“Miss Merriweather, you say?”
Tristan stared at the man, utterly flummoxed as to his reaction. Miss Merriweather, however, seemed to know what the man’s reaction meant. Her eyes grew bright, an almost feverish excitement lighting them. “Yes. Did you know my sister, Miss Guinevere Merriweather? She would have been here in London nine years ago.”
Carlisle was quick to recover. He smiled warmly, no hint of the shock that had drained his face so completely just seconds ago. “Yes, yes I did. Such a sweet girl. So kind to all us young bucks who vied for a dance with her. How is your sister? I daresay she captured the heart of some lucky fellow and is living out her life in marital bliss.”
A sister? This was the first Tristan had heard of any relations of Miss Merriweather’s. Immediately a haunted look passed over her face. And her next words told him all he needed to know why he had never heard a whisper of the girl before.
“She died shortly after that trip, I’m afraid. She contracted an infection of the lungs upon her return and never recovered.”
Carlisle appeared stunned. “I am so sorry.”
Miss Merriweather nodded in thanks. “Did you know my sister well?”
“Somewhat. Though as there were so many of us who made it a point to stay in her orbit it was difficult to get close.”
“Do you recall a Mister Lester? Mister Gregory Lester?”
The question was pointed, intense in the execution. Tristan glanced sharply at Miss Merriweather. She was peering closely at Carlisle, her fingers at the locket at her throat, a seemingly nervous reaction he had noticed several times before.
Carlisle smiled. “Certainly. He was a popular fellow, lively and well-liked by all. We were quite close. Of course,” he continued, his happy look faltering, “mayhap you are not aware that he was killed in action in the Battle of Vimeiro in oh-eight.”
“Yes, I had heard.”
Tristan started at the strange tension in her voice, as if she were wound so tight she might snap.
Carlisle, however, seemed utterly oblivious of her darkened mood, for his happy look returned. “Lester was a good man. Never knew one who could hold his drink so well. But we grow morose. And I refuse to be sad in the company of such beautiful women.” He turned to Grace, bowed. “We have much catching up to do, you and I. Do you think Sir Tristan and Miss Merriweather would mind if I walk on ahead with you a bit?”
“Oh, it matters not what Tristan minds,” Grace drawled with a teasing look his way. “But I would not foist this great lummox off on my companion if she has a dislike of the plan. Miss Merriweather, do you mind keeping my cousin company?”
“Not at all, my lady,” Miss Merriweather replied. “I would be happy to.”
Tristan peered at her as Grace and Carlisle moved off. The tone of her voice troubled him. For there was a decided lack of emotion in it. If there was anything he knew about this woman, it was that she was vocal about those things she disliked. And he knew for a fact she didn’t care for him in the least. When they had been forced to walk together in this very same park yesterday—goodness, could it have really been a mere day ago?—she had held her own against him. Yet now she appeared utterly defeated.
It must have been the mention of her sister and that old beau of hers. So tragic, that both young people were now in their graves.
But he could not stand to see her like this, as if all the life had been drained from her. He leaned in close. “And here I thought you spoke your mind in all things, Miss Merriweather,” he murmured into her ear.
Miss Merriweather gave a small yelp and jumped. It set her off balance and she stumbled into him. Her hand gripped tight to his arm, her fingers biting into his bicep. Instinctively he reached out to steady her.
And immediately saw his error. The new angle brought her body flush to his. She was small and slight and yet utterly feminine, the faint curves of her small breasts pressing into his side. Her scent assaulted him, some combination of roses and lavender that was mouthwatering. He swallowed hard and hastily set her away from him.
Her eyes still appeared clouded. Yet now confusion—and a bit of annoyance—shone in their depths, like a light through the densest fog. “Pardon me?”
“You are not one to hide your true feelings, I think,” he replied with an impressive display of unconcern. At least it was impressive considering his frame of mind at that moment, for his body had not yet recovered from their little stumble. “Yet you blatantly lied to my cousin when you told her you would be happy to keep me company.”
She scowled. “And what was I to say? That I have no wish to be in your company?”
“Is it the truth?”
“Of course it is,” she snapped, then immediately turned scarlet, the remainder of her grief falling away like dead leaves from a tree.
He chuckled, knowing it would only increase her ire. Did he enjoy baiting her? Of course he did. But it was also necessary. For look at the change in her. There was color to her cheeks again, and a spark in her gaze. He offered his arm. After looking at it blankly she took it and they started along the path after Grace and Carlisle.
“Forgive me,” she said, her voice—and her hand on his arm—stiff as whalebone. “I should not have said such a thing.”
“Oh, don’t curb your tongue on my account,” he said.
She only looked more furious. He just managed to stop a grin from showing. He truly was a beast, to enjoy her discomfort so. But it was so much better than the downtrodden look that had pulled at her. That expression had troubled him more than any bit of fury she could blast him with.
