Chapter 2
If there was anything Tristan was good at, it was charming even the most irascible dame. Which was how he found himself seated next to Miss Sarah Gladstow during dinner, their hostess turning to warm butter in his hands at the mere mention of more informal seating.
Never say he didn’t have his talents.
He turned to Miss Gladstow. “How do you like London?”
The answer was always the same with the shy ones, of course. And so he was not in the least surprised when she said, “It’s all a bit…overwhelming.”
He nodded in understanding. “You have not been here long?”
“This is my first social event.”
Well, at least her mother had not shoved her immediately into a crowded ballroom full to bursting with hundreds of noble elite. The woman was a social climber if he ever saw one, but hopefully this small mercy on her part showed love for her daughter.
But, as he had learned in the past, talking about London only increased anxiety in women such as Miss Gladstow. And right now, her fingers were wrapped so tight about her spoon he thought she might bend the metal. She had not looked at him once, her eyes quite firmly fixed on her soup, which sat untouched in all its creamy splendor.
No, there was only one thing that would bring her out of the cocoon of anxiety she was currently wrapped in.
“Tell me of your home.”
Her eyes glazed with longing, as he knew they would, though doubt that he was genuinely curious kept her silent. He smiled in encouragement. In the next moment she began to speak, the words issuing with amazing rapidity from her lips. Within the space of ten minutes he learned the color of her sitting room, where her favorite shady grove was located, even the name of her horse. He encouraged her unexpected volubility withmmmsandahhhsof interest and questions designed to draw out even the most reserved lady. He may be rubbish in most aspects of his life, but never say he did not excel in this.
As they conversed, however, he could not fail to be aware of one particular set of eyes directed unwaveringly their way. Not Miss Gladstow’s mother, of course. That woman was currently gushing over whatever Lord Ullerton was spewing—egad, but he hoped the woman wasn’t planning to pair her daughter off with that damned reprobate. No, the eyes in question were a warm cinnamon brown, and set in a pixie-like face that had struck him to his core the moment he’d spied her.
Miss Merriweather.
Quite against his will, his eyes drifted over Miss Gladstow’s shoulder to settle on that woman, blessedly far down the table. As it had been the last half dozen times he’d looked her way, her direct, suspicious gaze was settled unnervingly on him. And as before his whole being reacted, tensing, awareness coursing through him.
There was no earthly reason for it, of course. Yes, she was lovely in a quiet way. And yes, he’d felt an instant pull to her. But this reaction to her had nothing to do with her appearance and everything to do with the way she looked at him: as if she knew his every secret shame and saw to his true self, to the pathetic, useless person within.
His smile must have faltered, for Miss Gladstow, sensitive girl that she was, tripped over her words, her eyes going dull with uncertainty.
Taking a deep breath, he grinned and held out a plate of blanched asparagus to her. “You were saying something about your dearest childhood friend?”
As he hoped, her expression cleared and she was off again, taking a small portion of the vegetable as she launched into a story of herfriend, a young man whom Tristan was beginning to suspect was a bit more than a friend. As she talked he got the distinct feeling that this was the first time anyone had truly listened to her in a long while.
Enough of his imagined worry over Miss Merriweather and her too-sharp eyes. Miss Gladstow, shy, lonely, and miserable in her new position as debutante, was exactly what he had been searching for.
He managed to do splendidly the rest of the meal. And when the men left the dining room later on that evening to rejoin the ladies in the drawing room, he fully intended to seek Miss Gladstow out once more and continue where they had left off. Until, that was, a small hand on his arms waylaid his plans.
“Sir Tristan, may I have a word?”
He just managed to bite back the groan that threatened. Instead he gifted Miss Merriweather with his most charming smile, hoping to blind her into forgoing whatever mad notion she may have gotten into her head. He was not a vain creature, but he was not stupid, either. Well, not unduly so. He knew women found him pleasing to look at, had even used it to his advantage quite often.
But his efforts were wasted now, as they had been before. Miss Merriweather’s eyelashes didn’t so much as flicker as she gazed up at him in what he assumed was her typically forthright manner. With that stubborn little chin of hers and the small line that seemed to perpetually indent the space between her eyebrows, she seemed formidable indeed. Despite the fact that she didn’t even reach his chin.
Mayhap if he feigned stupidity he could put the girl off. For he had a feeling that, as before, whatever she had to say would not be pleasant in the least. He tilted his head in a quizzical manner. “It was Miss Merriweather, wasn’t it?”
She scowled, further deepening that maddening little groove. “Yes, as I’m sure you remember quite well.”
“Now what would make you say that?”
She looked him up and down, and he had the disturbing sense that he’d been weighed and measured and found wanting. “Oh, you have the look of someone who never forgets a face.”
A startled laugh burst from him. “Do I?”
“Oh, yes.”
