“Had it not been for Henry’s involvement I would have told you to forget about Lord Fernall. You’ve spent five years pining for a lost love. Now you have found each other again you deserve to find some happiness.” Chandler sighed. “But even my inert instincts tell me something isn’t quite right.”
Tristan thought so, too. The niggling doubt in the back of his mind refused to be tempered. What if Andrew had discovered something sinister? What if he ignored his intuition and something untoward happened to Isabella?
“Have you heard any rumours regarding Henry Fernall?” Tristan had never been one to pay much attention to gossip.
“He doesn’t gamble. Well, we do not frequent the same establishments, and I have not heard tales of unpaid debt.” Chandler pursed his lips. “Mrs. Forrester is his mistress. Some say he is besotted with the woman, but I find he always has a look on his face that shows displeasure in most things.”
Relief flooded Tristan’s chest. He had feared Henry Fernall’s intention was to make Isabella his mistress. Why else would he have wanted her to live at Grangefields? Unless he intended to use Highley Grange for another purpose.
Chandler’s sharp and sudden intake of breath broke his reverie. “Well, well.” Chandler’s wide eyes focused on a point in the distance. “It appears you are not the only one to return from your trip thoroughly transformed.”
Tristan followed Chandler’s curious gaze, raising himself up on his toes as he scanned the tightly packed throng. A vibrant burst of yellow caught his attention as a few gasps of surprise drifted through the charged air.
“Most people believe yellow to be an ostentatious colour,” Chandler mused in a tone reminiscent of the night they had observed Isabella at the masquerade. “Some would say it suggests the wearer is rather pretentious and self-absorbed.”
The smile on Tristan’s face as he watched Isabella approach, masked the sudden rush of lustful desire. He had expected her to wear grey or some other equally dull colour. With her delicate curves encased in the smooth satin, she sparkled with a vivacious sensuality. The hairs at his nape sprung to attention. The tiny receptors sent tingles and shivers shooting down his spine.
“Are you not the least bit interested to hear more,” Chandler added in a bid to capture his attention.
“Come then. I know you are dying to give me your opinion.”
Chandler folded his arms across his chest. “I say it creates an air of excitement. It suggests a sensual vitality that robs a man of his breath.”
It certainly did that. The woman before him brought to mind images of scorching hot sunny days and lush summer meadows, yet his thoughts turned dark and downright wicked.
“She is utterly captivating,” he said as his heart hammered in his chest.
“Indeed,” Chandler agreed. “Does she know that you’re still in love with her?”
The question forced him to turn his head. “I thought you were a gentleman who shies away from any expression of sentiment.” Tristan refused to deny what he knew to be true.
Chandler shrugged. “I make the odd exception. You should know I am a man who rallies for the downtrodden. I’m a man who hopes some poor, destitute gentleman wins a fortune tonight that will irrevocably alter the course of his life. You and Isabella belong together. You always have.”
“I was lucky to have you to confide in all those years ago,” Tristan said. During the years spent at Harrow and Cambridge, Chandler had been his constant companion.
A gentleman in a green velvet coat approached. He gave a mumbled introduction before whispering in Matthew Chandler’s ear. The man nodded several times upon hearing Chandler’s reply before scurrying off into the crowd.
Tristan stepped forward as Isabella emerged to stand before him. He wanted desperately to take her hands in his and pull her close. “You look divine,” he said, aware that his breath came far too quickly. “I thought we said it would be wise to remain inconspicuous. You light up the room like a brilliant beacon.” He dabbed the corner of his mouth. “My excessive salivating will soon be cause for concern.”
Her broad smile caused another jolt of awareness. “It seems there is no longer a reason for me to hide behind a shroud of sadness. I have not worn this gown for years,” she patted the material at her stomach, “and am somewhat shocked to find I can fit into it.”
Chandler cleared his throat. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I must take my leave. The game is to start shortly.”
Tristan patted his friend on the arm. “Then I shall pray that the night brings good fortune.”
“Lady Fernall,” Chandler said offering a graceful bow. “After the bout of miserable weather, I am pleased to see the sun is shining once again.”
Isabella brushed her hand down the front of her satin gown. “It is a time to rejoice, is it not, Mr. Chandler?”
“Indeed it is.”
As Chandler moved away through the crowd, Tristan touched Isabella’s fingers discreetly. “I cannot begin to tell you how much I want you.” His rich tone conveyed the depth of his desire.
A faint blush touched her cheeks. “I thought we were not supposed to draw any undue attention to ourselves.”
He glanced at her vivid gown and smiled. He wanted nothing more than to forget about the Fernalls, his mother and everyone else who sought to keep them apart. To cover her body, to bury himself inside the only woman he had ever wanted, was the prominent thought in his mind.
“Then let us return to Brook Street, lock the door and say to hell with the world.” It was wishful thinking on his part, but the sudden hitch in her breath told him it was what she wanted too.