The Dowager's Wager (8 page)

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.