of the footman moving to a settee, of him lowering Lady Belham to it. But she could not take her eyes from Lord Kingston. Here was Tristan’s good friend, the man he had vouched for, saying he would be a perfect match for Miss Weeton.
Speaking of which. “That was not Miss Weeton,” she remarked, narrowing her eyes.
He chuckled, and fury pounded up her spine. “You know how things are. Temptation and all.” He leaned in closer in a conspiratorial manner, and Rosalind clenched her hands tight in her skirts to keep from scoring his face with her nails.
“I don’t think I have to mention that it would be best if this is kept between us,” he murmured meaningfully. Giving her a wink, not waiting for an answer, he sauntered off.
Rosalind stared after him. She wanted to rage. She wanted to weep. She should have known this would happen, had felt it from the start. But she had begun to believe Tristan, to hope that he was right, that a rake could be turned, that men were not evil beasts bent on exploiting and conquering…
More fool she.
But he did not deserve even a second more of her time. She had more important things to take care of. Rushing to Lady Belham’s side, she immediately began to chafe her hands. “Please fetch me a vinaigrette,” she said to the footman, who still stood beside the settee.
Before he had taken a step, however, Lady Belham began to rouse. Her head thrashed on the pillow, a frown marring her brow. “No,” she moaned. “No, it cannot be.”
“Lady Belham.” When the woman only moaned the more Rosalind took hold of her arms and gave her a shake. “Lady Belham. Grace!”
The woman gasped, her eyes flying open. “Goodness, what happened?”
“You fainted.” Rosalind peered at her closely, watching as confusion clouded her employer’s eyes. “Do you remember what happened to put you in such a state?”
It was as if realization crashed down on her then, taking the very color from her cheeks. She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes clouding with pain. “Rosalind, darling, I need to get home. Now.”
Rosalind frowned. “It’s best if you rest. You need to regain your strength—”
“What I need,” the other woman said, struggling to rise to a sitting position, “is to get away from here with all haste.”
Beyond the pain, beyond the strange grief that colored her employer’s face, there was also a stubborn determination. Rosalind could see it in the mulish tilt of her chin, in the steely glitter in her eyes.
“Very well,” she replied with reluctance. She rose, giving Lady Belham her arm to assist her in standing. She looked to the waiting footman as her employer found her balance. “Please have our carriage brought around. We’ll be departing immediately.”
“Very good, Miss.” With evident relief, the footman hurried off.
“Lady Belham,” Rosalind said as the man disappeared, leaving them blessedly alone, “what is going on? What happened in the ballroom to cause you such distress?”
A sad smile flitted across the older woman’s face. “I promise to tell you all once we are safe at home,” she rasped. A swell of sound was heard then, music starting, and cheers. Her eyes found the door to the hall, a look of intense pain contorting her features for a moment before she smoothed them and returned her attention to Rosalind. “And darling, don’t you think you had better start calling me Grace? For I can promise you, you are the very dearest friend I have ever had.”
Rosalind’s throat closed. She squeezed the other woman’s hand. “Very well, Grace.”
Grace returned the pressure. “I am so very glad I had the good sense to hire you on, dearest,” she whispered thickly.
“You saved me,” Rosalind managed.
“I do believe we have saved each other,” Grace whispered with a watery smile.
