Daphne made a gagging sound. “What did I tell you?” she muttered to Tristan. “Absolutely sickening.” He could not fail to see the misty light in her eyes, however, as she gazed on her brother and his wife.
“Says the woman who has been in love not once, but twice already this Season,” he muttered back.
“Quiet you,” she hissed as Willbridge and Imogen continued to murmur lovingly to one another. “I told you that in the strictest confidence.”
He smirked, only saved from her wrath by the arrival of the tea tray. Blessedly the Masters’ cook did not skimp on heartier sustenance in addition to the small cakes and biscuits that were the typical fare. He wasted no time, helping himself to a heaping plate of sandwiches. “I shall miss this once you’re out of town, Willbridge,” he said in between bites. “My cook isn’t nearly so talented.”
“You may come over any time you wish after Caleb is gone, you know,” Daphne said, pouring out the tea. “Mama will adore having you here.”
“You know I can’t, imp,” he said, reaching for a biscuit. “With your brother gone, it will seem suspect if I visit too often. They’ll be thinking I’m after you for more than friendship.”
“So let them,” Daphne grumbled. “All these rules are ridiculous, anyway.”
“I don’t care what your opinion is on the matter,” Willbridge said severely. “Those rules are in place for a reason, and I will not see you break them.”
“Says the man who made a name for himself by doing as he pleased,” Daphne muttered.
“Daphne,” Willbridge warned.
Imogen quieted him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Caleb, Daphne is a bright girl. She will not make a spectacle of herself.” She turned her wide turquoise eyes to her sister-in-law. “Isn’t that right, dearest?”
It was amazing, the power in those gentle words. For Daphne was all meek sweetness as she said, “Of course.”
“How will we ever keep her in line while you’re gone, Imogen?” Tristan drawled, only half-joking.
Imogen smiled as she accepted a cup from Daphne. “Goodness knows.”
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly. But Daphne was a popular lady and Tristan knew he’d best become scarce before a barrage of admirers descended. He made his farewells and headed for home, whistling a jaunty tune. The sun was warm on his back, the breeze light. And while London air was never the most fragrant, with the blue sky above and birds chirping merrily in the trees, he could almost forget that faint attack on his senses.
As he had forgotten Miss Merriweather.
Tristan stumbled to a halt, the whistle dying on a sputter. Well, damnation. And here he had been doing so well.
He made for his house then and bounded up the front steps, letting himself inside. Wasn’t there someplace he needed to be? Some shy miss he needed to visit, some friends he could meet in Hyde Park? It didn’t much matter where he went, really. Calling to his butler to have his horse readied for him he marched across the marbled front hall, taking the stairs two at a time to the upper floors. He could be changed into his riding gear and out of the house in a thrice.
He was nearly to his bedchamber, could see the door. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a small female came barreling out of the bedroom in front of him. His first thought was that his cousin Grace, staying with him until she found a place of her own, certainly didn’t possess such nondescript brown hair. Then the woman’s elfin face came into view, and Tristan groaned.
He blinked, hoping it had been a figment of his imagination. But no, there she was, staring at him with outraged cinnamon eyes.
“Miss Merriweather,” he ground out, “what in blazes are you doing here?”
Chapter 9
“What am I doing here? I could ask the same of you, sir.” Really, the cheek of the man. And what was Sir Tristan Crosby doing in the family quarters? Granted, this was not Lady Belham’s home but her cousin’s. She supposed Sir Tristan could be known to the owner of the house. It seemed Sir Tristan knew anyone and everyone in London, after all. But the intimacy could not be so great as to merit him exploring the house at will.
He continued to stare in disbelief at her. No, not disbelief, she amended. More like patent horror, as if he could not believe his bad luck.
That made two of them, she thought darkly.
“If you are here to visit Lady Belham or her cousin, I must insist you await them in the drawing room.”
Sir Tristan’s mouth dropped open. “Lady Belham’s cousin?”
“Yes.”
“Her cousin.”
“Yes,” she said, slowly and distinctly. Truly, was the man simple-minded?
“Do you know her cousin then?”
“I have not had the pleasure to meet her yet. I arrived a short time ago, and she has not returned from her outing.”
“Her outing.”
Rosalind very nearly rolled her eyes. “Yes.”
He frowned. “But you are companion to the Gladstows. What are you doing here with Gra—er, I mean Lady Belham?”
“I am no longer employed by the Gladstows,” she said stiffly. “Not that it is any of your business, but I was relieved of my post this morning. Lady Belham was kind enough to take me on.” But she was letting her tongue get away from her again. She drew herself up. “That is neither here nor there. You should not be in this part of the house. I insist you accompany me back to the drawing room and I will fetch Lady Belham straight away.”
To Rosalind’s consternation, the confusion in Sir Tristan’s face was quickly being replaced by…levity? “By all means, Miss Merriweather,” he said, grinning, “let us go to the drawing room.”
Flummoxed by such a change in demeanor, Rosalind peered closely at him. His eyes sparkled with what looked suspiciously like mischief, his mouth tightening at the corners as if he were holding in a laugh.
He swept his hand before him. “Shall we then?”
Rosalind narrowed her eyes and started off down the hall. He was a ridiculous man, no doubt having a good laugh at her expense for some unfathomable reason. All men like him were cut from the same cloth, after all: trampling others in pursuit of their own pleasure, thinking nothing of those beneath them. Well, he would soon see she was not one to be cowed easily.
She hurried down to the first floor, walking blindly, eager to see the man get his comeuppance. As she turned left at the bottom of the staircase, Sir Tristan cleared his throat.
Stopping, she turned to glare at him. “Yes?”
“Ah, I do believe the drawing room is this way, Miss Merriweather,” he murmured, indicating the hall behind them.
Rosalind’s face went hot. “Erm, yes. As I said, I was just taken on this morning. Still learning the house and all.”
She moved to pass him. His hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks.
Heat shot through her body at the contact. She sucked in her breath, staring dumbly at his bare fingers on her skin.