The Dowager's Wager (5 page)

Alain reached for his own cup and prompted Tristan.
“You were telling us about Spain.”

“Ah yes, the battle at Ciudad Rodrigo, but such tales are best left for the club and the company of gentlemen.” Tristan
glibly dismissed the topic.

“You’re home to stay, then? Truly?” Alain asked when it
was evident Tristan could not be encouraged to share further.

“Most definitely, Alain. I have come home to devote
myself full time to the care of my estates and the establishing of my nursery” Tristan cast a covert glance at Isabella to
see how the announcement affected her. He was rewarded
with a slight blush as she suddenly took an inordinate
amount of interest in arranging the tea service.

“Are you really thinking of getting leg-shackled?” Alain’s
incredulity over the prospect was evident in his voice.

“Yes indeed. I hear marriage is necessary for setting up a
nursery and begetting an heir in this part of the world.”
Tristan said dryly. “What about yourself? Should we do it
together, old friend?” Now that Alain had inherited, he had
to take the founding of a nursery seriously. Tristan was surprised Alain was yet unwed.

“Egad, man, we have a year yet until we’re thirty. I am
putting it off until the last minute. When I am thirty, I’ll start
looking seriously. I figure that will take about five years,”
Alain said in all sincerity. “Why are you so set on it? Do you
have someone in mind?”

Absolutely Tristan thought. The only problem was that he
was unsure of her heart. There could only be one wife for
him and she would be Isabella. He had much to atone for,
but he intended to win her forgiveness and her heart. He had
come home expecting only to be able to worship Isabella
from afar. It had been an unexpected boon to hear of
Westbrooke’s passing. Out loud, he said to Alain, “The military changes a man’s outlook on his own mortality. I find
that I prefer to wait no longer to ensure my future. Having
been gone so long, I find I will need guidance when it comes
to likely candidates. I hope to rely on you”

Alain laughed a bit too loudly. “I am not sure I would
know much about wifely candidates. I avoid them like the
plague, but I will offer you what advice I can” He nodded in his sister’s direction. “Isabella would be the best mentor in
this area. She’s a bang-up hostess and knows everyone”

“That is a splendid idea, Alain,” Tristan agreed. It was the
perfect excuse for keeping Isabella close and claiming her
attention during social events. He had told Alain the truth.
He was home to stay and he did plan to marry soonjust as
soon as Isabella would consent to it. He would need a bit of
time.

Tristan inclined his head towards Isabella in an accepting
gesture. “I will welcome your input about all the eligible
young ladies.” It was almost too much to tear his gaze away
from her. He wanted nothing more than to drown in her presence. Trying to disguise his desperation, Tristan sent a
querying look to Alain. He was relieved to see Alain set
down his tea cup and rose to initiate taking leave. Tristan
needed to clear his head of Isabella’s intoxicating presence
before he did anything rash that would put her off him for
good.

Alain bent to kiss Isabella’s cheek in farewell. “It’s time
we are off if we’re to keep our luncheon appointment at
Brooke’s. I’ll see you tomorrow night when I pick you up for
Denbighs’ party.”

Tristan came forward and bowed over Isabella’s hand.
“Thank you for a delightful visit and for your assistance.” He
looked up from her hand to hold her gaze meaningfully. “I
will look forward to renewing our friendship.” He managed
a lite pressing of her fingers, the merest of squeezes, to reinforce the authenticity of his words. It was not at all the kind
of touch he envisioned earlier over the tea service, but it
would have to suffice until a time when his touch could be
otherwise. Was it his imagination or did her hand tremble
slightly beneath his?

After she heard the front door shut and knew the gentlemen were truly gone, Isabella poured herself another cup of
tea to soothe her jangled nerves. Heaven help her, Tristan
was a fine figure of a man! Along with a handsome physique and chocolate eyes that could melt the hardest of hearts, the
man imbued the essence of good manners.

That was the problem. His manners had been so impeccably perfect that she hadn’t the slightest glimpse into the
true nature of his heart. Did his good form hide his anger
over her actions, which had cast him from the life he might
have had and into his military exile? Or, were his good manners a sign that she was forgiven and that he might even look
upon her with the fondness of an old friend?

The girl she’d once been would have bluntly asked him
for the direct truth. The respected matron she’d become
knew such a course of action was folly. Isabella took another sip of tea and counseled patience for herself. Carrying out
her charge of finding Tristan a wife would give her ample
opportunity to draw him out in conversation in order to discern his feelings for her.

Finding Tristan a wife brought another wave of conflicting emotions. On the one hand, she was delighted to be of
use to him. It would be a way she could make the past up to
him. She would find him a beautiful, wealthy bride with fortune and position so that the world would be laid at his feet.
On the other hand, the thought of handing Tristan over to
such a paragon of noble womanhood turned her stomach.
Once he married, he would no longer be hers.

Isabella jumped up from the sofa, determined to squelch
her selfish misgivings over the task. She crossed the room to
a small Sheraton writing desk and took out pen and paper.
She would start Tristan’s wife search immediately by composing a list of the eligible girls who would be at the masquerade tomorrow. It would be fortuitous to begin on
Valentine’s Day.

February 14, 1816

The Denbighs’ masquerade proved to be an excellent
venue for Tristan’s return to Society. Leaning against a pillar in the respectably crowded ballroom, Tristan conceded
that he could not have contrived a better event himself. Two
attributes of the affair worked in his favor. First, the moderate population of people who attended the Winter Season
abetted his need for a quiet re-entry. By nature, Tristan
didn’t think of himself as a highly social creature, reliant on
the entertainments of London for his amusement. He
favored the pace of life in the country, preferring the delights
of his stables and greenhouse. Second, the masquerade by
definition literally cloaked everyone in anonymity.

Wearing the required domino and mask, he could be both
seen and unseen. It suited him perfectly. To promote mingling among anonymous guests and to help people determine the identity of their cloaked fellow party goers, the
Denbighs had designed the affair based on the ancient
Roman celebration of the pagan holiday. When guests
arrived, the women wrote their names on a piece of paper
and put the slips in an urn on the center table in the foyer.
Once most of the guests had arrived, two footmen divided the names between them and took them around to all the
male guests who would draw a lady’s name from the vase.
The woman was to receive the man’s attention for the entire
evening. He was to fulfill her every desire within reason.

Much tittering and laughter filled the ballroom as men
mingled through the crowd attempting to guess which
cloaked lady was the woman he’d drawn. There were sufficient amounts of people present so that the first hour of the
ball passed with people simply trying to find their partners.
Tristan thought the idea quite ingenious if not slightly scandalous for those who wished something more daring. He’d
drawn the name of a Miss Caroline Danvers. He caught sight
of Isabella conversing with a small knot of people across the
ballroom. A wave of jealously swept through him when he
thought of another man dancing attendance on her. Next to
him, Alain swore softly.

“This is a devilish situation. I can’t draw my sister’s name
as a Valentine. I don’t wish to be that Roman” He flicked the
unfolded paper in Tristan’s direction revealing Isabella’s
name.

The pagan gods were smiling on him tonight, Tristan
thought. “I’ll trade with you, Old Chap. Isabella can introduce me to any Eligibles.” He hoped he sounded casual as he
made his suggestion.

Alain looked at the name on Tristan’s slip. “That’s grand.
I know Caroline. She’s a pleasant sort. I’ll enjoy squiring her
around.” Alain paused, considering his choice and doubting
it. “You would like her. Isabella has taken her on as an unofficial protege since her come-out last spring. She rides well
enough to keep up with the likes of us and her father has a
successful horse farm in Newmarket. She would be a grand
candidate for you. I feel guilty stealing your opportunity.”

“Truly, Alain, we can’t ruin Isabella’s fun at matchmaking with such an easy solution,” Tristan jested, sensing his
perfect plans about to be derailed by Alain’s good intentions.
“As I said, Isabella can introduce me to any Eligibles.” He winked conspiratorially. “Women set such a store by these
things.”

Alain chuckled. “You are right.” He slapped Tristan on
the back. “I am off to find the fair Caroline. This is splendid
of you”

Tristan assured his friend it was nothing and went off to
find his own maiden, not that it was difficult since he’d
already ascertained her position in the ballroom. Even if he
hadn’t known her location, he would have picked her out
immediately. This evening, she was garbed in a domino of
bronze satin and matching demi-mask trimmed in black
feathers. The domino and mask were designed to match the
bronze gown that peeped from beneath the cloak’s folds.
She’d chosen to come as Juno, Queen of the Heavens.
Appropriately enough, Juno was the Roman goddess of
women and marriage and whose festival originally fell on
February fourteenth.

With the stealth of the wolf he’d arrayed himself as,
Tristan came up behind Isabella and displaced the man standing to her left. “Good evening, my lady,” he said in a low
tone. He was rewarded with a slight start from Isabella as she
took in his garb and deduced who it was that addressed her.

“What a surprise! Can we assist you in finding your
Valentine? The Denbighs have been quite clever.”

“There is no need. I have drawn your name, my lady.” A
subtle smile played upon his lips as he noted her shock.

“Indeed,” Isabella said as the men surrounding her
groaned. They had clearly favored her company over that of
seeking out their lady for the evening. Tristan knew his
arrival signaled their need to depart and let Isabella get on
with the evening’s venue.

“What shall be my first task?” Tristan asked as the men
dispersed.

Isabella smiled up at him, her head cocked at a saucy
angle while she contemplated him. “How did you get my
name? There are a hundred women here”

Tristan spread his gloved hands in surrender. “There is
nothing to suspect. Alain drew your name and I traded with
him.” He leaned closer and confided in a teasing tone, “I had
to save you both from such a Roman liaison.”

Isabella laughed and curtsied. “I thank you. Now, rescue
me from the ballroom. I am too hot and I wish to stroll along
the terrace”

The terrace was over populated with couples having the
same idea. Tristan noted a well-lit garden path meandering
towards a fountain. There would be nothing inappropriate
about walking down there, where they’d be out of earshot of
the ballroom but not out of sight.

“This is wonderful,” Isabella exclaimed, stopping to sit
on a stone bench near the burbling fountain. “The cool air is
refreshing.” She motioned for him to sit next to her. “Is there
anyone you’d like me to introduce you to? I have some
young ladies in mind, but perhaps there’s someone who has
caught your fancy?”

Tristan waved aside her suggestion. “Not tonight. I am
not sure I would make the best impression dressed as a
wolf.” He reached behind his head and untied the ribbon
holding his gray wolf’s mask in place.

Isabella scrutinized the mask. “Who exactly are you supposed to be? I don’t recall any `St. Wolf’ being associated
with the holiday.”

Tristan shook his finger at her like a stern schoolmaster.
“Dear Juno, don’t you know? February fifteenth is the Roman
festival of Lupercalia. True historians credit this festival, not
Juno’s, as being the origin of our Valentine holiday.”

“Ah, and Luper means wolf. You see, I remember my
Latin.”

“Wolves devoured flocks of sheep, so the people of Rome
would pray to Lupercus to protect the flocks. It’s a bloody
holiday involving sacrifices and the like. Would you care for
me to elaborate?”

Isabella wrinkled her nose. “It sounds perfectly abominable. I don’t need to hear any more” She laughed, rolling her eyes skyward. “You’ve always known the most interesting things. How do you come by such knowledge?”