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 moreday 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.
Nothing had ever looked so gloriously welcoming.
“Tristan,” Imogen said with a concerned look, “how are you doing today?”
He gave her a puzzled smile as he bent over her, kissing her on the cheek before taking a seat close by. “I’m well, thank you. As I ever am.”
She peered closely at him. “Are you certain?”
“Of course.” He looked to Willbridge. “What is this all about?”
His friend’s lips quirked. “Imogen is worried you are nursing a broken heart after Miss Gladstow’s unexpected engagement last night.”
Goodness, he must have done a better job at playacting for Miss Gladstow’s beau than he had thought. Chuckling, he leaned back and crossed one booted foot over the opposite knee. “Now, Imogen, I know you want me happily settled. But I assure you, my feelings for Miss Gladstow were purely platonic. She is a wonderful girl and I enjoyed her friendship, but nothing more.”
“You are certain?” Imogen asked, frowning.
