“What, no thanks?” he murmured. He was not scandalously close, yet his warm breath fanned the stray tendrils of hair at her temple, making her shiver.
Her reaction to him shook her. Frowning, she yanked her arm from his loose grip with much more force than was warranted. “Do not presume to touch me, sir,” she gritted. Without waiting for his response, she stormed off.
As luck would have it, the butler, Danielson, reached the first floor and headed her way. “I have distressing news,” she called as he came closer. “It seems Sir Tristan has lost his way and was wandering the family apartments. Would you be so good as to show him the drawing room where he can await Lady Belham at her pleasure?”
The butler froze, his eyes going wide, darting from her to Sir Tristan. Rosalind smiled smugly. Surely their interloper would not fail to see the utter brass of his actions now. But instead of a proper level of dismay, the man’s amused grin had returned tenfold.
“I’m sorry, Miss Merriweather,” Danielson said, drawing her attention back, “I don’t quite understand.”
She scarcely managed to hold back her growl of frustration. Was every male being deliberately stupid today? “Sir Tristan was in a part of the house he ought not to have been.”
The butler was looking more confused by the second. “And why should Sir Tristan not have been in the family quarters, miss?”
Why could the man not understand? It was then it hit her. He was showing similarities in confusion to her second employer, who had been slowly losing her faculties, becoming increasingly senile. Was the man troubled by a mental deficiency? Oh dear, Lady Belham had not warned her of this. No doubt it was kind of her cousin to keep the man on, impaired as he was. Yet something should have been said.
She smiled and said in a gentle manner, “Sir Tristan does not live here, and so should not have been in that part of the house.”
The man only seemed more dismayed. He looked to Sir Tristan, who chuckled.
“Ah Danielson, forgive me. I was having a bit of sport at Miss Merriweather’s expense. It seemed she was not informed that I am Lady Belham’s cousin, much less the owner of this house.”
A ringing started up in Rosalind’s ears. She gaped at him. “That cannot possibly be true.”
“I assure you, it is. Though I must commend you on your protection of my cousin. You were fierce indeed and I am glad to see she has someone as loyal as you to keep her company.” He turned to the butler. “Please inform the groom to hold my horse for me. I shall be a few moments longer than expected.”
“Very good, Sir Tristan.” Danielson gave her a hooded glance before, with a smart bow, he was off.
Rosalind swallowed hard, watching the man go. If the ground opened up into a great gaping hole in that moment she would have cheerfully jumped in. How long, she wondered as she kept her eyes averted from Sir Tristan, would she be forced to ignore his presence before the baronet turned around and left.
“So my cousin has hired you on, has she?” he murmured.
Rosalind pulled a face. Apparently the man had not gotten the hint that she didn’t wish to speak with him. Heaving a sigh, she faced him. His smug, amused look dragged at her frown all the more.
“Lady Belham was kind enough to do so, yes,” she said through stiff lips.
He cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t sound pleased at the prospect.”
“I like Lady Belham very much,” she said, training her eyes on Sir Tristan’s chin. Which might be a mistake. His chin was incredibly strong, after all. And all too close to his mouth.
He grinned, those disturbingly straight teeth flashing, snagging her attention. “Then I can only assume your dislike of the situation has to do with my presence.”
“You are astute, Sir Tristan,” she snapped without thinking. No, no, this wouldn’t do. For, though the man was not her employer, as Lady Belham’s cousin and the owner of the house she now resided in, he had sway over her future.
The idea left a bitter taste in her mouth. That a man such as he, the very kind of creature she abhorred above all others, had power over her life was lowering indeed. At least at the Gladstows’ she merely had to deal with a social-climbing harridan. Now she had to bow and scrape to a libertine, a man she could not like and did not trust.
A man who affected her far more than she was willing to admit.
But life was not always fair, was it? She found the locket at her throat, the pads of her fingers pressing forcefully into the stones as if to impress its message into her very bones. She had learned that nine long years ago, when her belief that life was fair and good had been cruelly ripped from her. Swallowing what was left of her pride, she focused on his cravat—much safer, in her opinion, than any part of his face—and said, “Forgive me, I am out of sorts and didn’t mean to offend.”
He was silent for a time. She barely managed to keep herself from sneaking a glance up. Finally he said, his voice quiet, “You do not have to apologize for speaking your mind, Miss Merriweather. You are entitled to your opinion. And I did tease you, after all.”
She stiffened. No doubt he meant it as a comfort. But Rosalind knew that, the first chance he got, he would be back to making her life hell. “Am I excused now, Sir Tristan?”
Again that thick silence. “You do not need to ask my permission to leave. You are free to do as you wish here.”
There he was, playing at being nice once more. Like a cat toying with a mouse, no doubt. Managing a jerky nod and curtsy, she spun about and hurried from the room. Feeling the burn of his eyes in her back—and the remnants of heat from his fingers on her skin—long after she was safe in her room.
• • •
Tristan rapped his knuckles on his cousin’s bedroom door.
“Come in,” she sang.
He grinned. Grace was his favorite blood relation by far. No one had been there for him, had supported him through the trials and troubles of his life as she had. When he had learned of her husband going to his heavenly reward, and that she intended to find a house in London after her period of mourning, he had leapt at the chance to help out in whatever way he could.
He let himself in. Grace sat at her dressing table, peering at her reflection with all the intensity of the most discerning critic. Her eyes met his in the mirror and she waved him forward.
“Tell me,” she demanded as he sauntered closer, “do you see a white hair there?” She pointed to her temple, where, as far as Tristan could tell, there was nothing but inky black strands.
Tristan pretended to look concerned as he studied her. “Hmm, I do. In fact,” he continued, roving his gaze over her coiffure, “I believe I see several.”
Grace’s eyes grew wide with dismay, her hands going to her hair. “No!” she gasped, tilting her head, attempting to see the back of her hair in the looking glass. When that proved impossible she took up a silver hand mirror and angled it behind her. “Show me where,” she demanded.
Tristan could not contain his laughter a moment longer. It broke free, shaking his body.
Grace’s eyes narrowed and she spun in her seat to face him. “You beast. You would tease me?”