Rosalind refused to see that happen.
Finally, she stumbled upon the only fact she could think of that would appeal to Mrs. Gladstow’s high-reaching aspirations. “But Sir Tristan is not even a peer, ma’am. I was under the assumption you wanted a noble title for your daughter.”
Mrs. Gladstow’s eyes narrowed. “Like I said before, you’re not stupid, are you? I don’t expect the man to propose to my daughter, nor do I want him to. You think I would settle for a mere baronet when my husband has promised such a dowry on her that it should attract even the most discerning nobleman? Hardly.” She let loose a harsh laugh. “But men are basically animals at heart, Miss Merriweather. His attentions will only whet the already-increasing interest of a more appropriate suitor.”
Rosalind frowned. For the woman looked far too smug for this to be a vague kind of thing. She thought quickly back along the past fortnight, searching through memories, trying to single out any one man the woman might have set her sights on for her future son-in-law.
Lord Ullerton’s face rose up in her mind then, his jowls jiggling about like so much cream jelly.
Rosalind felt a chill down to her bones. “You cannot mean to marry her off to Lord Ullerton,” she blurted.
The self-satisfied look on the woman’s face was replaced in an instant by a fury so hot and fierce Rosalind was surprised she wasn’t scorched by it.
“You think to tell me what to do? You, a mere companion, the daughter of some country nobody who gambled away every penny he owned, then proceeded to drink himself to death?”
She advanced. Rosalind, shocked to her core at the venom spewing from her mouth, backed up until her spine rammed into a small end table, nearly toppling the cut glass vase of roses that topped it.
“I do not care for you, Miss Merriweather,” the woman continued, towering over her. “I never have, and I daresay I never shall. And so I say it again. This is your last chance. Lord Ullerton, important man that he is, must return to his country seat for the next month. Before he leaves, you will help my daughter secure his hand. She will be a countess by the Season’s end. If she fails, I will have no compunction throwing you out on your ear, deathbed promise or no.”
A sick feeling swirled and bucked in Rosalind’s stomach. Not only for Miss Gladstow, who was nothing but a pawn to her parents’ desires to join the ranks of England’s best families, but for herself as well. For though she had dealt with a daily barrage of threats to her position, this had the awful ring of truth to it, the woman’s voice holding all the finality of a death knell.
And so she had no choice. If she wished to survive, she would have to fall in with the woman’s plans.
“Yes, ma’am,” she whispered, the words bitter as laudanum on her tongue.
Mrs. Gladstow smiled, a slow and cruel thing that only increased Rosalind’s disgust with herself. “Good. Now go and help my daughter ready herself. We’ve a baronet to use and an earl to capture.”
Chapter 5
Rosalind fidgeted in her chair, her bottom having gone numb on the hard wood long ago. She and Miss Gladstow had been seated in the wallflower line at Lord and Lady Jasper’s ball for what seemed hours now, though in reality it could not have been above a half-hour at the most. With each second that passed, however, she felt the noose of expectation tightening about her throat. That sensation was only underscored each time Rosalind caught sight of the girl’s mother. For Mrs. Gladstow had not changed her mind regarding the instructions she had set forth for Rosalind, if her furious head jerks were anything to go by. She would have her daughter lay claim to the earl before anyone else did, come hell or high water.
Not that Rosalind thought the woman had anything to worry about. It certainly did not appear as if Lord Jowls was in any great demand by the debutantes of London. But reason Mrs. Gladstow would not listen to, as Rosalind had learned to her detriment.
She caught sight of Lord Jowls in that moment. He was some distance away and talking to another gentleman, his jowls undulating with each expressive cast of his meaty hands. He caught her looking. With a smile and a dip of his head in her direction he returned to his conversation.
A prickle of guilt settled within her. The man had never been anything but unfailingly polite to both her and Miss Gladstow. Yes, he was not the most attractive man in London, and had to be old enough to be Miss Gladstow’s father. But was that any reason to think ill of him? Were her innate prejudices blinding her to the fact that he might actually be a good choice for Miss Gladstow? Surely the girl wished for security and status, and by all accounts the earl could provide them. Would she deny Miss Gladstow these things because of her own unreasonable dislike of the man?
She let loose a mournful sigh. She had best get to it then. But where the devil was Sir Tristan? She cast about, looking over the crowded ballroom. Yet there was no sign of his blond head towering over the masses—something she had grown quite adept at locating in the past fortnight, to her disgust. Despite his devil-may-care attitude, she knew he was not typically tardy to these affairs. And once arrived, he never failed to search out Miss Gladstow. Perhaps his absence now meant he wasn’t coming at all?
But no, he had promised he would see them. Mayhap he was here, and had been waylaid by friends. All Rosalind knew was, for every second that ticked by that Sir Tristan was not in Miss Gladstow’s orbit, doing his bit to unknowingly pique Lord Jowls’s interest, the better chance Rosalind had of being thrown out before the evening was through.
It seemed she would have to take matters into her own hands. As disturbing as that was.
She turned to Miss Gladstow. “Are you overheated, miss?”
The girl gave her a distracted smile. “No, I’m comfortable,” she replied in her quiet voice.
“Are you certain? Perhaps we can take a turn about the room. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
“Not particularly.”
Rosalind fiddled with her fan a moment, blowing out a small puff of air. Miss Gladstow seemed determined to stay put in her seat. Not that Rosalind had any particular desire to dive into the crowd herself. But one could not very well find someone in a mass of people if one were stuck to one’s seat like the proverbial barnacle. That, along with the daggers Mrs. Gladstow shot her way as Rosalind unconsciously glanced at her again, made Rosalind more nervous by the second.
“Mayhap you would like a bit of punch,” she blurted.
“I’m not thirsty, thank you,” Miss Gladstow said.
The girl appeared composed enough. Yet there was something off about her tonight. Her fingers, resting in her lap, were wrapped so tightly about themselves it appeared as if she were going to snap the delicate bones with the force of it.
Now that she thought of it, Miss Gladstow had been out of sorts since their walk in the park that afternoon. Rosalind had been so preoccupied, first with her quarrel with Sir Tristan, followed by the horror of Mrs. Gladstow’s threats, she had not paid the proper attention to the girl. Now that she was, however, it seemed glaringly obvious.
“Did Sir Tristan do something to upset you?” she blurted.