Her heart swelled. It had been too many years since she’d had someone to care for. She thought of Guinevere then—of the brilliant, kind, vivacious girl she had been. And it stunned her to realize that there was an amazing number of similarities between her sister and Lady Belham. Both were beautiful, vibrant, dazzling in their exuberance for life. Each like a brilliant shooting star, lighting up the darkness.
Only Guinevere, like that shooting star, had quickly burnt out, swallowed by the darkness when she’d tried to cut her shining path through the world.
She could not bear it if Lady Belham suffered the same fate. Oh, she knew the woman was stronger than Guinevere. She had suffered the death of her husband, after all, had her life uprooted. Still she was here, head held high, ready to jump back into life.
Yet she had let a bit of her vulnerability show tonight, revealing the pain beneath the surface. And now that Rosalind had seen it, she could not possibly ignore it. As implausible as it was, the woman needed her. And if she needed Rosalind to accompany her into a ballroom, where right this minute a particular someone to be avoided at all costs was surely holding court, then so be it.
Squeezing Lady Belham’s arm, Rosalind straightened her shoulders and raised her chin. She could do this. She would face Tristan and overcome this strange longing she had for him, then move on. She was stronger than she gave herself credit for. She was no romantic lady, no milk-and-water miss so overcome by emotions that she couldn’t see straight. She was Rosalind Merriweather, a level-headed female with common sense in abundance. No man, no matter how devilishly handsome he happened to be, would get the best of her.
They entered the ballroom, and with unfailing accuracy her gaze found Tristan’s blond locks. Immediately the butterflies that had taken up residence in her belly fluttered about like mad. She swallowed hard, fear and longing and anticipation tightening her shoulders. Yes, she could do this. But it would not be easy.
• • •
She is here.
The realization hit Tristan like a punch to the gut. He had thought perhaps he could avoid Rosalind until tomorrow, when he could be assured of a decent night’s sleep between him and the massive mistake he had made in kissing her. Or at least, several hours of his typical pursuits to remind him of what life was supposed to be. For it was most assuredly not mooning after a woman who despised him. A woman who made him feel as if his every flaw had been laid bare.
Only now there she was, a veritable vision in a pale purple gown. It hugged her form, the bodice caressing the slight swell of her small breasts, the soft tone setting off the pale porcelain of her skin to perfection.
He recalled then with painful clarity the feel of those breasts in his palm, the warmth and faint weight of them. He groaned.
“Tristan, what in the world is wrong with you?”
He started, looking sheepishly to Daphne. She stared at him in horror, as if he was about to cast up his accounts at her feet. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“That was the most distressing sound I’ve ever heard from a human.” She pursed her lips as she contemplated him. “You aren’t ill, are you? Because if you soil my new gown I shall never forgive you.”
“No, I am not ill. Now, what were you saying about Miss Weeton?”
“Never mind that.” A gleam entered her eye. “You weren’t thinking of that little peccadillo with you-know-who, were you?”
He growled. “Daphne…”
“I know you told me never to mention it, but really, you know me better than that.”
Rosalind came into view then as she and Grace walked the perimeter of the room. He did his best not to look her way. But Daphne was anything but stupid.
“Ah,” she said, her voice a knowing purr, “now I understand.”
“If you understand it so well, perhaps you might enlighten me. For I haven’t a clue what the devil is going on,” he snapped.
Daphne started, her eyes going wide. Instantly he felt an utter arse. She was his friend, and certainly didn’t deserve such treatment from him. No matter how annoying her little innuendos might be.
“Damn it, I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m out of sorts.”
“She truly has gotten under your skin, hasn’t she?” she said in disbelief.
“It isn’t like that,” he grumbled.
“But it is. I’ve never seen you in such a state.”
“What you’ve never seen is me in the throes of guilt after accosting someone in my cousin’s employ.”
“Then why did you kiss her?”
The very same question had been haunting him since said kiss that afternoon. Why indeed?
“It doesn’t matter why.”
