The Dowager's Wager (4 page)

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 greet 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 the 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.

Hastily, Tristan regrouped, reaching out to take the cup
from Isabella, careful to accept it with his right hand, his
good hand. “Ah, I was just admiring the tea service. My
apologies, I found them a bit distracting.”

“The set is by Adam Buck. I attended one of his exhibitions and was quite taken by his design,” Isabella supplied
helpfully, pointing out the trademark round-bottomed cup
featuring the mother and child motif associated with Buck’s
work.