He raised an arrogant brow. “As family, you are always welcome at Bedford Square.”
“Family?” She could not help but give a contemptuous snort. “Was I ever anything more than your father’s ward? We are not related by blood, and you once said that two summers spent living under the same roof hardly quantifies such a connection.”
“My father promised your mother he would care for you, and he was true to his word. You should have made some attempt to repay his kindness by calling on my mother in her hour of need.”
Bitterness dripped from every word. Good Lord. Had it not been for the mop of golden hair and the dimple on his chin, she would not recognise him.
“Perhaps you should consult your mother before condemning others,” she said in a superior tone. His arrogance was infectious. “I believe she is not of the same opinion when it comes to who she permits entrance into her home.” Indeed, Lady Morford had written to her and specifically asked her to stay away.
“You could have asked to speak to me.” He examined his fingernails as though he found the conversation highly tedious. “My mother does not dictate whom I see.”
“Really? I hear Miss Smythe is your mother’s current lady of choice and that you have been instructed to stop and pet her whenever she holds up her paw.”
Isabella regretted the words as soon as they’d left her lips. She was not a bitter or resentful person. She did not parade around the ballrooms partaking in spiteful gossip. All she asked for was a little consideration. It took a conscious effort to suppress the pain of the past. She would not have approached Tristan had there been any other option.
“As I said, my mother may do as she pleases. Her actions have no bearing on my decisions.”
Isabella sighed wearily. Trading quips with him proved mentally exhausting. That was not the reason she had asked to speak to him. “Then let me take this opportunity to express my condolences for your loss. Indeed, I shall miss Andrew terribly and would have come to pay my respects had I thought I would be welcome.”
He straightened, his countenance remaining rather stiff. “I assumed your lack of compassion stemmed from your feelings towards me. I had no idea you were so fond of Andrew.”
It hadn’t always been the case. She had despised Andrew for the part he’d played on the night she had eloped with Tristan. But he had reached out to her when Lord Fernall died, and she had been so desperately short of friends. Indeed, she would never sully Andrew’s memory because of her feelings over Tristan’s shortcomings.
“He was there for me when I needed him,” she said solemnly. “He was there for me when I had no one else to turn to.”
Tristan snorted. “Well, he always knew what to say to win a lady’s affection.”
Do not retaliate. That is what he wants.
“Yes.” She smiled as she remembered Andrew’s words of reassurance when she told him how frightened she was of living alone at Highley Grange. “He also knew what to say to bring a lady comfort.”
Tristan dragged his palm down his face and sighed. “Well, I am pleased he proved helpful to one of us.” His tone conveyed a trace of sincerity. It was the first time since the moment she’d sat next to him at Lady Mottlesborough’s concert that he sounded somewhat like the man she remembered.
She had expected him to offer another cutting comment and had prepared a response accordingly. Now she did not know what to say. Plunged into an awkward silence, she took the opportunity to examine her feelings.
Tristan was the love of her life.
She supposed she would always love him. One did not give themselves to a man they presumed would be their husband and feel nothing. But the flaming passion she’d once felt in her chest no longer burned with any intensity. Her heart did not skip a beat at the thought of his touch. The desperate ache to be near him, the long, endless hours of agony while she waited to hear his voice, had all abandoned her, too.
Now, there was nothing left but a cold, empty shell.
In those wistful hours before sleep, she often imagined loving another man. It would not be an intense, all-consuming passion. It would be a different sort of love: a shared appreciation for life, a mature feeling of warm companionship and mutual respect.
“I hear your sister has married and moved to Ripon,” she said, deciding it was childish to be bitter and to dwell on an incident that happened so long ago. One of them had to offer the proverbial olive branch. And whether she liked it or not, she needed his help.
“Catherine prefers a life with few distractions. She has never been one for pomp and ceremony.”
Isabella understood completely. “And you have spent the last five years in France.”
He sat back, his shoulders relaxing a little. “I would still be there now if I had my way.” A faint smile touched his lips, and his blue eyes sparkled. For a brief moment she caught a glimpse of the man with whom she had fallen in love. “The monastery is the only place I feel at peace.”
“The monastery?” She could not hide her surprise. Had he spent all those years living with monks? “Surely you don’t mean you stayed there, that you lived in seclusion, prayed for hours every day.”
“Of course not.” He offered a mocking snort. “I have never been the pious type. The religious community who once occupied the monastery abandoned it long ago. My good friend, Marcus Danbury, purchased the property. We were in business together. We had the same goals, the same ideals. Our work proved fulfilling.”
“Work?” Isabella shook her head. “But you are the son of a viscount, a viscount yourself now. Why would you have a need to work?”
He did not reply immediately. There was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes before he said, “It is of no consequence. Andrew’s death forced me to leave a place I regarded as my home. And so I had no choice but to give up a life I found satisfying.”