The Dowager's Wager

by Nikki Poppen

  Tristan groaned. If it was to be business as usual for this last assignment, Beatrix was bound to show up. He had hoped that when he’d left France he had also left Beatrix behind, along with the blurred lines between the fiction and actuality of their relationship. He did not relish the thought of explaining Beatrix to Isabella. He wasn’t even sure it was possible to explain Beatrix without compromising the integrity of the mission.

  It seemed that his alternate identity had become his reality. Halsey had said he just had to be himself. Be himself? If he were really himself, he’d be miles from London at one of his estates, burying himself away with his gardens and greenhouses. The real Tristan embraced nature, not manmade intrigue. The real Tristan wanted to live in the country with a wife who loved the same things he loved. But until then, he’d be stranded in London living out a ruse, as Halsey so eloquently put it, “as a walking bacchanal.”

  Three blocks away at Westbrooke House, Isabella stared helplessly at the pages of the book she’d brought to bed with her. The book was supposed to have guaranteed a quick passage into oblivion, but even with the long night of dancing behind her, sleep would not come. Her mind whirled with visions of Tristan. She replayed the evening in her head like a Covent Garden drama. His costume had been aptly chosen. He’d exuded a feral power that both startled and intrigued her when he’d neatly insinuated himself into her group of admirers. His polished manners had deftly dispersed them, leaving her alone with him.

  Their walk in the garden had been most revealing. Isabella could not forget the horrid scar he bore on his hand or the naked vulnerability that had glinted in his eyes, if only for a moment, when she’d held the injured hand in her own and begged his story.

  It wasn’t the maimed hand that had been revealing, although it had been a shock of its own. It was the realization that the openness she had once associated with Tristan’s nature was gone. She had not been conscious of its omission when Alain had brought him to the town house. She’d only intuitively found Tristan changed somehow. She’d passed it off as expected after such a long absence. But tonight when he’d adroitly steered the conversation away from his injury, she’d recognized what was different about him. Instead of cultivating mannerly behavior as a natural extension of him self, he was now using it as a facade behind which to hide his true self.

  The book Isabella held slid to the floor with a thud as she recognized the full impact of such a choice. Tristan was hiding something and it was more than his injured hand, although Isabella had no doubts that his hand was in some way connected to the deeper issue. She yawned in frustration. She’d managed to solve one mystery regarding Tristan only to find another.

  Isabella gazed down on the bustling street below from the long window casements of her chinois-styled front drawing room. She sighed wistfully. She’d be out there among the people of the city that morning if it hadn’t been for her impending appointment with her dear friend, Amy Weatherspoon, Lady Briarton. She hadn’t seen Amy since she and the earl had retired to the country three months ago. Amy would arrive within the hour, which left too much time to sit idly, yet not enough time to actually do something useful.

  That wasn’t exactly true, Isabella thought as she dropped the gauzy sheer curtain and turned to survey her salon, her eyes falling on the black lacquered escritoire across the room. She should take this opportunity to jot down notes regarding eligible wives for Tristan.

  Isabella purposefully crossed the blue and white drawing room to the desk. Seating herself, she took out pen and paper, and separated the white page into two columns. The first column filled easily as she listed all the eligible girls she knew who were available for marriage. Tristan would certainly have a quantity of young women to choose from. It was the second column that had Isabella tapping her chin with the quill as she racked her brain for possibilities: how to woo Tristan? She knew it would not be enough to claim victory simply by having Tristan engaged by June. She’d have to prove he was in love. Additionally, she didn’t want to see her friend merely betrothed. She would not wish a marriage of convenience on him. He deserved more. He deserved the fortune Irina had predicted.

  The question remained: how to get Tristan to fall in love? What type of woman would he fall in love with and would love him in return? Tristan was a complex man. He would not fall in love with just any pretty face. The woman who owned his heart would have to be intelligent and caring, not to mention a neck or nothing rider with a genuine interest in horses.

  Isabella stared at the names on her list. They were all respectable young ladies with impeccable reputations. With the exception of Caroline Danvers, she could hardly imagine any of them riding hell-bent-for-leather in a most unladylike fashion. Isabella grimaced and dashed a line through two names and then two more. Those girls would be as tempting as milquetoast. Tristan would not be impressed.

  She sat back in the chair and sighed. This was going to be more difficult than simply finding wifely candidates. Names were one thing, courtship was entirely another. She could find girls for Tristan to marry. It would be far more difficult to find a woman for him to love, and she felt morally obligated to do that.

  The muffled sound of the front door opening downstairs drew Isabella out of her quandary. Amy’s musical lilt floated up from the foyer announcing her arrival. Isabella put away her plans and took a quick look in the ebony framed mirror hanging on the wall behind her. She didn’t want Amy to suspect anything was plaguing her. This morning, she wanted only to hear about her friend’s time in the country and perhaps to share the wager with her as a lighthearted lark, nothing more.

  An hour later, over mid morning tea and delicately iced lemon poppy seed cakes, Amy burst out laughing, setting her pale curls to bobbing and the hand that held her teacup to trembling. “What a ridiculous wager! I don’t see how it is possible to make Gresham fall in love. Who will you get to tempt him?”

  “That’s why I need your help. In the absence of any close female relatives to guide his choice, he has asked me to help him select a wife. If I could introduce him to the right woman, I can win the wager and Alain will have to buy me that horse”

  Amy assessed her friend shrewdly. “For the record, none of us think you should ride that horse. There must be more to this than you’re letting on. You’re not the type to go to such lengths to win a simple bet. What’s the real reason you’re so determined to settle Tristan with a wife?” Her question was met with silence and Amy was forced to resign herself to inquiry. “All right, who’s on the list?”

  Isabella turned from the window and furrowed her brow. “That’s the irony of the situation. I have names of potential candidates but no one with whom he’d fall in love.” She strode to the desk and picked up the list she’d concocted with lines through the rejected candidates.

  Amy studied the list. “These girls seem perfectly eligible to me. What’s wrong with them?”

  “I don’t think they would pose much of a challenge for him. He’d offer them a pretty word and they’d swoon at his feet. He wouldn’t fall in love like that” Isabella said with a touch of scorn to her voice. “On second thought, he probably wouldn’t have to say anything. One look at his face and the girls would be begging to be his lady.”

  Amy stared hard at Isabella for several disconcerting seconds before offering a “hmm” and nodding her head. “Perhaps there are other reasons those women aren’t good enough for him? Are there, Bella?”

  “I can’t imagine what those reasons might be,” Isabella huffed, trying to appear disinterested in Amy’s hypothesis.

  “I can think of two reasons” Amy tapped her finger against her chin thoughtfully. “You fancy him for yourself, or maybe you’re jealous at the thought of those other girls having a chance with him?”

  Isabella turned away before Amy could see how close to the mark she’d been. “Stay focused, Amy. I must have a list with the right sort of names on it and to get the right sort of names, I have to determine why men fall in love to begin with.”


  “I don’t think it is quite as scientific as all that!” Amy said, choking back her laughter. “You’re not undertaking a great study.”

  “Do you know why? Why did Briarton fall in love with you?” Isabella pressed in earnest, ignoring her friend’s blush at the direct question.

  “He says I captivated him.”

  “How did you do that? I must get some paper and take notes. This is precisely what I need to know.”

  Amy did laugh that time, a gentle, sad laugh, as she rose from the settee and went to join Isabella at the long windows. She took her friend’s hands in her own and squeezed them with affection. “The point isn’t what I do specifically that entrances Briarton, my dear. The point is that men fall in love because they are captivated. What captivates any man is how he feels about himself when he’s with you”

  “So all a woman does is help a man fall in love with himself?” Isabella remarked cynically and offered Amy a frown of disbelief. “That’s just what a man needs to feed his male ego which, as a rule, is substantial enough already.”

  Amy knit her brows together in concern. “Poor Bella. I forget you’ve not yet experienced true passion. Your cold heart worries me, my dear. What I meant was that a man needs to feel like he’s the man he wants to be when he’s with you, that he doesn’t need to be anyone other than his true self.” She patted her friend’s hand in a way that made Isabella speculate as to how much Amy had guessed. She’d been Isabella’s confidante since their debuts. Amy knew that while life with Westbrooke had been pleasant, it had not been a grand passion.

  Isabella disengaged herself from Amy’s grasp and resumed pacing, “Don’t worry about my heart; it’s not cold, just cautious. Worry about something practical like how my list of candidates is going to `captivate’. What makes a man feel good when he’s with a woman?”

  Amy returned to her seat on the toile print settee and poured herself another cup of tea. “Perhaps a good way to think about what a man likes is to think about what you liked during your two seasons” Amy took a few sips of her tea. “What made you feel good?”

  “Hmm,” Isabella said as her thoughts unbidden recalled the way Tristan’s long ago kiss had brought out the wanton in her; how she’d lived for the dances she shared with him just to be touched by him. Those were definitely not appropriate remembrances to share. Instead, she said vaguely, “Compliments. I liked it when my beaux would compliment my horsemanship.”

  “Men like the same compliments. Makes them feel stronger, sexier, and smarter than anyone else and they’re potter’s clay.” Amy said airily, snapping her fingers. “I suspect they like it even more than we do. How often do you think a man is told how nice he looks, or how superb his clothes are? I told Briarton once how much I liked a certain waistcoat of his and he preened liked a peacock the rest of the day. Since then, he’s taken much more care with how he dresses.”

  Isabella was skeptical. “I’ll make sure only girls who compliment potential suitors are on the list. Really, Amy, that’s no help at all. I can’t guarantee these girls will know enough to do that.”

  Amy laughed heartily. “One look at his face and they’ll be the ones writing poetry to his eyes instead of the other way around.”

  February 27, 1816

  Amy’s advice proved to be unerringly true. The next two weeks, Tristan cut a swath through the remainder of the Winter Season. He was handsome and dashing with his best manners on display. He was courteous to shy young girls. He doted on the old dragons lining the ballroom chaises. At parties where men were in short supply, he danced every dance without complaint so that no wallflower was embarrassed by her lonely status. In short, he was too good to be true and the gossips, like lean wolves in winter, were hungry for fresh meat. They got a feeding frenzy at the Hampstead Musicale, the most innocuous event of the Winter Season.

  Isabella went over her carefully constructed list of wifely candidates again before discreetly tucking it into her beaded reticule. She tapped her foot impatiently as the musicians at Lady Hampstead’s musicale gave their instruments a final tuning before the concert began. The seat next to her was empty. Tristan was late, which added to her growing frustration with him.

  She believed her plan to find Tristan a good wife was the closest thing to foolproof she could devise. She’d diligently researched the candidates’ backgrounds. She put about feel ers to see if such a suit like Tristan’s would be acceptable so that he would not be hurt again by another father’s rejection. Only when she was certain of the girl being open to Tristan’s attentions did she introduce Tristan to the potential miss. When new families arrived in town, Isabella added to the list as needed. For all these efforts, not to mention the procuring of invitations to the fetes the girl would be attending, she had little to show for her endeavors.

  For a man who had declared he was ready to marry and looking for a wife, Tristan was proving to be a challenge. The only candidate who received any regular attention was Caroline and Isabella suspected that was merely because she was in their constant company. For all his polite overtures, none of the girls seemed to tempt him. He’d rejected every one of the debutantes she’d shown him.

  The grounds for rejection varied. One girl was too short, one girl too thin, another was insipid. One was overly bookish. One was not interested in horses. The reasons were endless. Isabella’s patience was not. Tristan was being difficult and now he was late, not that she blamed him. Usually the group would have shunned such a gathering, but there were still few people in the capital this time of year and they had to settle for what entertainments they could find, even if it included Lady Hampstead’s idea of an “Italian Evening,” complete with the screeching wonder of a soprano from Milan.

  The compensation for enduring such an evening would be a chance to introduce Tristan to another candidate, Miss Cornelia Hamilton, daughter of a wealthy and wellconnected colonel in the Horseguards. Isabella had high hopes for this match. Cornelia was neither too tall nor too short. She was neither too thin nor too curvaceous. She was horse mad and she had a military background in common with Tristan. Isabella was certain there was little Tristan would find wrong with the lovely and versatile Cornelia. That was, if he ever showed up, she thought testily.

  A tardy Tristan slid into the chair next to her as the first notes sounded. He flashed her a smile and settled in his seat, the tails of his coat perfectly arranged. If he’d arrived a few minutes prior, she would have scolded him for his late arrival. As it was, he’d timed his tardiness perfectly so that he escaped scolding. Isabella wondered if he’d loitered in his carriage or in the hallway on purpose. The best she could do now was to convey her displeasure with a look. She raised her tawny eyebrows in what she hoped was arch disapproval.

  Tristan leaned over. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “I had some business that could not be put aside.”

  Nothing else was said between them. They devoted their attention to the evening’s venue. The soprano was second rate and the small orchestra backing her up was even more so. Isabella found it exceedingly difficult to focus on the mediocre performance with Tristan sitting beside her, their arms occasionally brushing as he shifted in his chair, a wooden folding affair that was too small to accommodate his broad shouldered build. His situation was not uncommon. Isabella noted on her other side that Alain and Chatham struggled with their chairs, too. Only Giles with his shorter frame seemed to find a modicum of comfort while the soprano screeched through a little known Italian aria.

  Each brush of Tristan’s arm made her increasingly aware of his physical presence and of her jarring responses to him. His touch was embarrassingly exciting to her. They’d touched often enough in the past weeks since his return: her gloved hand on his arm as they moved through the social events, his gloved hand against her back as they’d dance, his gloved hand brushing the bare skin of her shoulder on the verandah at the Denbighs’ Valentine’s masquerade. That had been delicious. She shivered in her chair at the recollection.


  “Are you cold?” Tristan solicited in a whisper near her ear that made her jump. Her shawl slipped to the floor between them. Tristan deftly retrieved it and draped it about her shoulders. If she had been cold, the small smile he gave her warmed her thoroughly.

  Isabella smiled back her gratitude. Inwardly, she reprimanded herself for such absurd behavior. She had to find Tristan a wife and quickly before she foolishly acted on her growing belief that she was falling in love with Tristan, again. She’d behaved rashly with him before at his expense. She owed him better than that the second time around. Besides, Tristan had made it clear that day in her parlor that he was home to seek a wife. He wanted her to help him find that wife, not for her to be that wife.

  He wanted her friendship but he did not want anything more from her. In the last two weeks, he had spent a significant amount of time in her company. Not once had he behaved improperly or brought up the past. She should be supremely gratified that he’d forgiven her. She could expect no more than that.

  The performance came to a blessed end. The audience offered their lukewarm applause. It was time to get on with the real purpose behind the gathering-to see and be seen. Isabella rose and shook out the folds of her delicate gown of rich ruby tissue, trimmed in gold around the high waist and hem. “Gresham, there is someone I want you to meet” She was careful to always call him by his title in public. It would not help his matchmaking prospects if anyone assumed there was something more intimate between them.

  Tristan cocked an eyebrow at her. “Another candidate?” Was that weariness she denoted in his voice? Was that hope or disappointment that caused her heartbeat to quicken? Isabella steadied herself.