The Dowager's Wager Read online

  This title was previously published by Avalon Books; this version has been reproduced from the Avalon book archive files.

  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 t
hem 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.

  A knock at her bedroom door commanded Isabella’s attention. She turned from the long mirror and smiled at the sight of her brother, Alain, poking his head around the door. Her smile widened when he shut the door behind him and let out an appreciative whistle. “Bella, you look lovely.”

  Alain came to stand behind her. They had always looked a great deal like twins in spite of the two year age difference between them. Both were tall and slender in build with the same honeycolored hair, the only difference being their eyes. Hers were tawny-colored. His were a sharp moss green that missed nothing.

  “Is it too much, Alain?” Isabella asked, fingering the voluminous folds of her white silk skirt. “The modiste said the gown took twelve ells of fabric. Father could have reroofed half the village for that” She gave a poor imitation of a laugh. Guilt tinged her voice. If she had felt guilty about the luxury of silk, she’d felt even more guilty about the hundreds of pearls used to trim the bodice. Her father was a comfortably wealthy baron by country standards and while she’d had plenty of dresses growing up and even London made fashions for her two seasons, she’d never worn a dress of such expensive magnitude. But the marquis had insisted.

  The gown was an elaborate creation, reflecting the marquis’s preference for the style of the previous century with its fuller skirts and tightly fitted bodices. Made from the finest of French silk, the wedding dress displayed his taste as well as his wealth. The material was an enormous extravagance due to the escalating war with France. These days, Portugal was the only remaining port still open to English merchants.

  Alain tweaked one of her carefully arranged curls. “The dress is suitable for who you are now. Society would expect nothing less from the Toast of the Season and a future marchioness. Rumor at the clubs is that Westbrooke is head over heels for you and this dress shows it. Everyone will be angling to get a good look at you in it.”

  Isabella grimaced at the thought of a public display. “Growing up, I didn’t imagine my wedding being such a public spectacle. It was to be a simple country affair in our little stone church, decorated with wild flowers and Vicar Hurley presiding.” She could hear the panic rising in her voice. Alain must have heard it, too. He reached to clasp her hands in his.

  “Bella, your hands are like ice. Are you all right? Come sit down”

  Isabella laughed at the ridiculous notion. “In this dress? I don’t think it is possible. Don’t fuss. I’ll be fine. I am just a bit jittery. Everyone expects so much from me today. I don’t want to let them down” By everyone, she meant their parents and the marquis, who were all of the same age. They were good people even though she privately felt the three of them put too much stock in public appearances and opinion.

  Alain nodded sagely. She knew he shared her opinion on the matter. Then he cleared his throat, a sign which Isabella had learned over the years signaled he had something difficult to say. She looked at her brother quizzically as he began.

  “I think your room is the only peaceful place in the house. Everyone has gone mad with last minute preparations.” Alain offered a tremulous smile at his joke before turning serious again. “But I didn’t come up here simply to seek some peace. I also came up to thank you. I won’t pretend that I don’t know why you’re doing this. Westbrooke is a good sort, but I know you wouldn’t have chosen him on your own. I feel awful that you have to do this for me. If I could have found an heiress . . ” His voice dropped off in helplessness.

  “It is a daughter’s lot in life,” Isabella said placidly, revealing none of her earlier thoughts on the subject. The less said the better. Speaking her mind or admitting painful truths would not change the course her life was taking. She had seen with her own eyes the pain her visit had caused Tristan. She would not inflict that same pain on her brother. Her brother needed this marriage.

  “Nonetheless, I thank you” Alain smiled again and squeezed her hand. “Because of your brilliant match, Father will be saved from financial scandal and even ruin. The marquis will cover the debts and the new investments until they pay off.” He smiled reassuringly. “Bella, St. John is a fine man. I believe you will find a measure of happiness with him. He’ll treat you well and he’s a refined gentleman with plenty of Town Bronze. He can establish you as a brilliant hostess or trendsetter if you wish it.”

  Alain paused before going on, seeming to debate internally with himself over some subject. “Bella, may I be so bold as to ask if there was someone else you preferred? I couldn’t help but wonder when you were describing the wedding you’d thought you would have, who did you imagine the groom would be?”

  Isabella looked at her brother queerly. Had he guessed where her heart lay? She hoped not. She would not have her brother bear the guilt of believing she’d given up true love for duty. She masked her shock with a playfully scolding tone. “La, Alain, have you been reading a Gothic? That sounds like something straight from a novel.”

  Alain shrugged his shoulders. “I have often wondered if there was someone else.”

  “I had only a season and a half before my engagement. I daresay there wasn’t time to establish a tendre.” Isabella
smiled gamely, doing her best to put a damper on the conversation.

  An awkward silence fell between them. Isabella struggled for something to say before she gave herself away under Alain’s intense gaze. “Are Chatham and Giles downstairs? I thought I heard them earlier. They were hoping to come up before we left for the church”

  Alain brightened at the mention of their childhood friends. “I’ll get them” He added in a hushed tone, “I have it on good authority that Giles has some excellent smuggled champagne with him, as usual.”

  Isabella smiled. “Then by all means, send them up. We’ll have just enough time for a toast.”

  Alain headed for the door but Isabella called him back. “Wait, Alain. Is Tristan here?” She had to know. She needed a few moments to prepare herself for seeing him.

  Alain turned slowly from the door, reaching inside his morning coat. He was somber when he spoke. “I didn’t want to bring it up on such an auspicious day.” He handed her a flat calling card. “He left this for me last night. Actually, a messenger brought it. I expect Tristan was gone before the note even arrived. Turn the card over.”

  Isabella carefully read the note written in Tristan’s firm hand and looked up at Alain in disbelief. “He’s joined the army. He’s arranged for an officer’s commission in the cavalry?”

  Alain nodded. “He means to join the peninsular campaign in Spain.”

  The news hit her like a fist to the stomach. For a moment she couldn’t breath. Her heart pounded as if it would hammer straight through the suffocating confines of her bodice. Since Napoleon’s December seizure of Spain, the peninsula had seen heavy fighting. She’d overheard remarks at a recent rout that being sent to Spain was tantamount to suicide these days. Was that what Tristan was looking for? She held Alain’s steady gaze as their shared fears for Tristan passed unspoken between them.

  Alain did his best to allay her concerns. “Tristan can look after himself. I imagine he’ll be back someday with a chest full of war decorations. I’ll get Giles and Chatham”