The Dowager's Wager (24 page)

“It wasn’t like that. You would know the whole of it if
you’d received me.”

“Why should I receive you and give you another chance
to worm your way back into my good graces? You’ve proven
to be all your reputation suggested and more, a first rate
blackguard.” Isabella all but spat the words at him.

Tristan shook his head. “You are hurting.”

“I am hating,” Isabella said vehemently.

Her words struck true. Tristan released her as if scorched.
He had brought her here to have a chance to explain it all to
her, how the simple mission became complicated by its accidental entanglement in other innocent affairs, but her angry
words fired his blood. More now than proving his blamelessness, he wanted to prove his worthiness to her, wanted her to
admit that she felt nothing for Avery Driscoll. Thinking only
with his ire at full throttle and not his logic, Tristan went to
her again and, taking her by complete surprise, swept her into
his embrace, capturing her lips in a forceful kiss that was at
once both impassioned and angry in its intensity.

Isabella thought to resist. She moved her hands to his
shoulders, thinking to shove him away but her traitorous
body chose another course. And why not? This would be the
last time those lips would seek out hers. Matrimony would
keep her safe from his advances. Poppycock! Hadn’t she
learned that a man like Tristan stopped at nothing? No, she
needed to refine that thought. There were no other men like
Tristan. Tristan stopped at nothing to attain his goals. A slim
band of gold would be an inconsequential obstacle to him.

All this crashed through her mind in a kaleidoscope of
confusion as Tristan’s lips sought hers, his tongue possessing her mouth with nimble, tantalizing movements that
drove all coherent thought from her mind until she was
numb with the wanting of him one last time. Isabella stumbled and lost her balance as Tristan released her. She had not
expected to be released. Indeed, she’d fully expected Tristan
to find some conceivable way to consummate this explosive
interlude. She caught herself on the arm of the sofa and
looked up at Tristan for an explanation.

His handsome face was a mottled collection of emotions
from the passion that kindled his dark eyes to angry ardor
that colored his firm jaw. “How can you deny this, Isabella?”
he said, referring to the kiss that had passed between them.
“How can you contemplate marriage to Driscoll when you
know I burn for you?”

“Then, that is your misfortune,” Isabella uttered the difficult words as she steeled her will to resist his next onslaught,
tamping down the part of her that wished he would not take
no for an answer and press her again for capitulation.

“Will you not give me a chance?” Tristan asked in a quiet,
stern voice.

Isabella gave a slight negation of her head, picked up the
folds of her skirt and with her head held high, walked
passed him towards the door. Tristan’s voice sounded behind
her in a mocking tone she would not understand fully until
the morning. “Then I guess there is nothing else to say but
congratulations.”

Betty shook Isabella awake the next morning with a jumbled message. A horse had been delivered to her stable in
town and was nearly kicking out the walls of his stall.
Isabella looked at her maid dazedly until Betty fumbled in
her apron pocket and produced a short, curt note.

You have won him.

-Tristan.

The import of Hellion in her town stables washed over her
in a wave of desolation. The ghosts of the past were no nearer to resting than they were when Tristan had first returned.
Perhaps they’d never be retired. Better to live with ghosts of
the past than to live with the real fear daily of being betrayed,
Isabella reasoned in an attempt to quell the hurt rising in her
heart. She knew how combustible the reality was of loving
Tristan, how consuming it would be to live with him every
day and how devastating the perfidy of his affections. Far
better to live with the lesson learned instead of repeating it
over and over for the duration of her life even if it meant
denying the heady passion that roared between them. If not
for the passion, all that lay between she and Tristan was a history of double crosses and broken hearts. They were both
better off without each other. She had scorned him last night
for his own good as well as her own.

Not entirely convinced of her logic, Isabella threw off
the covers and rang for Betty to return to the chamber.
Avery’s Aunt Elizabeth was calling that afternoon to discuss
wedding plans for her favorite nephew and Isabella had
errands to run at the shops this morning. If she hurried she
would have time to stop by the stables and check on
Hellion.

Alain caught up to her at the stables, where she alone was
having success in soothing Hellion in his new home. Alain
grimaced upon seeing the horse. He waved to Isabella, gesturing for her to join him in the tack room.

“Alain, what are you doing here?” Isabella said, wiping
her hands on a towel and retrieving her shawl from where
she’d tossed it over a saddle.

“I have news you need to hear. Let’s go somewhere private,” Alain said somberly as he motioned towards the tack
room.

“Well, what is it? Nothing bad I hope?” Isabella asked
once they were alone.

“I think it depends on how one might see the situation,”
Alain prevaricated. “I just came from White’s where I met
Tristan for an eleven o’clock breakfast. He informed me that
Caroline wants you to stand up with her at the wedding since
I am standing up with him.

“Say something, Bella,” Alain coaxed.

“Caroline mentioned the news to me last night, in confidence of course. I was not at leisure to share the news. I hope
the Danvers know what they’re doing by giving their daughter to him,” she said at last.

Alain gave a snort. “They’re in alt. Caroline has snared a
significant title and fortune with nothing to recommend her
to such a peer but her good looks, pleasant demeanor and
social connections through you,” he paused, his gaze suddenly interested in something beyond her left shoulder. “I
hope you understand I am not picking sides in this whole
travesty, but if his best friend doesn’t stand up with him at
his wedding who will? And of course I can hardly refuse
when I have it on good authority that Caroline will ask you
to be her matron of honor.”

His last words shocked her and Isabella had to put out a
hand to steady herself. It would be the final test of her
resolve to put Tristan out of her life to stand mere feet away
from Tristan on his wedding day. The convoluted workings
of her numb brain wondered if Tristan hadn’t put Caroline
up to it out of some need to punish her for rejecting him.
What could she say to refuse Caroline? Nothing that
wouldn’t raise speculation. She had to accept.

Along with being Avery Driscoll’s June bride, Isabella
found herself a bridesmaid to Caroline Danvers. The ensuing two weeks were tortuous beyond anything Torquemada
could have devised. Caroline consulted her endlessly on the
details of her rushed wedding to Tristan. The young bride
developed an annoying habit of inserting into conversation
regularly how romantic it was that Tristan wanted to whisk
her off to Scotland to see the heather at its finest and to have
her to himself. Additionally, each day presented its own special form of agony as Isabella’s nerves stayed on edge with
the worry that she might encounter Tristan. Only once did
the worry manifest itself.

Tristan called at the Danvers’ home one afternoon while
Isabella was assisting Caroline with the selection of household linen. She’d frozen the minute she’d caught his voice in
the hall. Caroline had looked up from her pile of swatches,
beaming as she recognized the voice, too. She rose and went
to the door of the little parlor calling, “Darling, we’re in
here. Come and see the linen samples.”

Isabella winced at the summons. She’d hoped Caroline
might go into the hall and converse with Tristan there
instead of dragging him into the room and into her presence. Within seconds of the summons, boots sounded on
the tile in the hall outside the parlor and Tristan materialized in the doorway, stopping to place a dutiful kiss on
Caroline’s cheek. Isabella didn’t avert her gaze fast
enough. Tristan looked beyond Caroline’s shoulder and
saw her staring at them. She was gratified to see the tic in
his cheek jump at the sight of her as he strode toward the
sofa where she sat. He inclined his head and was all appropriate formality.

“Lady Westbrooke, it is so kind of you to spare your time
for Caroline when I know you have the pressing matter of
your own wedding to consider as well.”

Caroline gushed from his side, looking ever more dolllike
in the shadow of Tristan’s dominating presence. “Yes, you are a dear to do this for me. I don’t know how Mother and I
would have gotten everything ready in just two weeks.”

“Our families have been friends and neighbors for a long
time, Caroline. It is an honor that you’ve asked me,” Isabella
managed to reply before turning her attention back to the
linen swatches in the vain hope that Caroline and Tristan
would leave her alone. She hadn’t an ounce of luck.

“Oh yes, come and see what we’ve picked out. Lady
Westbrooke has helped me narrow the samples down to just
five for our formal linen.” Caroline drew Tristan forward to
the little table in front of the sofa, indicating the five patterns. She pointed at one pattern specifically. “I prefer the
embossed roses for the table linen.”

Tristan reached out a hand and covered Caroline’s gently,
his fingers offering a soft caress as he did so. “I don’t think
I’d prefer the roses, Caro”

Caroline turned her big blue eyes up to him, all acquiescence. “Of course, darling. Perhaps the white damask then?”

He nodded his approval and Isabella bristled while he
caressed Caroline’s hand again in an obvious manner, the
affects of the tender gesture blatant on Caroline’s face as
she suppressed a giggle. “You’re so naughty, my lord,” she
chided.

Good lord, if you think that’s naughty, wait until he sticks
his tongue in your mouth, Isabella thought uncharitably as
Tristan took leave of his blushing bride. The next time she
saw Tristan was two weeks later at the wedding.

Despite the hurried nature of the affair, the stone church
dating back to Norman times on the Danvers’ property was
filled to capacity with well-wishers the morning of the wedding. Even the mercurial weather had decided to cooperate,
giving the bride a blue-skied day to remember her nuptials.
Caroline was resplendent in a white satin gown, heavily
encrusted with pearls. If the bride was lovely, the groom was
a breathtaking vision of manliness.

Tristan stood straight and pale at the altar, attired most
excellently in a dark blue morning frock coat of Bath
superfine and ivory inexpressibles, a pristine cravat tied in
an elegant “oriental” at his throat with a diamond pin winking tastefully in its folds. His dark hair was pulled back in a
perfectly executed queue, setting off the firm lines of his
face. His straight shoulders never slouched, the alert pose of
his body showing nothing beyond the typical tension of a
bridegroom. If he was aware of the ladies that commented
slyly on his good looks and rakish reputation behind their
hands in the pews, his actions made no note of it. In fact,
anyone standing close to him could see the flatness in his
usually vibrant eyes and sense the void that was regularly
filled with his vital energy.

Alain stood rigidly at attention next to Tristan, his mossy eyes intent on the scene unfolding before him. The entire
morning, since the minute he had awakened had seemed surreal to him. An indefinable sixth sense warned him about the
day. It was not enough that his friend was marrying the
wrong woman. Something more was wrong, very wrong,
about the occasion. But despite his misgivings, the incredible, terrible day had unfolded without incident. He’d managed to get both he and Tristan suitably attired and off to the
church without mishap. He’d even attempted an awkward
conversation with Tristan in a last attempt to guide him away
from this ill-conceived marriage. His efforts had been useless. Here they were, dutifully waiting for the bride and
enduring the scrutiny of the guests as they stood at the front
of the be-garlanded church.