As if to underscore that last point, her stomach gave a mighty growl, reminding her she had not made it to the breakfast room before Mrs. Gladstow’s tirade. She flushed, pressing a fist to her traitorous stomach to quiet its rumblings.
Lady Belham gave her an amused look. “Well then, we’d best get you something to eat. But first, we must locate you a room.”
Rosalind looked at her uncomprehendingly. “A room?”
“Certainly. It is why you came here, wasn’t it? To secure a position?”
The woman rose. Rosalind scrambled to her feet, flushing under the woman’s kind gaze. “I know this is most unusual. And I would not dream of imposing. Only you appeared so lonely last night, and I assumed perhaps you might benefit from a companion.” Her skin heated all the more. “That is, you looked like you could use a friend. Not that you don’t have any friends. And your cousin, of course, who you mentioned you live with. And so you cannot be completely devoid of companionship. Yet I remember you said you are new to town, and it is never easy making new acquaintances, and we seemed to get along so wonderfully. So I thought I would give it a try, and see if you would hire me on.” She smiled, a sickly thing that must have been more grimace than anything. “And so here I am.”
Lady Belham laughed, a throaty sound that was nevertheless pure delight. “And I am so very glad you came. For I did not realize how much I would like a companion until you showed up at my door. Now, about that room.”
In a daze Rosalind followed Lady Belham as she went in search of the butler. She must be dreaming. It could not be this easy to obtain a position. She shifted her bag, took the skin of one arm in between her fingers, and gave a vicious pinch.
To her utter shock she remained where she was. There was no sudden awakening in the narrow bed and dingy room at Mrs. Gladstow’s, no crashing back to sad reality. No, she was still here, with Lady Belham, in the elegant townhouse in Upper Grosvenor Street. She had done it, she thought with mounting excitement. She had started a new life for herself, a better life.
But even as hope burned like a newly kindled flame in Rosalind’s breast, a small voice of reason whispered in her ear.
Warning her that her luck, ever capricious, could not possibly hold.
Chapter 8
Even after a night of heavy drinking—and fleecing his friends of a goodly portion of their yearly income—the next morning found Miss Merriweather still firmly entrenched in Tristan’s thoughts.
Of all the women in London to capture his interest, why did it have to be her?
But no, he reminded himself brutally as he gazed out the window of his carriage, he was most certainly not attracted to Miss Merriweather. It had been that vulnerable look in her eyes the evening before and nothing more. She had been upset about something, and it had snagged on his intrinsic protective instincts. There was nothing more to it than that.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, though, he knew he was merely fooling himself. There was something about her that pulled at him, like a moth to a flame.
He had been drawn to other women, of course. Some he had even fancied himself in love with. Yet this was different. It was like a bright and glowing light just out of the corner of his eye, constantly snagging his attention, making him turn his head in search of her. He might believe his thoughts had been successfully detoured elsewhere. Eventually, however, there was that light again, almost out of view, sending his thoughts clattering back to her.
He frowned as the carriage pulled up in front of his townhouse. He needn’t worry about her presence today, thank goodness. The timing could not be better for Mr. Marlow to declare himself to Miss Gladstow. For Tristan did not think he could take one more day of Miss Merriweather’s company without either losing his willpower or his sanity.
It was time, he decided, to reclaim his life, and his wandering mind right along with it. He would fall back into his old habits and pursuits with passion, and it would soon be as if Miss Rosalind Merriweather had never encroached upon his time. With that thought in mind he eschewed going inside, instead starting off for his friend Lord Willbridge’s townhouse with a determined gait. If anyone could drag Tristan from his doldrums it would be the delightful company that could be found at his friend’s home.
He made it to the townhouse on Brook Street in record time, letting himself into the front hall as was his custom, calling out heartily as he strode across the gleaming parquet floor, “Good morning, Masters family!”
Willbridge’s youngest sister, Lady Daphne Masters, poked her head out from the sitting room. “I shall forgive you your blatant disregard for the time of day, as I have the distinct feeling you were quite inebriated after your splendid victory last night.”
Tristan grinned, striding forward to buff Daphne on the cheek. “You could help next time, you know. I’ve seen for myself how brilliant you are at a bit of matchmaking.”
She rolled her eyes. “Caleb would have both our heads if he heard you suggest such a thing,” she whispered, indicating with a jerk of her chin her brother’s presence in the room behind her. “Not only would he be utterly shocked that you have taken up matchmaking as a hobby, but he’s still not forgiven us our part in Emily’s marriage.”
Which was nothing but the truth. Oh, Tristan knew Willbridge was happy enough with it now, having seen his sister, the former Lady Emily Masters, positively bloom in her new position as Lady Morley. That did not mean that he was ready and willing to forget that it had been largely in part to Tristan and Daphne’s meddling that had brought the union into being.
He supposed a man would feel that way, when one of his best friends went and married his little sister.
Of course, Willbridge’s feelings on the matter might be a bit skewed. Ever since he’d gone and married, he’d shed his libertine ways—quite blissfully, Tristan might have added—and taken up the mantle of familial duty with a vengeance. That sense of honor had only increased in the last week, since learning that his bride, Imogen, was in the family way.
At the thought Tristan smiled. He had not believed a man could be more besotted with his wife. Until said wife announced the eventual arrival of the man’s heir. Now there was no standing the couple, who more often than not were making cow eyes at one another.
It was a glorious sight, indeed.
“And how are the soon-to-be parents?” he asked.
“How do you think?” she said in a purposely carrying voice. “Sickening to be about.”
Willbridge’s voice called from within. “I heard that, you harridan. Why don’t you remove yourself from the doorway and let the man in?”
“You’re only jealous that he prefers my company to yours now,” Daphne quipped, skipping back into the room. Choking on a laugh, Tristan followed.
The private sitting room in the Masters household was a hodgepodge of styles and colors. From dainty rosewood furniture to overstuffed couches piled high with pillows to amateur watercolor paintings of every subject and level of talent, the room was centered on comfort rather than fashion. In the midst of this cacophony of tastes sat Willbridge in a heavy, scuffed leather chair, his long legs stretched before him. Imogen was beside him, reclining comfortably in a pale blue damask seat, her feet propped up on a cushion, one slender hand resting lovingly over her still flat stomach. They both greeted him warmly as he entered.