by Nikki Poppen
Hastily, Tristan regrouped, reaching out to take the cup from Isabella, careful to accept it with his right hand, his good hand. “Ah, I was just admiring the tea service. My apologies, I found them a bit distracting.”
“The set is by Adam Buck. I attended one of his exhibitions and was quite taken by his design,” Isabella supplied helpfully, pointing out the trademark round-bottomed cup featuring the mother and child motif associated with Buck’s work.
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?”
Tristan shrugged. “I read. I don’t think I ever forget anything.”
“What a handy trick that must be. I could use a perfect memory on occasion,” Isabella said wistfully.
Tristan turned somber. “No, it’s not as great a gift as you might think. I wish I could forget many of the things I know.”
“The war?” Isabella’s voice was full of empathy for him as she reached for his hand and squeezed it.
Tristan leapt up with a barely restrained yelp of pain on his lips. He clutched at his left hand, the one she’d touched. Isabella was beside him, concern for him evident in her warm eyes.
“What is it? Have I hurt you?”
“It is nothing, just a small problem I have with a nerve in my hand. My apologies for having alarmed you.”
He should have known Isabella was too tenacious to let such a thing go with the flimsy excuse he’d offered. Before he could distract her, Isabella gently took his hand and stripped off the white glove. She stared for a long moment at the scar that bisected his palm and wrapped around his knuckles. The scar was hideous and stark, a thick white line against the tanned skin of his hand.
When she spoke, her voice was solemn. “How did this happen?”
“You don’t need to know. Please, Isabella. It does not signify.”
She stared at him for a long while before finally dropping his hand and granting his request. “Does it hurt much?” She asked, letting him cover the scar with his glove.
“I have some salve. As long as I don’t overuse my hand it doesn’t trouble me”
“Will it heal?”
“I imagine the scar will fade in time.”
“I didn’t mean the scar,” Isabella said sharply. “I meant your hand. Will it heal?”
“Probably not” Tristan gave a wry smile. “But this is unseemly talk for Valentine’s Day. We should talk of love, or at least of roses.” He nodded toward the convenient but dormant cluster of rose bushes lining the garden walk. “Roses are the official flower of love, being the sacred flower of Venus”
“Oh, that is nicely done, my lord wolf.” Isabella applauded. “You’ve managed to talk of both love and roses in one sentence while deflecting me from my desired course of conversation.”
“Yes, so it seems that I have” Tristan patted her arm as she tucked it through his. “Let’s go back inside and on the way I’ll tell you about the cartes d’amities the French send for the holiday.”
“Salud!” Crystal flutes of newly legal French champagne clinked in near unison beneath sparkling chandeliers as midnight heralded the time of unmasking in the crowded ballroom of the earl of Denbigh’s lavish town house. People drank and laughed as masks were discarded. In one corner of the packed room, Tristan exchanged toasts with Alain, and the other two who completed their circle of childhood chums, Giles Moncrief, Chatham Somerset, and of course, Isabella. She looked delightfully disheveled without her mask and domino which she had laughingly discarded when the clock chimed and her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the room. Tristan was so enthralled he nearly missed Giles’s toast.
“Here’s to our prospects of
love in the upcoming year and to the return of Tristan. Our circle is complete again.” Giles turned to Tristan, his voice booming amid the hubbub. “My old friend, we are glad you’re home safely!” Giles raised his glass in salute to Tristan, who smiled humbly in the wake of his friend’s enthusiasm.
Tonight, with all of them together again, Tristan could almost believe he’d never been away. His friends had embraced him with their usual warmth and they’d easily fallen into the camaraderie they’d shared in the past. A small smile touched his lips as he recalled how he’d met the four people that surrounded him now.
The four of them had grown up together on neighboring Lake District estates. When the three boys went off to Eton together, Tristan joined the group then through the fortune of being Alain’s roommate. They had taken him in, joking that Alain needed someone with a decidedly English pedigree to balance out Alain’s unfortunate moniker bestowed on him by his overzealous French mother. They’d immediately decided that nothing could be more English sounding than “Gresham” The bond between him and Alain had been sealed.
“I have long thought that masquerades became dull dogs once everyone unmasked. What’s the fun of realizing you’ve just spent an evening with the same people you spend every evening?” Chatham remarked, using his height to scan the ballroom. “People are much more fun when they’re someone else.” Of them all, Chatham was the tallest, and the darkest, with coal black hair and keen near obsidian-colored eyes that missed nothing. Tristan long thought Chatham would have made an excellent reconnaissance officer.
