The anger in her voice surprised him. And warmed him, banishing for a moment the hurt that still festered. She was fierce when she championed someone. That she championed him, of all people, was touching indeed.
“And your stepmother allowed him to treat you so?”
“Our relationship has never been a healthy one. It could not have been easy for her, coming into a new family, knowing her beloved son would never inherit.” A bitter taste entered his mouth. He swallowed it down, continued. “As I’ve said before, I have not seen her in years. It’s easier for all involved this way, fewer hurt feelings, none of the past dredged up. Even our correspondence is handled through my solicitor. Not that Josephine follows that particular rule if it does not suit her,” he finished in an aside.
She tensed, as if stunned. But when he looked down on her again her face was smooth. Though perhaps there was a deeper understanding in her eyes.
“Perhaps it is time for you to heal from the pain your father caused and reconcile with her. She could be lonely, could be wishing to make amends.”
“No,” he answered hurriedly. “No, I’m not sure that will ever be possible.” Even as he said it, though, he felt the pain of that boy left on the outside, looking in on the happy family he should have been a part of.
Her lips quirked in wry amusement, her eyes scanning his face as if she had never seen him before.
He tilted his head. “What is it?”
“It’s funny, isn’t it, how we are all like paper dolls, flat, garbed carefully, only showing what we wish for others to see. But within we are books’ worth of stories and dramas, heartaches and joys.”
A spark of something kindled in him. “Yes.” He smiled, and she smiled back. And that spark turned to a constant glow that warmed him like nothing had in far too long.
“Will you dance with me?”
The words flew from his mouth before he even knew they had taken shape in his mind. Yet the moment they came into being he knew it was quite possibly the most brilliant idea he had ever had in his life.
But this was Rosalind, the woman who quite vocally let him know how she despised men like him. Surely she would not agree, and especially in such a public setting.
Yet, to his everlasting shock and delight, she said in a sure voice, “I would love to.”
He led her forward, toward the dancers already twirling about on the green before the orchestra. The delicate strains of a waltz floated through the warm evening air as he took her hand in one of his, her waist in the other, and guided her into the mass of couples.
It was as natural as breathing. Though he had never before held her in his arms like this, had never guided her in dance, they fit together, moved together as if they had been made for such a purpose. There was no elegant ballroom surrounding them, no ornate ceiling soaring high, no chandeliers heavy with candles. Instead there was the night sky above their heads and the merry lanterns lighting the trees, dancing as joyfully as the people below them. There was not a multitude of lords and ladies pressing in on them, dripping jewels and arrogance. Instead they passed by simple, happy folk: a carefully dressed lad with a wide-eyed shop girl in his arms, an elderly couple who moved with an ease that proclaimed them having danced many such sets with one another over their long lives together, a gruff dock worker with his tired but smiling wife.
Never had anything felt so right. And he never wanted this feeling to end.
• • •
Even hours after they returned home from Vauxhall and were supposed to be snug in their beds, Rosalind still felt the magic of those minutes beneath the inky black of the night sky, twirling in Tristan’s arms.
Was it magic?She wondered as she stood at her window looking out over the darkened landscape. Had she been bewitched? For something had changed in her once she stepped foot inside that fabulous pleasure garden. A wonder had been revealed, a longing unlocked.
Could it have been the exchange of long-held pain with Tristan? She still did not know what had possessed her, to reveal one of the darkest secrets of her heart to him. Yet she could not regret it, especially as he had given her such an important part of himself in return.
She was overcome with the urge to see him. Which was silly, really. It was not as if he were in another house across town. She would see him with the coming of the new day.
Even so, the morning seemed an inordinately long time away.
She chewed on her lip, eyeing the door to her room. Perhaps he was up. Perhaps he was even now looking at his own door, thinking of her. Or mayhap he was out in the hall this very moment, waiting for her to look out.
The idea was preposterous, of course. What reason did he have to think of her, after all? She was nothing, a nobody.
Even so, she could not stop her feet from moving for the door, could not halt her hand, grabbing hold of the handle and turning. She would have a quick look, then duck back inside and go to sleep like a proper companion.
Taking a deep breath, she threw the door open and stepped into the hall. And immediately stumbled to a halt. For there he was, burnished gold by the faint light from the wall sconces, wrapped in a sapphire brocade robe, his feet strong and bare on the plush runner. And he was staring at her in a shock that she knew must mirror her own.
They stood that way for a time, like statues, frozen. Then he let out a breath, her name escaping his lips like a benediction.
“Rosalind.”
She could not have stopped from rushing to him had she wanted to. He met her halfway, his arms coming about her, his mouth finding her own. Then there was no room to think; only feeling, and sensation, and joy. And him. Always him.
