The Dowager's Wager (3 page)

A knock at her bedroom door commanded Isabella’s attention. She turned from the long mirror and smiled at the
sight of her brother, Alain, poking his head around the door.
Her smile widened when he shut the door behind him and let
out an appreciative whistle. “Bella, you look lovely.”

Alain came to stand behind her. They had always looked
a great deal like twins in spite of the two year age difference
between them. Both were tall and slender in build with the
same honeycolored hair, the only difference being their
eyes. Hers were tawny-colored. His were a sharp moss green
that missed nothing.

“Is it too much, Alain?” Isabella asked, fingering the
voluminous folds of her white silk skirt. “The modiste said
the gown took twelve ells of fabric. Father could have reroofed half the village for that” She gave a poor imitation of
a laugh. Guilt tinged her voice. If she had felt guilty about
the luxury of silk, she’d felt even more guilty about the hundreds of pearls used to trim the bodice. Her father was a
comfortably wealthy baron by country standards and while
she’d had plenty of dresses growing up and even London
made fashions for her two seasons, she’d never worn a dress
of such expensive magnitude. But the marquis had insisted.

The gown was an elaborate creation, reflecting the marquis’s preference for the style of the previous century with
its fuller skirts and tightly fitted bodices. Made from the
finest of French silk, the wedding dress displayed his taste as
well as his wealth. The material was an enormous extravagance due to the escalating war with France. These days,
Portugal was the only remaining port still open to English
merchants.

Alain tweaked one of her carefully arranged curls. “The
dress is suitable for who you are now. Society would expect
nothing less from the Toast of the Season and a future marchioness. Rumor at the clubs is that Westbrooke is head over
heels for you and this dress shows it. Everyone will be
angling to get a good look at you in it.”

Isabella grimaced at the thought of a public display.
“Growing up, I didn’t imagine my wedding being such a public spectacle. It was to be a simple country affair in our
little stone church, decorated with wild flowers and Vicar
Hurley presiding.” She could hear the panic rising in her
voice. Alain must have heard it, too. He reached to clasp her
hands in his.

“Bella, your hands are like ice. Are you all right? Come
sit down”

Isabella laughed at the ridiculous notion. “In this dress? I
don’t think it is possible. Don’t fuss. I’ll be fine. I am just a
bit jittery. Everyone expects so much from me today. I don’t
want to let them down” By everyone, she meant their parents and the marquis, who were all of the same age. They
were good people even though she privately felt the three of
them put too much stock in public appearances and opinion.

Alain nodded sagely. She knew he shared her opinion on
the matter. Then he cleared his throat, a sign which Isabella
had learned over the years signaled he had something difficult to say. She looked at her brother quizzically as he
began.

“I think your room is the only peaceful place in the house.
Everyone has gone mad with last minute preparations.”
Alain offered a tremulous smile at his joke before turning
serious again. “But I didn’t come up here simply to seek
some peace. I also came up to thank you. I won’t pretend that
I don’t know why you’re doing this. Westbrooke is a good
sort, but I know you wouldn’t have chosen him on your own.
I feel awful that you have to do this for me. If I could have
found an heiress . . ” His voice dropped off in helplessness.

“It is a daughter’s lot in life,” Isabella said placidly,
revealing none of her earlier thoughts on the subject. The
less said the better. Speaking her mind or admitting painful
truths would not change the course her life was taking. She
had seen with her own eyes the pain her visit had caused
Tristan. She would not inflict that same pain on her brother.
Her brother needed this marriage.

“Nonetheless, I thank you” Alain smiled again and
squeezed her hand. “Because of your brilliant match, Father will be saved from financial scandal and even ruin. The marquis will cover the debts and the new investments until they
pay off.” He smiled reassuringly. “Bella, St. John is a fine
man. I believe you will find a measure of happiness with
him. He’ll treat you well and he’s a refined gentleman with
plenty of Town Bronze. He can establish you as a brilliant
hostess or trendsetter if you wish it.”

Alain paused before going on, seeming to debate internally with himself over some subject. “Bella, may I be so
bold as to ask if there was someone else you preferred? I
couldn’t help but wonder when you were describing the
wedding you’d thought you would have, who did you imagine the groom would be?”

Isabella looked at her brother queerly. Had he guessed
where her heart lay? She hoped not. She would not have her
brother bear the guilt of believing she’d given up true love
for duty. She masked her shock with a playfully scolding
tone. “La, Alain, have you been reading a Gothic? That
sounds like something straight from a novel.”

Alain shrugged his shoulders. “I have often wondered if
there was someone else.”

“I had only a season and a half before my engagement. I
daresay there wasn’t time to establish a tendre.” Isabella
smiled gamely, doing her best to put a damper on the conversation.

An awkward silence fell between them. Isabella struggled
for something to say before she gave herself away under
Alain’s intense gaze. “Are Chatham and Giles downstairs? I
thought I heard them earlier. They were hoping to come up
before we left for the church”

Alain brightened at the mention of their childhood
friends. “I’ll get them” He added in a hushed tone, “I have
it on good authority that Giles has some excellent smuggled
champagne with him, as usual.”

Isabella smiled. “Then by all means, send them up. We’ll
have just enough time for a toast.”

Alain headed for the door but Isabella called him back. “Wait, Alain. Is Tristan here?” She had to know. She needed
a few moments to prepare herself for seeing him.

Alain turned slowly from the door, reaching inside his
morning coat. He was somber when he spoke. “I didn’t want
to bring it up on such an auspicious day.” He handed her a
flat calling card. “He left this for me last night. Actually, a
messenger brought it. I expect Tristan was gone before the
note even arrived. Turn the card over.”

Isabella carefully read the note written in Tristan’s firm
hand and looked up at Alain in disbelief. “He’s joined the
army. He’s arranged for an officer’s commission in the cavalry?”

Alain nodded. “He means to join the peninsular campaign
in Spain.”

The news hit her like a fist to the stomach. For a moment
she couldn’t breath. Her heart pounded as if it would hammer straight through the suffocating confines of her bodice.
Since Napoleon’s December seizure of Spain, the peninsula
had seen heavy fighting. She’d overheard remarks at a recent
rout that being sent to Spain was tantamount to suicide these
days. Was that what Tristan was looking for? She held
Alain’s steady gaze as their shared fears for Tristan passed
unspoken between them.

Alain did his best to allay her concerns. “Tristan can look
after himself. I imagine he’ll be back someday with a chest
full of war decorations. I’ll get Giles and Chatham”

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.