The Dowager's Wager

by Nikki Poppen

  What utter foolishness! What did a viscount’s son know of soldiering? Isabella thought as Alain left the room. She wanted to sit down but couldn’t, hampered as she was by her heavy skirts. Instead, she gripped a bedpost in an attempt to steady herself. What had possessed Tristan to suddenly join the army? Her Tristan was in the army, a lifestyle so at odds with who he was. He loved horses and roses. Yet he was gone. He had left without saying good-bye to his friends and it was her fault.

  Isabella knew instinctively that his sudden departure had to do with her and she cursed herself for being twenty times a fool. She should have known he would do something like this. Two months ago, Tristan had withdrawn quietly to save everyone embarrassment once her engagement had been announced and his own suit had been rejected. But she had foolishly pressed him into an indelicate situation by speaking her feelings out loud. She had begged him to marry her. Her cheeks burned with remembrances, ironically bringing the much needed color to her face. Tristan had left to save her from future encounters with him, encounters that might discomfort them both.

  Tristan had done the honorable thing by leaving but now she wished his gentleman’s code to perdition. Honor and embarrassment were nothing compared to what Tristan risked in the army. She would not forgive herself if any harm befell him because she’d gone soft in the noodle and thrown herself at him.

  By the time Alain returned with Chatham, Giles and the champagne, Isabella felt thoroughly miserable. She was certain she had sent Tristan to his doom through her outrageous behavior towards him. The champagne warmed her, although she was careful only to moderately sip it. It would be time to go soon and there would be more champagne toasts later. Already, she could hear the noise of the throng gathering along the sidewalks outside the town house to watch her progress to the church.

  Laughingly, Giles and Chatham played at maids, helping her arrange the gossamer-thin veil over her hair. Alain gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek and it was time. As she floated down the stairs in a white cloud of veiling and silk, Isabella wondered if it was the champagne or if all brides felt as if reality had become suspended.

  Her father sat across from her in the open landau, her vast skirts taking up most of the space. Alain rode next to the gleaming black carriage on a white horse, periodically offering her encouragement while she smiled and waved to the crowd. As she rode to the church in her elegant equipage, arrayed in a dress that equaled the annual income of fifteen farmers, Isabella reminded herself that she was living a fairy tale. All she had to do was find a way to live happily ever after. She owed Tristan that much for all he’d given up on her behalf.

  London, February 13, 1816

  The bitter February wind whipped at the hem of Tristan’s caped greatcoat as he walked along prestigious Grosvenor Square with his companion and old schoolmate, Alain Hartsfield, the young Baron Wickham. Beside him, Alain leaned in close to his ear. “Let’s go up and surprise Isabella,” Alain suggested spontaneously. He veered towards an immaculate red brick, Georgian mansion on their left without waiting for Tristan’s approval.

  “Westbrooke left her the town house when he passed away two years ago,” Alain commented offhandedly, pushing open the wrought iron gate leading to the front door with its fanlight pediment.

  Tristan halted as the gate swung open, his pulse speeding at the prospect of seeing Isabella again. Alain hadn’t mentioned anything about visiting Isabella this morning when Tristan agreed to lunch at Brooke’s.

  “Perhaps this is not the best time to call,” Tristan hedged, suddenly hesitant. He hadn’t planned on encountering her so soon after his return home, or for that matter, encountering any of his close acquaintances. It had been purely by accident that he’d run into Alain last night at the club. While he was more than glad to reconnect with his closest friend, Tristan wished the reunion could have been postponed. There was unfinished business he must see to before his military career would be officially over. It would be best to fulfill those obligations alone. Still, being reunited with Alain felt good-a true homecoming after a lonely sojourn.

  Alain laughed and clapped Tristan on the back. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the perfect time to call and this is the perfect surprise for my sister. Isabella will never guess my surprise is you. It’s been seven years. If it hadn’t been for the military dispatches naming you occasionally, we’d all have given up hope of setting eyes on you again ages ago, Old Man. Can you imagine the look on her face?”

  Tristan could indeed imagine Isabella’s face. Her face had become his haven of sanity in the insane world of war. He had summoned it countless times in the past years when he needed to remember that true goodness yet existed in a world gone mad with blood, vengeance and greed for power.

  As to the exact look her fair visage would wear upon hearing Alain’s news, he did not care to speculate. He doubted the look on her face would be the look her brother was expecting. They had parted awkwardly, if not badly, seven years ago. In fact, their parting had been the impetus behind his abrupt decision to purchase an officer’s commission in the army and go abroad.

  Now he was back and she was a widow. He’d had a night to let the news penetrate his mind. Alain had mentioned Westbrooke’s death at the club the prior evening, catching him off guard. In a perfect world, he might expect he and Isabella had another chance at love, but his world was far from perfect. He was far from perfect. His bad hand twitched inside his York tan glove in blatant reminder of the imperfections he’d acquired.

  Nonetheless, he knew what he wanted. He wanted Isabella with a singleminded purpose that had sustained him throughout the war. Regardless of the countless odds against him, he had to try. If he could lay siege to the fortresses of Spain, he could surely woo the heart of the love of his youth.

  “Are you ready?” Alain broke into Tristan’s thoughts, looking at him strangely as he rapped on the door with his silver-headed walking stick.

  Tristan cleared his throat, trying to dispel his anxiety. “You should at least go up and prepare her first. I’ll wait in the foyer.”

  An expressionless butler opened the door and ushered them inside. Alain looked at him once more in question. Tristan shook his head and motioned him to go up with a sweep of his hand. Alain shrugged, leaving Tristan in the foyer alone with his racing thoughts.

  The last time he had seen Isabella he’d been a different man. At that time in his life, he prided himself on being a man of honor; although in reality at the age of twenty, he’d scarcely been a man. And he had not been honorable. He’d kissed her even though Alain had hinted to him earlier that same evening of a betrothal with the marquis. Then he’d run like a coward. He’d run from the feelings she stirred in him, and from his duty to her. Any gentleman knew better than to kiss a young lady without making his intentions known, but Tristan had stolen that kiss without declaring his feelings, knowing that a declaration would be futile.

  Certainly, he went through the form of addressing himself to her father, a man Tristan had known and admired for much of his adolescence. But it had been a painful interview for them both. Isabella’s father was in no position to entertain his request for Isabella’s hand and it clearly upset him to refuse Tristan, who he and his wife had succored in the years following Tristan’s parents’ death.

  Tristan paced the fashionable marble-veined foyer pretending to admire the collection of Dutch landscapes on display, meanwhile speculating on Isabella’s reaction to his return. Had she forgiven him for raising her hopes and then dashing them? He’d wanted to sample her guileless love, taste the lightness that she brought into his world. He’d wanted to know what such innocence would feel like in his arms, to hold perfection within his grasp. He was on the verge of seeing in the flesh the vision which had sustained him through dark years on the Continent. Now that the moment was upon him, he both relished and feared it.

  Isabella looked up from her letter writing in her private second floor parlor as the butler announced her brother. She smiled and rose to g
reet him with a kiss on the cheek. “Alain, I am so glad to see you,” she enthused. “The weather has been too dismal for going out and I’ve grown bored with my own company. Sit down and tell me what you’re doing out on such a bleak day.”

  She led him to a set of comfortable chintz-covered chairs framing a pale yellow sofa near the tasteful maroon-marbled fireplace, which put out an admirable amount of warmth to ward off the blustery day. Isabella’s private parlor was eternal summer with its soft jonquil upholstered furnishings, cherry-colored draperies and pale yellow walls. She sat down on the sofa and motioned for Alain to join her.

  When Alain didn’t sit down, Isabella looked at him expectantly. “What is it?”

  “Bella, I have brought you a surprise.” His face beamed his excitement. He looked utterly boyish in his pleasure as he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  Isabella laughed, finding her brother’s enthusiasm contagious. “What is it?” She looked around curiously. Alain held nothing in his hands and no objects bulged suspiciously from his deep coat pockets.

  “It’s not a `what’. It’s a `who’. He is downstairs. He wanted me to give you fair warning first” Alain’s green eyes danced with merriment.

  “Who? I can’t possibly guess who is in town that I haven’t already met” Isabella insisted, furrowing her brow as she racked her brain for an answer to Alain’s riddle.

  Alain delivered his coup de grace with great delight. “Since you’ll never guess, I’ll tell you. It’s Tristan.”

  Isabella’s smile faded and a hand went to her throat. “Tristan? He’s downstairs?” Emotions rocketing through her, Isabella rose and walked to the window. She pulled back one of the draperies and made a great show of looking out the window while she struggled to marshal her rioting feelings.

  She was definitely surprised. Years ago she’d convinced herself that he was gone for good. She would never see him again. As much as it had hurt to contemplate a life without Tristan, she’d learned a valuable lesson. Her girlish whimsies had nearly cost him his life. Such intense emotions were best kept under tight rein like her highly prized temperamental Arabians. In the ensuing years of his absence, she’d built a fortress around her heart that both sheltered and repaired it. She did not counsel herself to coldness; such a thing was not in her warm nature. However, she did counsel herself towards caution. She would not expose her heart so easily again. She heard Alain’s easy voice in the background of her thoughts as he went on about Tristan’s return.

  “It is a wonderful surprise, isn’t it? He surprised even me. The bounder didn’t send word of his return to anyone. I ran into him by accident at Brooke’s last evening. Isn’t it splendid, Bella? It’ll be like old times having us all together again. I’ve invited him to the Denbighs’ Valentine masquerade tomorrow night.” Alain’s boots clicked on the floor as he strode to the door and spoke to the butler. “Regis, send up Viscount Gresham.”

  The words galvanized Isabella’s thoughts. She smoothed the cranberry folds of her high-necked merino wool gown with sweat-slicked palms. She looked well enough in the dress but her heart raced at the prospect of being seen by him. What would he think? She hoped he would see her as a mature Society matron. She had grown up and was well beyond the silly girl who had irresponsibly doted on him and placed him in abject danger with her affections. Silently, Isabella vowed to make it up to him. Whatever he wanted or needed, she would provide. There must be something her old friend wanted that she could obtain; after all she was the widowed Marchioness Westbrooke with social standing and a fortune at her disposal.

  In spite of her resolve, she trembled at the prospect of seeing him again. The past had been unleashed from the dungeon in which she had locked it. Nothing had shaken her carefully constructed fortress so much as the mere thought of Tristan waiting downstairs, not even her congenial husband’s sudden death. A second set of boots sounded on the walnut hardwoods of her private parlor. It was time to prove that she was all that she thought she was-an adult woman past the first blush of infatuation. Her fortress was under siege.

  Unable to put off the moment any longer, Isabella turned slowly to face her guest. “Viscount Gresham, this is an unexpected visit.” Although her legs threatened to become jelly, she was gratified that neither her voice nor her eyes wavered when she met his penetrating gaze and looked upon the breathtaking whole of him.

  Tristan had always been well formed and endowed with more than his share of good looks. Military duty merely served to enhance his virile appeal. It was impossible to ignore the broad width of his shoulders beneath the superbly tailored layers of his deep blue wool coat and pristine white linen. Neither could she ignore the muscular thighs encased in tight-fitting breeches nor the spotless Hessians that hid his well-shaped calves from further inspection. It was little wonder his reputation had grown apace during his years on the Continent. He had become a powerful-looking man. She was undeniably as drawn to him now as she had been in her youth, if not more so.

  Her gaze traveled back to the sculpted planes of his face and the dark hair he wore defiantly long and tied back with satin ribbon. She noted there was a hardness to his features that had not been there before. A man had been chiseled from the boy she once knew. Isabella found the good grace to blush as Tristan gave her an imperceptible nod, acknowledging his awareness of her scrutiny.

  “My Lady Westbrooke,” Tristan stepped forward to take her hand and briefly skim it with his lips. Her pulse raced at the contact. She told herself it was because she rejoiced in her friend’s safe return, but she doubted it had been wise to put herself in such close proximity. Her carefully constructed defenses shuddered under the attack.

  Alain laughed. “Such formality! I assure you, it is not necessary between old friends in a private residence. I, for one, will not stand on such ceremony.”

  Isabella gave an awkward half laugh as she reclaimed her hand from Tristan’s burning grasp. Thank goodness he wore gloves. “Of course, Alain is right. This stiffness is not needed. I shall ring for tea. Please be seated.”

  She busied herself with going to the bell pull, feeling Tristan’s chocolate eyes surreptitiously following her about the room as he and Alain settled themselves in the chairs near the fire. His study made her feel self-conscious. Did he approve of what she’d become? Did he see that she’d done all that he’d asked of her that fateful day? Did she still stir him as she had of old? Goodness knew the mere sight of him in her parlor had all too easily roused her old passions.

  Although Tristan had steeled himself as best he could downstairs, he had not been prepared for seeing Isabella. He had half hoped that Isabella would refuse to see him, all the while knowing that her sense of good manners and her loyalty to Alain would not permit her to do such a thing.

  Tristan scoffed at himself as he watched her settle on the sofa. He’d only thought his memory of her had remained undiminished. Either it had dimmed considerably, or she had become far more beautiful with the passing of time. At the age of twenty, he’d regarded her as Copernicus did the sun, the golden center of the world’s light. Then the light had gone out and his life had become dark. Today, the sun reentered his orbit. The honey-gold hair she shared with her brother was piled high on her head, spilling random ringlets to frame her face with its expressive topaz eyes, classic razor-straight nose and sensual mouth. The promise of her youth had been fulfilled in the goddess who sat to his left. She had become his Diana, with her height and athletic grace. Even though he had given her up in physical form, she ran through his blood and his spirit. He would never be truly parted from her, although God knew how hard he’d tried to sever the bond.

  He drew his mind back to the conversation with a jolt, realizing how far afield he’d let his mind wander. Isabella was addressing a remark to him, her sensuous lips framing each word. “You must tell us all about your adventures in the army. Alain told me you were mentioned in the dispatches several times.”

  He winced slightly at the mention of th
e dispatches. What had the dispatches mentioned about his service to England? Surely they hadn’t mentioned the form in which his service took place. For the sake of secrecy, the dispatches could not have mentioned anything beyond his services as a cavalry officer.

  Turning to Alain, Tristan fell back on the distraction of humor. “Since when have you become interested in military affairs? The last I recall, horses held the sum of your meager attentions, my friend.”

  Alain answered the gentle ribbing pointedly. “Since my dearest friend joined the army without any notice. Perhaps someday you will tell me what provoked such rash action.”

  Tristan heard the latent hurt in Alain’s voice. They had once been closer than brothers. He acknowledged Alain’s concern with a short nod. “Someday,” he concurred. Someday he would explain how he’d fallen in love with his friend’s sister. Someday, he would explain how his military career was nothing more than a facade for rendering secret service to the crown. Someday. But not today or any time soon. Not while one final enemy lurked in the shadows of his life.

  An awkward silence fell between the three of them. Isabella spoke up brightly. “The dispatches, Tristan,” she said, grasping at the last topic of conversation before Alain’s sensitive comment.

  Tristan would have preferred any conversational offering but that. What to tell them? He couldn’t begin by saying, “I hunted down men who were disloyal to the English cause and killed them” Neither could he begin with “I have come home because the last man I hunted got away and nearly killed me in his escape” With a casual smile at odds with his inner turmoil, he began to regale Isabella and Alain with a few harmless military stories while Isabella poured the newly arrived tea from a clever London styled rectangular teapot.

  Tristan struggled to keep his train of thought on his tale as he watched Isabella’s deft hands handle the tea service, skimming lightly from cream pitcher to sugar bowl. The simple acts were done with the same grace with which she did all things. He found it mesmerizing. He was struck with an urgency to reach out and grip those hands. A simple touch from her would complete his homecoming. Of course, doing so was impossible. Her brother was present and then there was the issue of his scarred hand. He wasn’t ready to talk about that wound yet. Alain coughed and Tristan realized he’d stop talking in mid-sentence.