Page 12 of A Murder in Trinity Lane
He stiffened. “No. I fell in love and married.”
I faltered. “I beg your pardon. That was unforgivably rude of me.” Not to mention unkind.
The music rose to its final swell. As the dance ended, all I wanted was a respite from his words, his opinions. Him. I stepped back with a small curtsy. “Thank you for the dance, Your Grace.”
He bowed stiffly. “A pleasure.”
Flustered and full of regret, I turned to go, but his voice stopped me.
“Rosalynd.”
I froze. He had not used my title.
I turned back slowly. His gaze held mine—quiet, steady, unreadable. “Be careful how you manage your sister. Your good intentions could have unintended consequences.”
“What do you mean?”
“We often crave what we’re denied. And when we can’t have it . . .” He paused. “We sometimes act in ways we regret.”
For a moment, I could only stare at him, the ballroom dimming around us, sound falling away like the closing of a curtain.
Before I could summon a reply—before I could even breathe—he gave the faintest nod and disappeared into the crowd.
Blast the man.
Chapter
Six
TRAGEDY IN TRINITY LANE
The following morning after breakfast, I asked Chrissie if I might have a quiet word with her in the morning room.
“I know what you’re going to say,” she said the moment the door closed behind us. “Lord Sefton is a rake. He’s had numerous affairs. He’s no fit suitor for me. And I should stay far away from him.”
I blinked. “How did you?—?”
“I overheard Lady Edmunds,” she admitted with a sigh. “But here’s the thing.”
Even before she spoke again, I knew I wouldn’t like what was coming.
“He’s never seduced a debutante,” she said carefully. “Every woman he’s been involved with has had . . . experience.”
“That we know of, Chrissie,” I countered. “It would only take a whisper for a young woman to be ruined utterly—if her name was linked to him in the wrong way.”
“He hasn’t been shunned by society,” she pointed out. “Lady Yarmouth introduced us. She wouldn’t have done so if she didn’t think he was acceptable.”
“She’s a gossip who lives to fan the flames.”
“He’s witty, charming, and doesn’t speak to me like I’m some silly chit with a dowry to be auctioned off.”
“And there lies the danger.”
She met my gaze steadily. “You always taught me to look past appearances, to trust my instincts. If he behaves improperly, I’ll sever the connection myself. Please, Rosie. Trust me.”
There were a hundred things I wanted to say. But pressing her now would only push her away—and I needed her to keep talking to me. To trust me in return.
“Very well,” I said at last, though every syllable tasted like worry.
