The Dowager's Wager (9 page)

Each brush of Tristan’s arm made her increasingly aware
of his physical presence and of her jarring responses to him.
His touch was embarrassingly exciting to her. They’d
touched often enough in the past weeks since his return: her
gloved hand on his arm as they moved through the social
events, his gloved hand against her back as they’d dance, his
gloved hand brushing the bare skin of her shoulder on the
verandah at the Denbighs’ Valentine’s masquerade. That had
been delicious. She shivered in her chair at the recollection.

“Are you cold?” Tristan solicited in a whisper near her ear
that made her jump. Her shawl slipped to the floor between
them. Tristan deftly retrieved it and draped it about her
shoulders. If she had been cold, the small smile he gave her
warmed her thoroughly.

Isabella smiled back her gratitude. Inwardly, she reprimanded herself for such absurd behavior. She had to find
Tristan a wife and quickly before she foolishly acted on her
growing belief that she was falling in love with Tristan,
again. She’d behaved rashly with him before at his expense.
She owed him better than that the second time around.
Besides, Tristan had made it clear that day in her parlor that
he was home to seek a wife. He wanted her to help him find
that wife, not for her to be that wife.

He wanted her friendship but he did not want anything
more from her. In the last two weeks, he had spent a significant amount of time in her company. Not once had he
behaved improperly or brought up the past. She should be
supremely gratified that he’d forgiven her. She could expect
no more than that.

The performance came to a blessed end. The audience
offered their lukewarm applause. It was time to get on with
the real purpose behind the gathering-to see and be seen.
Isabella rose and shook out the folds of her delicate gown of
rich ruby tissue, trimmed in gold around the high waist and
hem. “Gresham, there is someone I want you to meet” She
was careful to always call him by his title in public. It would
not help his matchmaking prospects if anyone assumed
there was something more intimate between them.

Tristan cocked an eyebrow at her. “Another candidate?”
Was that weariness she denoted in his voice? Was that hope
or disappointment that caused her heartbeat to quicken?
Isabella steadied herself.

“Yes. I think you’ll like her if you give her a chance. You
have been a most reluctant suitor.” Isabella scolded, placing
her hand on the sleeve of his claret-colored evening coat.

Instead of keeping Isabella at his side, Tristan covered her
hand with his own and turned so that they were standing face
to face, a position that implied privacy in a room filled with
large, chattering circles. “Isabella, I like all the girls you’ve
selected. I just can’t love them”

“Why is that?” Isabella asked breathlessly. There was little distance between them. She could smell the betel leaf freshness of his breath beneath the clean scent of soap and spices.
His chocolate eyes darkened. His tongue ran over his lips in a
mesmerizing motion. He was going to declare himself. In a
moment he would say the words her treacherous heart had
secretly wanted to hear since the moment she’d heard his
boots on the hardwoods of her parlor: “Isabella, I love you”

The words did not come. Tristan’s eyes narrowed as they
shifted from her own face to a point beyond her shoulder.
She felt Tristan’s hand tense where it covered hers. Then she
heard the low sultry rumble of a woman with an agenda of
trouble masked in the purring tones of her voice.

“There you are, Gresham darling. I have been looking all
over for you. Don’t tell me you’ve taken to seducing women
in the middle of a drawing room. La! That would take even
your audacity to new heights.”

The woman who approached them was heart-stoppingly
gorgeous. Her raven dark hair piled elegantly on her head
showed off the gentle curve of her neck. Her expensive ice
blue gown was cut low to reveal her extraordinary cleavage,
of which Isabella noted, she was not afraid to offer Tristan
an advantageous view. The woman’s deep blue eyes flashed
flirtatiously with Tristan as she snapped open her lace fan
and said with feigned naivete, “I hope I am not interrupting
anything.”

Isabella could not recall being so mortified by another’s
behavior. The woman had no shame. If her outstanding
looks hadn’t drawn the attention of every man in the room,
her insinuations about Tristan would have. Isabella could
hear the noise level in the room drop. No one was ill bred
enough to stare at them overtly, but no one was foolish
enough to pass up the chance to witness tomorrow’s on-dit
in the making. Everyone was “looking” and everyone was
listening for what would be said next.

“Gresham, are you not going to introduce me?” The woman
said brazenly after Tristan glared at her for long moments,
long enough to make his displeasure obvious. Isabella watched Tristan charily. The tic in his cheek twitched. Was his
displeasure over the interruption or over her appearance?

“Mrs. Smallwood, this is the dowager marchioness, Lady
Westbrooke,” Tristan said stiffly. He’d made a point to only
fulfill his obligation to introduce Mrs. Smallwood. A smile
teased at Isabella’s lips. Tristan had not assumed she would
care to be introduced to Mrs. Smallwood. It was a pitiful
victory, but she savored it nonetheless.

Mrs. Smallwood plied her fan coyly and laughed.
“Beatrix, Gresham. Call me Beatrix. Darling, when have I
ever been Mrs. Smallwood to you?”

The muffled murmurs of the room soared in volume now
that the crowd had a name. Isabella studied the woman
beside Tristan. Beautiful the woman might be, but she was
all ice. The woman had no heart. “Gresham, how do you
know Mrs. Smallwood?”

“We met on the Continent while I was with the army.”
Tristan’s tone was cold.

The woman took the opportunity to slip her hand possessively around Tristan’s arm. “He is too modest,” the woman
gushed, “have you heard nothing of his war record? He gave
the finest entertainments while the troops were in Belgium.
Brussels was never the same after he left. All the ladies could
count Gresham as their special friend. He saw to it that none
of us were left languishing, if you understand my meaning.”
She followed the last statement with a private smile meant
ostensibly for Isabella, but those around them noted it as well.

The situation was intolerable. The woman was impugning
Tristan’s honor. Isabella had not risen in society as a leading
hostess because of her blindness to the ways of the ton.
Although her behavior as a widow was above reproach, she
knew there were plenty of widows and husbands and wives
in the ton who were not so circumspect in their morals. She
understood perfectly what Mrs. Smallwood meant to indicate about Tristan. The gall of the woman was unbelievable.

“My Lady Westbrooke, if you will excuse us? I need to
speak with Mrs. Smallwood privately.” Tristan gave her a curt nod. His eyes beseeched her silently for understanding.
Understanding of what? Understanding of why he had to leave
her alone in the middle of the crowded floor to meet with this
woman? Thankfully, Alain and Giles materialized from the
crowd. She was not alone to bear the curious, covert stares of
those around them. Alain took her arm. He spoke in a quiet,
low voice. “Chatham has the carriage waiting, Bella. We’ll
take you home”

“Yes, that’s a good idea. There’s no reason to stay,” Isabella
said distractedly. She convinced herself that the whole purpose of attending had been to meet Cornelia Hamilton and
that wasn’t going to happen tonight or any time soon.

“Did you have to be so flagrant?” Tristan closed the door
to a small parlor down the hall and turned to face Beatrix. The
woman had a damnable sense of timing. He had been about
to declare himself, to tell Isabella the woman he wanted to
marry was her, not Caroline or any of her other candidates.

Beatrix dimpled. “I was right. I did interrupt something
intimate.” She gave Tristan a coy smile he’d seen her practice a thousand times on less suspecting men. “Is the most
renowned lover on the Continent in love at last?” She softened her smile in an attempt to invite the sharing of a confidence. He’d seen this trick a thousand times, too.

“It is none of your business. It has nothing to do with the
assignment.”

“There was a time, cherie, when it was my business.”
Beatrix glided towards him, placing a knowing hand on his
chest.

Tristan stiffened at the intimacy of her touch. “A short
time, a long time ago. There is nothing but business between
us now,” he reminded her gruffly, removing her hand from
his chest.

Beatrix smiled knowingly, seemingly not put out by his
rejection. “Lady Westbrooke is your Isabella, is she not?
She’s the one who threw you over for the aging marquis. The
one that drove you into the army.” She guessed aptly.

She stepped forward again but Tristan was ready for her
and moved adroitly to the fireplace, hands locked behind his
back as he stared into the flames. “This is my last assignment, Beatrix. I am sure you have guessed as much already
since you know about the debacle in October. The man who
attacked me on the wharf knows who I am. I had hoped I
might have given him a fatal wound that night but it appears
that he survived. Since he still has a use for me, I am to be
the bait to lure him into Halsey’s trap”

“I know.” Beatrix said simply. The warmth of her earlier
tone had faded. Tristan found the cold professionalism of
her voice reassuring. Beatrix was part of a past that was finished for him or nearly so.

Tristan did not turn from the fire. “I assume that your
appearance on the scene means the roses won’t be far behind.”

“You assume correctly. It will be the standard routine,”
Beatrix affirmed. “My flagrant entrance will ensure that people will think the secret admirer is me once you make it known
in the men’s clubs that you have one”

Tristan nodded absently. “So the game begins one last
time.”

“So it does, cherie,” Tristan felt the caress in her voice,
smelled her light provocative scent of violets, heard the confident swish of her gown as she passed him. Without turning,
he knew when she had left the room.

Tristan drew a deep breath. Her interruption tonight had
been disappointing but it had saved him from making a grand
mistake. The game was beginning. The brief idyll of his homecoming was over. Danger was afoot. It was no time to be making declarations to Isabella. If he had spoken the words in his
heart tonight, she would have become disillusioned before the
week was out. At least now the flowers from a secret admirer
wouldn’t appear to be a betrayal. When the turncoat was caught
and the assignment completed, he could explain it all to her.

Beatrix discreetly left the ball through a garden gate, undetected. Everyone had seen her leave the party with Tristan and no one would expect them to return together. She doubted Tristan would even go back to the musicale. He was smart
enough to know that it would add credence to their relationship if it appeared they had retired from the party together.

The ruse had begun well and neither Halsey nor Tristan
suspected the double game she played within their larger
game. She had worried that Tristan might suspect something
but he was so besotted with Lady Westbrooke he couldn’t
think past Halsey’s assignment.

Beatrix climbed into the unmarked coach waiting for her
at the corner. A moment of jealously took her when she
recalled spying Tristan with the lovely woman in the drawing room. There had been a look about him she had not
glimpsed before. He’d looked handsome and noble, protective and honorable. What woman wouldn’t fall in love with
a man who looked at her the way Tristan looked at Isabella?

She had known many men in her time. She knew Tristan
was a man worth having just as she knew she could never have
him. She’d set her cap for him once and failed to snare him.
Now it was payback time in more ways than one. Tristan was
about to face a well-deserved and long overdue reckoning.

The tittle-tattle started slowly with hints dropped at clubs
and by women visiting each other for afternoon tea. The
rumors escalated as the story of Tristan and Beatrix
Smallwood was told over and over at this rout and that card
party. Old military dispatches were dug out so people could
refresh their memories regarding the viscount. Scandal
mongers dragged out the Gresham family history, resurrecting the story of his parents’ deaths in an outrageous carriage
race. The gossip began to accumulate like a snowfall, starting as nothing more than tiny specks on the dark ground and
then overnight transforming into carriage stopping drifts.
One week Tristan was a nonpareil. By the end of the next he
was the rake of the century.

Isabella was beside herself. She had done all she could to
deflect the ill-effects of the encounter away from Tristan. She reminded all who would listen that Tristan had made a point
of not presenting the woman to her. Surely that suggested the
woman was an unwanted nuisance to him. But there were too
many other claims for which Isabella did not have answers.
What had Gresham done during the war? What had the
woman meant by her reference to his entertainments?

Isabella had her own questions and doubts. Had Tristan
known this woman as more than a casual acquaintance? The
woman had certainly suggested as much. If so, did he still
care for her? She recalled Tristan’s response that he liked
the candidates she’d chosen, he just didn’t love them. Didn’t
love them or couldn’t love them? Why? She had thought it
was because he might love her, but in hindsight she thought
perhaps it was because he was already attached to Beatrix of
the bountiful cleavage and cold heart. What did an honorable man like Tristan see in a brazen woman like that?
Worse, perhaps he had meant to tell her about Beatrix that
night at the ball. Like a silly girl, she’d thought he meant to
declare himself when in actuality he’d been ready to let her
down easily. She was mortified that he might have guessed
her feelings for him. She’d tried so hard to hide her growing
attachment to him under the guise of friendship. Apparently,
she had failed.