The Dowager's Wager (2 page)

London, June 1809

If he had known what awaited him inside his town house,
the young Viscount Gresham might have kept walking. As it
was, he expected nothing, which increased his level of surprise exponentially. Unsuspecting of anything amiss, he
opened the door to his town house and came to an abrupt
halt one step inside the black and white tiled foyer. The tune
he’d been whistling died on his lips and whatever hard won
peace he’d achieved in the last few tumultuous weeks evaporated at the sight that lay before him. He hardly heard the
door close behind him, shutting out the noise of the street.
All of his attention was fixed upon the woman seated on the
small settee set against the wall.

His guest did not hear him immediately, giving Gresham
a moment to let her astonishing beauty wash over him. Each
time he saw her it was like seeing her for the first time all
over again. This afternoon, she sat erect, holding her posture
as rigid as a model sitting for a painter. Quite a picture she
made too, in the fine fabric of her deep blue muslin walking
gown. A white chip bonnet dangled by its ribbons from her
hand, leaving her face fully exposed. Her profile was as perfect as any Italian cameo and just as pale. Aware of his pres ence at last, she turned her head towards him. Upon seeing
him, she rose swiftly and came to him, desperate words
falling from her lips as she took his hands in her own.

“Marry me, Tristan. Only you can save me now,” Isabella
Hartsfield pleaded softly. Her topaz eyes glistened with real
tears as she lifted her face to his.

How was he to resist this cry for help? Tristan speculated,
gently disengaging her hands and setting her firmly away
from him. With his whole heart he wanted nothing more
than to grant her plea but his overly honorable conscience
argued he must persevere. She was betrothed to another and
set to marry in three days.

This was not the first time she’d pleaded with him to rescue her from this unwanted marriage to the upstanding but
aging Marquis of Westbrooke. Her parents had arranged the
match in order to restore the empty family coffers after the
failure of two business ventures. He wondered if Isabella
knew how dire her family’s financial situation was.

Tristan turned away from her beseeching gaze so she
could not see the depths of his own frustration and so he
would not be tempted by the desperation in her own.
“Isabella, you know we cannot wed. No one would receive
us if we eloped. We’d be outcasts among our own people.”
The rationale sounded impotent on his lips, even to himself.
If he did not believe it, how could he expect Isabella to see
the need to do the honorable thing?

“Do you truly care about such things, Tristan?” Isabella
came up behind him, boldly encircling his waist with her
arms. She leaned a cheek against his back. “I never imagined you did.” Her voice was not much above a whisper.

Tristan glanced around anxiously. They stood in full view
of any servant. Such physical closeness would lead to disastrous rumors. Isabella was impulsive but she was not careless. Today, she was both-a telling testament to the level of
her desperation. Tristan turned to face her, his movement
breaking the circle of her arms. “Did anyone see you enter?
You are courting scandal by coming here unchaperoned. It does not matter that I am your brother’s best friend. This is
still considered a bachelor residence and you are still a
young lady.”

Isabella’s eyes sparked at the scolding. Tristan knew he’d
made a misstep. He had hoped to provoke some penitence
from her for such rash behavior. Instead, he’d made her
angry. “Don’t talk to me of propriety when you’re the one
stealing kisses on dark balconies. If you had minded your
manners at Lady Soffitt’s rout, I wouldn’t find myself in this
bumblebath.”

“Give over, Isabella. That’s not fair. You liked my kiss.”
Dash it all, conversing in the hall was deuced awkward.
They could not stay here and have this discussion. Tristan
was annoyed at himself for saying the first words that
popped into his head. Decisively, he ushered Isabella into
the privacy of his study and shut the doors firmly behind
them.

“What are we doing in here?” Isabella asked, looking
around the decidedly male domain of walnut paneling and
leather.

“I am saving your reputation and that of your future husband’s,” Tristan retorted more sharply than he’d intended.
He riffled a hand through his dark hair and apologized. This
would be the last time he’d see her alone before she married.
He didn’t want to ruin it with angry words.

“At least now we can speak freely,” Isabella said with an
equal sharpness that reminded him not so much of the
demure young woman who’d sat in his foyer, but the hoyden
that lay beneath her feminine charm, the one who wore
breeches and rode neck-for-nothing with her brothers and
his friends. He loved them both.

“I don’t understand your reluctance, Tristan. You told me
you loved me on Lady Soffitt’s balcony. It was the happiest
moment of my life. Can you imagine what a sapskull I felt
like when my father called me to his office and told me he
had received an offer for my hand? I knew the offer was
yours, Tristan. But yours wasn’t the name my father spoke. Instead, it was the marquis of Westbrooke, a man forty years
my senior who I have only danced with three times in my
two seasons” Isabella’s voice quavered. Her eyes widened.
“Did you even speak to my father? You’re like a second son
to him. If he knew, he would not refuse you” She reached
for his hands again. This time he gave himself over to her
touch.

“Your father knew. He refused. I spoke with him the
morning after the Soffitt rout before Westbrooke visited.”
Tristan felt his stomach roil. He could not bear much more
of the agony of letting her go.

“Why?” Isabella was all innocent disbelief. In that
moment, Tristan knew she hadn’t been told. It wasn’t fair
that he had to be the one to tell her. But it was less than fair
that she not know.

Tristan took a deep breath and expelled it in a weary sigh.
“I am twenty. I won’t inherit my funds until my twenty-fifth
birthday, five years away. Five long years in your father’s
reckoning. Your father needs money now. Whether you know
it or not, your family is on the brink of financial ruin. A series
of business ventures have gone badly and the losses must be
recovered” It went unspoken between them that the marquis’s
overflowing coffers were the antidote to her family’s ailment.
“Your father made it plain to me that I must let you go for the
sake of honor and your family.” As yet, it was unclear to
Tristan if he could be that strong when he loved her so much.

It would be the ultimate test of his character. His wild
Gresham side, the side that had prompted his father to follow the Royal Marriage Act and restrict access to the family
fortune until his twenty-fifth birthday, wanted to beg
Isabella to run away with him. He would leave with her this
minute. They’d walk out the door and down to the docks
with nothing but the clothes they wore. They’d marry aboard
a ship to the Americas. He would support them with nothing
more to pawn than the ring on his finger and the strength of
his back. He’d heard there was land for breeding horses in Virginia, there for the taking. Isabella would love that. But
Tristan said nothing, reining in his unlikely fairy tale. He
was silent, letting her absorb the shattering news of the last
few minutes.

The expression on Isabella’s face indicated she understood perfectly what was required of them both. She had not
known all the facets of the situation. Now that she did, she
would do all that was necessary to protect her family. Tristan
saw the instant in which her decision was made. The fire in
her eyes that had burned so recently with the passion of her
pleas to marry flickered and went out, leaving her beautiful
face devoid of the liveliness Tristan loved. In its stead was a
facade of calm serenity adopted by a woman who was
resigned to her fate for the greater good. She released his
hands. They were blanched in places where she had
clenched them in disbelief at the story he’d told her.

When she spoke, her voice was stiff with formality. “I
apologize for coming here. I understand now, how my being
here today has placed you in an untenable position. I forced
you to reveal things best left unsaid. I hope this will not
reflect on your friendship with my brother. He loves you
dearly. Again, I must beg your pardon for my rashness. I
acted brazenly and only thought of myself.” She made a
hasty curtsy and exited the study, stopping to pick up a
pelisse and reticule from the settee that Tristan hadn’t noted
earlier. He followed her out, wanting to offer some comfort,
wanting to prolong the inevitable farewell. All the elan for
which he was known failed him.

Her hand was on the knob of the door, the hall butler
being either thankfully or discreetly absent from his post.
Tristan called her back in a voice hoarse with anguish.
“Isabella, a kiss before parting?”

Isabella halted. For a long moment she hesitated before
turning to face him. When she did, he could see her throat
working. He could see the struggle in her eyes as the flames
briefly rekindled. He saw the sparks sputter and go out. He knew he’d lost her before she spoke. “I think that would not
be prudent, my lord.” The door opened and she moved
beyond his reach forever.

He was left with one kiss. One kiss to weigh against a lifetime. Miserable and heartsick, Tristan slid down the wall of
the foyer next to the potted palm and buried his head in his
hands. The town house was infernally silent, except for the
long case clock’s loud ticking as it marked off the beginning
of life without Isabella. He would have to leave England. He
could not stay here and watch her become the wife of another. The wife of another. At the thought, his stomach churned.
He grabbed for the basin of the potted palm and was violently ill.

It was generally held that all women were beautiful on
their wedding day. Isabella Hartsfield hoped she would not
be the exception. Not usually given to vanity, today she
regarded herself critically in her bedroom’s long pier glass.
After much consideration, Isabella found herself to be in
agreeably high looks, as long as one discounted the paleness
of her face. No amount of cheek pinching could dismiss the
porcelain whiteness that bordered on pallor. There was nothing she could do about it now. In less than an hour, she would
be escorted by her father to St. Georges for her wedding to
the fifty-eight-year-old Marquis of Westbrooke, Anacreon
St. John. She had turned nineteen in May.

Isabella drew a deep breath and pressed her hands against
her fluttering stomach as if she could still the churnings
inside. Nervousness mixed with anxiety. She reminded herself sternly that she was a lucky girl to marry so well and so
far above her position as a country baron’s daughter. She
was living the fairy tale of every young woman in England.
Not only was she about to land herself in the lap of luxury,
she was doing her duty to her family-a duty they desperately needed her to perform if they were to pull through their
recent hard times.