Free The Dowager's Wager by Nikki Poppen

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