Page 82 of A Match Made in London
Rafe scoffed. “Course not. Would you wish to drink only one beverage for the rest of your life, partake of only one type of cake? I thought you knew me better than that, Crosby.”
So did I, Tristan thought as he looked on the other man with new eyes. A pounding started up at his temples. This was a man he had trusted, someone he thought would treat Miss Weeton with all the respect she deserved.
He had been wrong. So damned wrong.
Rosalind’s recriminations hit him then, nearly stealing his breath. She had seen from the beginning that Rafe would not suit, that he was a bad choice for Miss Weeton. And Tristan had fought against every one of her valid concerns.
He stood, needing to escape Rafe’s presence. But first, something needed to be said.
“You will stay away from Miss Weeton.”
Rafe looked up at him in surprise. “What was that?”
“You heard me. I don’t want you near her.”
Letting out a bark of laughter, Rafe turned his attention back to his drink. “Good joke, old man.”
“It is not a joke.”
But Rafe only chuckled and took a sip. Tristan knocked the glass from his hands.
Rafe surged to his feet, staring in dumbfounded outrage at Tristan. Whiskey stained his snowy white cravat, dripped from his nose. “Damn it, Crosby, what in hell are you about?”
Tristan was distantly aware of the room having grown silent, of the other occupants staring at them. He didn’t give a damn. Stepping closer, he said, his voice deadly calm, “You will stay away from Miss Weeton, or you will hear from me.”
“You have no right, no right at all to warn me away from anyone.” Rafe pulled himself to his full height. “If I wish to court Miss Weeton I shall. It’s not as if I don’t care about the girl, after all.”
“If you cared about her you would not be cavorting with other women. You would not be planning to betray her once wed.”
“It’s the way things are done with our set.”
“I don’t give a bloody damn how things are done. I believed you a better man than that, Rafe. Else I would not have directed your attentions to her.”
“I would have found her eventually. You cannot take all the credit for it.”
“Would you have?” Tristan came back hotly. “You have known the girl for two years now. Can you tell me with utmost certainty that you would haveeventuallyseen the gem that she is without the fact being thrust under your nose?”
For once Rafe looked uncomfortable. His eyes slid away from Tristan’s, unable to admit such a falsehood.
Tristan felt suddenly weary to his very bones. “Go look elsewhere. There are plenty of women out there who would not be utterly destroyed by your lack of devotion. But stay away from Miss Weeton. For all that is between us, please.”
His defeated, heartsick tone must have finally reached something in Rafe. His friend peered at him before, releasing a harsh breath, he nodded once.
Tristan released a breath he had not realized he’d been holding. “Thank you,” he said, before he turned about and left.
But even with the relief Rafe’s agreement brought, the weariness did not leave him. He would have told himself it was the sleeplessness of the past two nights catching up to him. Yet he knew in his heart that was far from the reason.
He had been wrong about so many things in the past weeks. First in being blind to Grace’s plight, allowing her to fall prey to a libertine. Then in being so devastatingly mistaken about Rafe.
More than anything, however, was thinking he could claim Rosalind for his own, and the fact that he was no longer furious with her, but rather with himself. He had been a fool in more ways than one, but none worse than believing he was worthy of the love of a woman such as she.
Even as he made his way to the street and his carriage, dreaming of a soft bed and the blessed oblivion of sleep, he knew there was more he had to do before he rested. First and foremost, there was a young lady in need of his apology. He only prayed Miss Weeton would not take his news regarding Rafe too hard. His soul could not bear to have her heartbreak piled onto it.
• • •
It was a mere hour later that he departed from the Weeton’s townhouse. Miss Weeton had done her best to hide her hurt over Rafe’s actions, but Tristan had seen it there, clouding the gentle depths of her eyes.
He did not deserve her gracious acceptance of his apology, did not deserve the emphatic way she insisted he was not at fault, that her heart, while not unscathed, was only slightly wounded and would heal in a very short time. But he would take it, and gladly.
