by Nikki Poppen
“A few small things of interest to only the burglar were taken, Bella. Nothing was damaged beyond a few shattered vases. My butler sports a bruised face but all is well. The good that came out of the robbery is that I spent the night thinking. I am a man of action and I’ve done little of that since my return. I have made myself a target and I mean to put a stop to it. I am home to stay. It is time I start acting like it.”
Isabella looked at him expectantly. The energy coursing through Tristan was contagious. It was powerful enough to momentarily sweep away her doubts about the man she’d seen in him at the winter fete. She wanted to be part of whatever it was he proposed. He had made her feel this way countless times in their youth. “I will do whatever you need done, although I am sure I’ll regret it. I seem to recall several past instances when you and Alain convinced me to do some absolutely insane things that landed me in near-run situations.”
Tristan stopped them at the pond’s edge and turned to face her. “Bella, don’t pretend you’ve given up taking risks. Remember, I heard you take the Valentine’s wager with Alain to see me wed by June and I know you are set on acquiring Middleton’s wild stallion. Assisting me in taking charge of my new life is a minimal risk for you when all is said and done”
“So far, you’ve managed to land me in the middle of your little scandal about a murky past. I’d hardly call that minimal, Tristan,” Isabella reminded him.
He laughed it off. “That will pass once the Season is in full swing. Within a month, no one will care about Viscount Gresham’s outlandish entertainments on the Continent over a year ago. I am surprised they cared at all. No one would have thought twice if Beatrix hadn’t made such a display.”
“Parents will care when you decide to marry their daughter,” Isabella chided. “By your own admission, you want to marry quickly. If I am successful, and I will be, you’ll be leg-shackled by June. That’s three short months away. People will remember the rumors”
Tristan’s dark eyes turned thoughtful. “It is good to talk with you like this, Bella. I missed our quiet walks and conversations while I was away.” He ran his hands up and down Isabella’s arms in a languorous motion. “Did you know, while I was gone I’d talk to you in my head? When things were at their worst, I’d lie in my bed at night and talk them all through with you. I could close my eyes and imagine we were at Summer Hill, at your father’s place, walking the meadows”
“Those days were long ago,” Isabella hedged. The conversation was taking a decidedly uncomfortable turn. She shivered in spite of the warmth of his hands on her arms. Who was this enigma who had kissed her with the expertise of a rogue last night and now stood before her in the guise of her one-time best friend? When he was like this, she had no doubt who he was. But the rumors and the first hand demonstration were sharp reminders that Tristan was not all he seemed. A brown wren chirped from its nest, its warble piercing the quietness around them, reminding Isabella of the prolonged silence which had sprung up between them. Tristan was looking at her intently, apparently not as unnerved as she by the dearth of conversation between them.
“You still haven’t told me about the decisions you’ve made,” Isabella prompted.
Tristan smiled softly. “So I haven’t. I want to give a house party at The Meadows. I want you to act as hostess. You’ll know who to invite and what kinds of suitable entertainments to offer. I want to do it at the end of March. I know it is short notice, only a few weeks. I haven’t seen the place in years but I believe it is in good shape. Say you’ll do it.”
A house party? All this intimacy for a house party? It took Isabella a moment to adjust her thoughts. What a silly goose she was. What had she thought he was going to say?
She heard herself agreeing. “Of course I’ll do it, Tristan. But tell me why you want to give a house party?”
“Because I am a man of action, as I said earlier. I have made myself a target by waiting for Society to introduce itself to me. Here in London, I must rely on the hostesses’ invitations. My house party will be my chance to introduce myself to Society. At my place in the country, I am in charge” He winked at Isabella. “I believe you know a thing or two about the desirable nature of being in control.”
“Touche! A gentleman does not remind a lady of her brash words” Isabella paced in the grass, her long fingers tapping her chin while she thought out loud. “At any rate, it’s a splendid idea. People will be clamoring for invitations simply to meet you. Everyone will want to have a chance to confirm for themselves the truth of the conjectures being made about you. We’ll keep the party short, just four days”
Tristan fell into step beside her. “I definitely want a ball one evening.”
“That’s ambitious. A ball requires at least two hundred people in attendance or it will be termed a dismal failure. We can have dancing, Tristan. Perhaps something more informal would be better.”
“No,” Tristan insisted. “I want a ball. We can invite the neighbors. We can invite the entire village if that’s what it takes to make up the numbers” Determination fired his countenance. Isabella thought he looked magnificent in his buff trousers and fitted green jacket as he stood there arguing for his ball. No wonder Napoleon had been defeated. Tristan would brook no dispute from anyone.
“What is your attachment to having a ball?” Isabella queried, “Such an adamant demand must have a motive behind it.”
Tristan grabbed her hands and looked at her in all seriousness. “That’s the second decision I made last night. I mean to announce my betrothal.”
Isabella barely suppressed a gasp. She was entirely unsure what emotion to display. Surprise? Happiness? “Who is she, Tristan?” Her voice shook.
“It’s you” Tristan sank to a knee in the damp reeds by the pond, capturing her gloved hands in his. “Marry me, Isabella.”
“Tristan, you can’t be serious.” She tried to pull her hands away but Tristan held them resolutely.
“I confess I have not done much proposing, Bella, but I assure you I am in earnest. It is the only match that makes sense” He rose and brushed at his breeches. “You’re obligated to accept since I’ve muddied my pants on your behalf. It would be bad form not to.” He jested weakly.
Isabella heard the desperation in his voice. “I am sorry, Tristan. I have handled this badly. I am overwhelmed. I did not expect this.”
“You did not? How could you not know how I feel about you? How I have always felt about you?” Tristan argued. “All those years away, my love did not falter. I left England because I could not stay knowing you were the wife of another. My feelings for you have not changed since the day we parted” Tristan poured out his confession in a torrent of heartfelt passion. His face paled suddenly. “Isabella, my feelings have not changed. Have yours? Is it Driscoll?” There was panic in his voice.
If the situation had not seemed so absurd, Isabella would have found Tristan’s earnest school boy nature highly amusing compared to the worldly performance he’d given in the conservatory.
“Avery Driscoll has no claim on my affections beyond friendship.”
“Is there someone else?”
“No. There’s no one else.”
“Then why do you resist?” Tristan asked, utterly perplexed.
“Tristan, we do not know each other. We are not the same people we were years ago. I behaved impetuously the day I asked you to marry me. I should not have done it. I have regretted it a thousand times over. You went away because of me. You could have been killed. I am not that same impulsive girl.” It was the kindest way she could think of to voice her objections to the match, although her heart still pounded rapidly at the prospect. Tristan had proposed!
His face became thunderous. Isabella knew he’d understood the message. “You say you are not the same impulsive girl. Does that mean you believe I am not the same honorable man you once knew?”
She hated herself for the pain she caused him. “You go too far, Tristan. It means only that I don’t know you anymore” She
held up her gloved hand in a stalling motion when he made to protest. “You’ve come home with your hand scarred to near destruction and you won’t tell me why. Rumors, which you will neither deny nor confirm, abound about the nature of your military service. The vulgar Beatrix Smallwood’s association with you does you no credit. A secret admirer lurks in the background, sending you flowers. Your home is burglarized and someone tosses a planter off a roof at you”
Isabella gave an unladylike bark. “You say you’re tired of not taking action, but I think that’s plenty of action for the mere three weeks you’ve been home.” Isabella broke off her tirade. She felt a bit sheepish in the wake of her vented spleen. Only Tristan roused her temper like this. She hadn’t had such a row in ages. Tristan’s eyes were uncharacteristically misty. Were those tears he fought so vainly to hide? Unable to look at his achingly handsome face any longer, she stared at the ground, suddenly engrossed in the half boots that poked out from beneath her carriage dress. When Tristan spoke, she’d get the tongue lashing she deserved for speaking too freely. Then, he’d recant his proposal, glad that he’d escaped marrying such a forthright shrew.
“You’ve always had a knack for helping me see issues clearly.” Tristan spoke quietly.
Isabella hazarded an upward glance. She was surprised to notice that he too had developed a penchant for gazing at his boots. “Don’t be angry with me for stating the truth”
“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear.” Tristan stripped off his gloves and tucked them into a coat pocket. “This is the truth” He cupped her face between his bare hands and gently pulled her to him.
His kiss was all tenderness and longing when their lips met. There was none of the force or manipulation that had been present in the conservatory. This kiss tasted of sweet honesty. Isabella sighed beneath his mouth. She whispered his name when they parted. “Tristan”
“I want to do more than kiss you, Isabella. But I would have marriage between us first. Say you’ll reconsider.”
“I don’t recall actually refusing you,” Isabella said somewhat saucily as she recovered her breath.
Tristan growled low in his throat. “Vixen! Perhaps you need more persuading?” He bent to kiss her again. Isabella laid a hand against his chest, calling a halt to his actions. A fleeting recollection of another woman who had made such a gesture flashed through his mind before being discarded.
“Tristan, one sweet kiss does not change what lies between us. Persuade me by answering my questions.”
Tristan nodded. He captured the hand that lay against his chest in his own. “I ask for your trust and your time. I will tell you all when I can but that time is not yet”
“Then I must tell you that I will hold your marriage offer in trust against that day,” Isabella replied with all the strength she could muster. She wanted nothing more than to accept Tristan’s proposal. She was not foolish. She knew herself well enough to know that she wanted to marry the Tristan of her youth. She did not know the man who stood before her well enough yet to entrust him with her heart.
“Is that the best you can do, Isabella?” Tristan whispered.
“Yes, Tristan, it is the best I can do. I think you should take me home now.”
The drive home was accomplished in silence, their moods decidedly more somber than when they had set out two hours ago. When they arrived at Westbrooke House, Tristan handed Isabella down from the high seat and bowed politely over her hand. “Shall I see you and Alain tonight at the Fillmore soiree?”
“I have not yet made up my mind if I’ll attend. Alain left a note earlier this morning saying that he’d be at The Refuge for a few days checking on some of his pet projects”
“Then I shall hope for the best. Until tonight,” Tristan said gallantly before climbing up and clucking to his horses. It was too bad Alain would not be present, he thought as he steered the rig towards home. He would have liked to have cleared Alain of any suspicions once and for all by seeing that Alain did not bear the marks of a scuffle with Sommes on his face. By the time Alain returned to town, a black eye would have faded. His assignment was getting deuced complicated.
It was complicated further when a note arrived at the town house an hour later from the secret admirer. She wanted to meet again that evening at the Fillmore soiree.
Isabella knew the Fillmore’s house well. There were not many secret places to meet, so she had sent word to Gresham that his admirer would await him in the garden near the cupid fountain. She drew her heavy velvet cloak about her as she took a seat on the stone bench. Already she was chilled. Perhaps it had been foolish to meet in the freezing, deserted garden. The cupid fountain dripped icicles and she shivered despite the warmth of her cloak. There had been no other choice. The interior of the house was not suited for a clandestine meeting. No one would be in the garden and the garden was dark, two factors which doubly recommended the place. The only light touching it came from the drawing room where everyone was gathered. She could stand in plain sight on one of the paths and no one would be able to see her.
Isabella mentally added unsafe to her list of adjectives describing her choice of meeting places. If anyone intent on foul deeds was prowling the grounds they’d have no trouble taking her at unawares and going unnoticed by the throng of people one hundred yards away.
She hadn’t wanted to play the admirer again. The first meeting had shaken her sensibilities greatly. A large part of her wanted to live in ignorant bliss about Tristan’s past. After his proposal today, that was no longer an option. If she was going to bind her life to his in marriage, she had to know the truth. She would be terribly crushed if she walked into such a relationship without her eyes wide open. Tonight, she would push him for the vital answers she needed.
Isabella had thought her senses were keenly alert in the darkness but she didn’t hear Tristan approach until he was behind her, so close his breath felt warm against her neck in startling contrast to the cold. She jumped and bit back a startled scream.
“Ma cherie, that should teach you a lesson for choosing such shadowy places to meet,” he said in a low tone that was at once both sinister and seductive. “I am surprised to see you here so early. Have you been waiting long?” He took her gloved hands in his and sat beside her on the stone bench. “Your hands are chilled. Silk gloves are no protection against the cold,” he scolded gently, chafing them in his own warm hands. Isabella wondered if he would notice the gloves were new since he now possessed the mate to her other set.
“Are you not cold?” Isabella asked, noting that he wore only his dark evening coat. She knew from personal association that he was a veritable furnace, his body usually generating an inhuman amount of heat, but even against the wintry chill of the evening he must feel some discomfort.
He shook his head. “How can I be cold when I have such a companion to warm me with her presence? To what ends shall we put this meeting of ours?”
Isabella jerked her hand from his, immediately feeling the loss of his heat, and stood up. “Save your flattery and glib tongue for the young debutantes,” she snapped.
Tristan laughed softly in the darkness and stretched out his long legs. “I propose a game. Are you familiar with the story of Rumpelstiltskin?”
“The children’s tale? Yes,” Isabella replied warily.
“The miller’s daughter does not keep her promise and Rumpelstiltskin allows her to forego her obligation to him if she can guess his name in three evenings.” Tristan continued. “A variation of the same game would suit us well. I had hoped you’d reveal yourself to me, so we would be done with black cloaks and veils, but I see that we are not. If I guess your name, you must confess all.” He was leaning close to her, the smell of peppermints on his breath. “You may ask three questions of me tonight. For every question you ask, I get to make a guess as to your name”
Isabella gave a haughty laugh that suggested more confidence than she felt. “What do I get if you fail?”
Tristan reached into a pocket and pulle
d out a long silk glove with pearl buttons. “This. I believe you left it at our last encounter.”
Isabella instinctively reached for it but he held it out of her grasp and laughed. “I will most likely fail in my task. Three names are not that many. The glove shall be yours soon enough. Come and sit with me then and let us discuss ourselves. Despite your insinuation at our last meeting that we are not strangers, I find it quite disconcerting that you know me and I do not know anything of you. I shall bide my time. Ladies first, ask your question.”
What was it Amy had advised when this charade had begun? Get a man to talk about himself? Isabella put some distance between them on the bench. “Tell me about your work in France. It sounds very dangerous.”
Tristan folded his arms, his posture alert. “I was a reconnaissance officer. I scouted out the enemy before battles in order to determine their strength, size and location.”
That was it? That’s all he had to say? Isabella’s shoulders sagged in disappointed. Didn’t he know this was his chance to impress her with his military career? He was supposed to have more to say than that.
Daringly, Isabella leaned forward and traced his cheek with a soft silk clad finger. “You did that for seven years. You must have been quite good at it. Were you ever in jeopardy? You must have exciting stories to tell.”
“Is that your second question?”
“I expected to have you say more than two sentences. It hardly seems fair to get so little for one’s question,” Isabella complained.
“Our rules didn’t suggest that I had to give my life’s history in order for the answer to be complete,” Tristan countered smoothly. “Now, here’s my first guess: Cynthia.”
Isabella let out a breath. “No. Second question, who is Beatrix Smallwood to you?”
“Are we jealous, ma cherie?” Tristan tut-tutted.
“Absolutely not, I am merely curious as to the nature of my rival.”
“Mrs. Smallwood is an old acquaintance. We have our Continental experiences in common. Perhaps she believes there is more between us than there is. Your shoulders sag. I see you’re disappointed in my answer. Would you like it better if I told you a sordid tale about our history together?”
