There it was, that furious flush of blood to the cheeks, the small smile. The rest of the men broke into peals of laughter. Several older gentlemen in the adjoining tables, enjoying late dinners, sent glares their way.
“A widow, eh?” Rafe drawled. “Nothing wrong with that, m’boy. There’s no better tumble in my opinion.”
“Who is she though?” Fergus narrowed his eyes as he considered the now squirming Denby.
“Lady Truvel,” one man called out.
“Mrs. Umbridge,” another cried.
“Lady Kendal,” said a third.
“Please,” Denby scoffed, though it was clear as day the lad was enjoying himself. “She’s old enough to be my mother.”
Tristan chuckled as the banter went back and forth, each suggestion more outrageous than the last. Yes, this was what he had needed. No more Miss Merriweather and that sweet face and sharp tongue of hers. Life would get back to normal, and he could put her and his unnatural desires for her behind him once and for all.
Chapter 7
Rosalind delayed emerging from her room as long as she could without it seeming suspect. Though the rest of the house should be abed until at least noon, there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances.
The revelries of the evening before had gone on until the small hours of the morning. Once the announcement had been made of Miss Gladstow and Mr. Marlow’s unexpected engagement, every person present at the ball had insisted on wishing them well. Whether those congratulations had been heartfelt or done out of malicious glee was questionable at best. That didn’t seem to matter to the lady. Rosalind had never seen her so happy. Miss Gladstow shone like the sun at midday. Mr. Marlow, too, had looked proud enough to burst, holding tight to Miss Gladstow’s hand the remainder of the evening.
Rosalind was happy for the girl. She truly was. No one deserved happiness as much as Miss Gladstow. And no one deserved to escape from her domineering mother like that young lady, either. Which, of course, brought Rosalind to the one damper on expressing her joy.
Mrs. Gladstow.
That woman had appeared happy for her daughter, of course. It would have been noted by all and sundry if she hadn’t, for it was no secret that the woman, and her portly husband as well, had wanted a title for their only daughter, and a lofty one at that. She had not even been content with Sir Tristan Crosby’s possible suit; goodness knows her thoughts on a mere mister.
Yet Rosalind had seen the truth of it, simmering away beneath the surface. It was never more apparent than when the woman turned her blazing eyes to Rosalind. In those moments Rosalind knew, regardless of her complete lack of fault in the situation—though it was not for lack of trying on her part—she would be made to pay for the fruits of this night.
Finally she could delay no longer. Sucking in a deep breath she straightened her shoulders and marched purposely below stairs. Mayhap her fears were unfounded. Mrs. Gladstow would be too busy today preparing for her daughter’s unexpected future to give her companion much thought.
That hope died a swift but brutal death as she made to pass the drawing room door.
“Miss Merriweather,” Mrs. Gladstow called from the depths of the room, “a moment of your time, please.”
Rosalind’s blood froze in her veins. There was a calm chill in the woman’s voice that bode ill. She had the feeling that, as bad as her imaginings had been, she had not begun to understand the depths of the woman’s anger. No doubt Mrs. Gladstow intended to extract considerably more than her pound of flesh.
Mrs. Gladstow sat in her seat of choice, a high-backed chair covered in gold damask, giving it all the appearance of a throne. Her back was straight, her head held high, her hands draped casually over the arms. Yet her eyes burned as brightly, if not more so, as they had the evening before. As Rosalind crossed the threshold they narrowed.
“Close the door.”
Had Mrs. Gladstow yelled and stormed, Rosalind might have gone in with some semblance of ease. Instead her fingers shook as she did what she was bid. When she returned her attention to Mrs. Gladstow she made sure to grip her hands tight before her. No good could come of showing this woman any weakness. She sent up a silent prayer, that whatever punishment she received would be doled out quickly.
Ironically, fear over losing her position had guided her every action for months. Now that the end was near, all she wanted was to have it over and done with.
Mrs. Gladstow, however, must have had her training during the Spanish Inquisition. She stared at Rosalind, drumming her fingers on the arms of the chair, letting the moment drag out until Rosalind thought she would scream from the uncertainty of it. After what seemed an eternity the woman spoke.
“I assume you have an explanation as to why my daughter was so unexpectedly and unceremoniously engaged last night, and to a man we had no intention of allowing her to marry?”
Rosalind swallowed hard. “In my defense, ma’am, I did as I was told. I encouraged Sir Tristan to seek out your daughter.”
“Do you think that negates your fault in this? The fact of the matter is, Miss Merriweather, you should have kept a better eye on Sarah.”
“I was as surprised as you must have been when Mr. Marlow declared himself to Miss Gladstow.”
“Surprised?” The woman’s nostrils flared. “You think I was surprised? That my husband, who has promised such a hefty dowry on his only daughter, was surprised? That word does not even begin to explain the level of disbelief that bowled us over last night. We wanted a title for our daughter, Miss Merriweather, as you well knew.”
“But surely her future happiness means much more, in the grand scheme of things,” Rosalind suggested a bit sickly, knowing the second the words were out of her mouth that they were the wrong ones as far as the woman seated before her was concerned. As if to prove the validity of her thoughts, Mrs. Gladstow’s lips thinned to nonexistence and Rosalind’s heart sank. Any stray tendrils of hope she may have retained that she would actually walk away from this unscathed—much less retain her position—was snuffed out as completely as a weak flame in the face of a furious wind.
“You think I don’t wish for my own daughter’s happiness?” the woman snapped.
“Of course you do,” Rosalind hastened to assure her. Yet the damage had been done. Mrs. Gladstow rose, towering over Rosalind.
“I care very much for my only daughter’s happiness. And part of that was to secure her proper place in the world. My husband is a powerful man. He needed a husband for his daughter that would enhance that, not drag our family back into the muck from which we rose. Sarah should have been a fine lady, with all the good things in life she has been brought up to expect. Now she will be a mere Mrs. Marlow.” Mrs. Gladstow shuddered delicately.
Never one to know when to retreat, Rosalind said with utter seriousness, “I think you have proven, ma’am, that being a mere missus can bring with it a goodly amount of position and prestige.”
If it was possible, Mrs. Gladstow’s face twisted even further in outrage. “You think to patronize me?” she hissed.