A Heart Devoted (The Penn-Leiths of Thistle Muir #5)

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August 24, 1849

Muirford House

Montrose, Scotland

T ristan Gilbert, Duke of Kendall, found the entire concept of family somewhat unnerving.

Aside from his twin sister, Tristan had never had a family, not in any real sense. Oh, he had relatives to be sure. Aunt Whipple who had acted as his hostess in the years after his father’s death. Cousins like his heir, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert, who were always eager to demand money and favors of Tristan as the paterfamilias .

But a large, boisterous family—the sort with nosy parents and teasing siblings and an endless supply of aunts and uncles and cousins who swapped gifts at Christmas and made merry over Easter and loved one another with unabashed affection . . .

Well, that had been non-existent in his life until—

“Your bonnet is slipping, Tristan,” Andrew Langston, Earl of Hadley and Tristan’s new father-in-law, said far too cheerfully. “Ye have to tie the ribbons secure-like.”

To emphasize the point, Hadley stepped in front of Tristan, frowned, and then tugged the bow under Tristan’s chin, cinching the bonnet tighter to his jaw.

Mr. Mac Langston, Hadley’s eldest son and Tristan’s newly-acquired brother, guffawed in delight. And it was a guffaw—head back, teeth flashing, eyes glinting.

Mr. James Langston, Hadley’s second son, said “Meow” and fisted his hands into paws, miming pulling the edges of a bonnet brim to his cheeks like a cat.

Tristan looked away, swallowing a sigh.

So . . . family.

Thanks to his marriage, Tristan now had an overabundance of family.

Hadley’s family, to be specific.

The earl’s large, noisy, rambunctious, chaotic family. A family that bantered and joked and needled and made merry at every opportunity.

Hence, the bonnet currently tied to Tristan’s head.

Today, Hadley’s brood, as well as the tiny portion of Tristan’s own family that he liked, were gathered on the back lawn of Muirford House, Hadley’s home in Scotland.

They made up a large party.

Isolde, Tristan’s duchess.

Lady Allegra, Tristan’s twin sister, and her husband, Ethan Penn-Leith.

Malcolm Penn-Leith, Ethan’s older brother, and his wife Viola.

Lady Hadley, Isolde’s mother.

As well as Hadley’s two sons, Mac and James.

Currently, the ladies sat under a white canopy along the edge of an expanse of lawn watching as the men attempted to outdo each other in time-honored Scottish fashion—throwing heavy objects.

In this case, the heavy object was a stump-sized stone with a chain cemented to it, brought courtesy of Ethan Penn-Leith. The gentlemen were taking it in turn to see who could send the stone flying the farthest—grasping the chain and spinning as if they were performing a hammer toss. The loser of each round drew a penalty from a hat.

Unfortunately, Tristan had lost the first round and had to don a monstrosity of a straw bonnet covered in fake pomegranates and figs. James had lost the second and had to complete the remaining rounds while meowing like a cat—a challenge he had taken to with ridiculous enthusiasm, much to everyone’s annoyance.

Ethan had lost the third round and was currently completing his penalty—milking a goat. His roots as a gentleman farmer’s son had become readily apparent as he hooked the milking stool with his foot to pull it underneath him and set to milking like a professional.

Mac and James called encouragement to Ethan as he milked. Or rather, Mac yelled, “Ethan, ye sure ye got yourself a nanny and not a billy goat there?! Ye don’t want to make that mistake again!” and James meowed in agreement. Everyone else had howled with laughter.

Tristan’s logical brain knew this was how some families showed affection—relentless teasing and general piss-taking. However, such laughter and affection were nearly a foreign language to him. His brutal, dictatorial sire had ensured that gaiety and humor were non-existent in his childhood—no stone-throwing or teasing, most decidedly no humorous meowing. Consequently, Tristan had always taken himself and his position as Duke of Kendall seriously. A bit too seriously, both Allie and Isolde would declare.

All that to say, Tristan found such boisterous behavior unnerving— unnerving being the politest adjective he could summon.

You love Isolde , Tristan reminded himself for the twelfth time (yes, he was counting). You would die for her. Humoring her family in this absurd game is a simple task.

As if seeking confirmation, his eyes drifted across the lawn to where Isolde sat under the shade of the canopy—a glass of lemonade in one hand and gesturing to Allie with the other. As usual, Tristan’s heart constricted at the mere sight of his wife, her red hair gleaming bright in the August sun, waist cinched in a blue muslin gown. How he loved her. The knowing hummed beneath his skin, a song of devotion he would carry to his last day.

On a steadying breath, he turned back to his father-in-law.

“Thank you, Hadley, for assisting me with my bonnet.” Tristan offered a polite nod. The fake fruit attached to the straw brim wobbled with the motion.

“Andrew.” Hadley gave Tristan a friendly slap on the back, causing the fruit to lurch ominously. “Ye agreed to start calling me Andrew, remember?”

Right.

That, too.

Sigh.

“Thank you . . . Andrew,” Tristan tried again.

Hadley grinned and gave Tristan’s back another hearty pat.

The ever-present Scottish wind caught the brim of Tristan’s bonnet, prompting the ribbon to chafe his chin. He tugged on it, struggling to swallow. How did women tolerate these things?

The ladies cheered on Ethan’s efforts from under their canopy. Isolde caught Tristan’s eye and blew him a kiss. In his mind’s eye, the kiss flew across the lawn and melted into his chest, spreading warmth across his skin.

His beautiful wife knew he was feeling uncomfortable and out of place. She knew he itched to drag the ridiculous bonnet off his head and stomp it under his feet. And she was telling him thank you —thank you for participating, thank you for being a good sport.

Today marked ten days since Isolde had said the words I love you to him. Ten days since Tristan and Hadley had called a truce. Ten days of familial cheer and marital bliss.

The ten happiest days of Tristan’s life.

Granted, everything in his life had changed for the better once he opened his heart and accepted the depth of his love for Isolde. He had become more self-aware, more capable of understanding his own emotions, and therefore more able to show affection to those he loved most.

The whole experience had been profoundly illuminating.

Over the short weeks of his marriage, he had realized that there were two clear components to his psyche—the coldly autocratic Duke of Kendall and the gentler, more open Tristan. The Kendall portion often shielded his soft Tristan core, particularly when in company. The problem, of course, was somehow merging those two aspects of himself into one cohesive whole. On days like today, with the teasing and the jesting, it took nearly all of Tristan’s fortitude not to retreat deep within his Kendall shell.

But for Isolde, he would continue to try.

And Tristan instinctively understood that the change he sought would be easier to accomplish in the company of friends and family. It was why he was here today, enduring humiliation on Hadley’s back lawn, instead of traveling south toward London. The longer Tristan and Isolde waited before plunging again into Polite Society—before confronting the specter of their former selves—the better.

Hadley had hinted at similar reasoning the day before.

“Do ye plan to return to London come autumn?” the earl had asked. Tristan and Isolde, along with Allie and Ethan, had just arrived in Montrose Harbor aboard Tristan’s steamship, the SS Statesman.

“No,” Tristan had replied. “Isolde and I will make for Hawthorn, my principal seat in Wiltshire, after our stay here. I have no intention of setting foot in Town before next spring at the earliest. Lords has made it clear I am no longer welcome in politics, and I need time to settle into my new role as husband.”

Here, Hadley had nodded, knowingly. “That is wise of ye.”

“Yes . . . also, I am loathe to subject Isolde to . . .” Tristan drifted off, not wishing to voice what he and Hadley both already knew. The earl had merely nodded again in understanding.

Isolde’s reputation had been precarious even before her hasty wedding to Tristan. He preferred to wait several months, or even a year, before attending ton events as a couple, allowing memories to dim and gossiping tongues to flag.

Tristan would not subject his beloved wife to the vitriol of Polite Society before it became absolutely necessary.

What he truly wished was to return to Canna, the small island where he and Isolde had been shipwrecked. There, in the crofter’s cottage and along the white sands of a protected bay, Tristan had experienced a rebirth. A place out of time where he could woo his wife—race her down the beach during daylight hours, laugh with her before the fire while dining, and then snug her to his chest in their matrimonial box-bed at night.

Memories of Canna floated through his thoughts, and he felt at peace. At the moment, he would give a fair amount to have that peace restor—

A whoop went up from the ladies.

Hadley and Tristan turned to see Ethan Penn-Leith lifting a cup of milk above his head in triumph, his foot on the milking stool. Beside him, the mother goat butted her head against his hip.

“Success!” Ethan called, smile stretching wide. Even at a distance, Tristan could feel the tug of the poet’s charisma and bonhomie.

“Excellent! Let’s move on to the fourth round.” Hadley clapped his hands. “Whose turn is it to throw first?”

Though the earl had to be approaching sixty years of age, he wore it well. Hadley had the strength of a much younger man, despite the streaks of gray in his light-brown beard.

“Mine.” Malcolm Penn-Leith lifted a hand.

“And what does the loser have to do?”

Malcolm drew a scrap of paper out of Hadley’s hat sitting on the grass.

“ Row the old dinghy across the lake and back ,” he read. Lifting his head, he pointed toward the water at the end of the lawn and the small boat already half sinking below its surface.

“Hah!” Hadley laughed. “That should be enjoyable to watch. I hope ye gentlemen can swim.”

Mac guffawed again. James meowed. Ethan marched his cup of milk over to a laughing Allie and presented it with an exaggerated bow.

As the only Englishman present, Tristan had to squelch the urge to show these rowdy Scots how a true gentleman behaved.

You love your wife , he reminded himself again. What number was he on? Thirteen?

Clearly reading his thoughts, Isolde caught his gaze and mouthed the words I love you .

Pinching his lips together, he stared at her, this lovely woman who knew him better than any other soul on earth.

You owe me , Tristan mouthed back.

Isolde lifted her eyebrows suggestively, a sultry smirk dimpling the corners of her mouth. Her expression promised all sorts of delectable wickedness once they were alone.

Tristan felt immensely cheered. He was an idiot not to have married Lady Isolde years ago.

Scratching his thick beard, Malcolm stepped up to the mark and grasped the heavy chain in both hands, the bulk of his muscular shoulders casting a wide shadow on the grass. A gentleman farmer himself, he was no stranger to physical labor.

“Hurrah for Malcolm!” cheered the man’s wife—the noted novelist Viola Brodure Penn-Leith—from underneath the ladies’ canopy, blond curls framing her face.

Saluting his wife, Malcolm spun in a quick circle—once, twice—before releasing the stone to fly down the lawn in a long arc.

James lifted a hand and marked off the stone’s location with a stick before wrapping the chain around his fist and dragging it back to the starting line.

Hadley was next, the stone sailing down the turf. Despite his age, the Scot made an impressive showing. Ethan, Mac, James, and Tristan would likely be vying for last place once more.

Ethan’s throw was respectable, as were those of James and Mac.

Tristan had just stepped up for his turn when he noticed everyone’s head swivel toward the house. Following their gazes, he saw Hadley’s stern butler striding across the lawn with what appeared to be letters on a silver salver. Tristan paused, frowning, as he watched the man approach. The post had already come and gone for the day.

“What is it, Patterson?” Hadley asked as the butler drew near.

“Express post, my lord, for Mr. Ethan Penn-Leith and His Grace.” Patterson presented the salver to Tristan. “As both letters have Her Majesty’s seal, I assumed them to be urgent.”

Tristan took his letter from the tray. Indeed, it was sealed with the coat of arms of the British monarchy.

What the devil?

Brows drawn down, Ethan took his own letter with a shake of the head.

A flash of light blue flickered in Tristan’s peripheral vision. He looked up as Isolde stopped at his side.

“What is it, Husband?” She placed a gloved hand on his forearm. Her eyes flitted to his bonnet, lips twitching in amusement.

“Not a word, Wife,” he warned.

She valiantly tried—and failed—to stifle a smile. Letter forgotten, Tristan wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into him. But as Isolde was only a few inches shorter than his own six-foot-two-inch height, the motion caused the brims of their bonnets to collide and sent hers tumbling down her back.

Isolde collapsed onto his chest in hysterical giggles.

Sighing, Tristan glanced at Ethan over her head, watching his brother-in-law read his letter. The poet’s frown had deepened, which for genial Ethan amounted to almost panicked alarm. Allie slipped her hand through her husband’s elbow, a knowing look passing between them . . . as if a letter from the Queen wasn’t entirely unexpected.

Worry tightened the muscles at the back of Tristan’s neck. With brisk movements, he opened his own letter, quickly skimming the few lines written in Her Majesty’s sprawling handwriting.

Isolde turned in his arms to read it as well.

“We’ve been summoned to attend a reading by Ethan at Buckingham Palace in five days’ time?” She looked up at Tristan. He could see his ridiculous bonnet reflected in her summer-blue eyes. “That seems soon and . . . oddly specific. Are ye often invited to such events at the palace?”

Tristan shook his head. No, he was not.

They both looked back at Ethan.

“Now would be a good time to tell them,” Allie said to her husband.

“Aye.” Ethan bent his head to hers, darting a meaningful look at Tristan. “But have ye met your brother? He’s a wee bit terrifying.”

The poet didn’t lower his voice as he spoke, ensuring all heard his words. No doubt intentionally.

Trust Penn-Leith to make a scene.

“Tristan is not that bad. You like him.” Allie placed a palm on her husband’s cheek.

“I do, but my knees always quake when he does that ducal thing of his.”

“Ducal thing?” Allie lifted an eyebrow.

“Aye! With the deep voice and the wrinkled forehead and the subtle threat of violence if—”

“What has occurred, Penn-Leith?” Tristan asked, trying (and surely failing) not to look sternly ducal.

Ethan gave a See what I mean? sweep of his palm.

“Ethan,” Allie chided.

Sighing, Ethan turned back to the assembled group.

“I might have done . . . something.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.

“Something?” Tristan asked. Unfortunately, even he could hear the ducal snap in his tone.

“As ye all ken, I am a poet.”

“Aye.” Hadley rolled his hand. “That has been well-established for some years now.”

“Yes, well . . . I write poems on all topics and subjects, from contemporary ideas and experiences to historical events to figures of interest in—”

“You’re belaboring the point, my love,” Allie murmured.

“See, the thing is . . .” Ethan was practically squirming. “I wrote a poem last autumn. An excellent poem, I thought. My publisher agreed with that assessment and included it as the lead poem in my new collection, Voices of Legend , that will be published next week.”

“Congratulations, Ethan,” Isolde said.

Given the trepidation on Ethan’s face, Tristan wasn’t so sure felicitations were in order.

“What is the issue?” Hadley’s expression was just as skeptical.

“The poem is titled . . .” Here Ethan closed his eyes. “. . . Isolde .”

“Pardon?” This time Tristan did nothing to stem the autocratic bark of his syllables. “What was that?”

Ethan shot his wife a rather tortured look. Allie nodded as if to say, Get on with it.

Clearing his throat, Ethan continued, “The poem is about Isolde—not our Isolde, of course.” He held a hand out. “But the Isolde of legend—Princess Iseult of Ireland.”

“Ah. Because it is a collection of the Voices of Legend ,” James said, only to have Mac elbow him in the ribs. “What? Meow. It’s true.”

“Precisely.” Ethan beamed at him before turning back to Tristan and real-life Isolde. “And current events aside, Sir Tristan and Princess Iseult of legend are compelling characters.”

“And so ye thought to exploit my daughter, my Izzy?” Hadley growled.

Tristan nodded in agreement. When it came to protecting Isolde, he would always side with his father-in-law.

“No!” Alarm flashed through Ethan’s eyes. “Not at all. I changed the spelling to the Irish Iseult—I-S-E-U-L-T— for that very reason. I didn’t want readers to think of Lady Isolde . . . uhm, pardon, Duchess . . . at all. But . . .”

“But that was before she married a duke named Tristan, and they both drowned and miraculously returned from the dead,” Malcolm finished for him.

Of course, Malcolm Penn-Leith with his perceptive mind would instantly connect the dots to illuminate the larger picture.

Ethan deflated. “It has rather focused attention on the poem.” He looked apologetically at Tristan and Isolde. “In my defense, as soon as ye announced your betrothal, I attempted to have the poem removed from the book, but it had already gone to press. So . . .” He spread his hands in a here we are shrug.

“And now Her Majesty has summoned us for a soirée and a reading.” Tristan waved the foolscap clutched in his hand. “Putting myself—and more significantly—my wife under the microscope of the ton , pinning her to a card like some exotic butterfly to be scrutinized and . . .” He trailed off, not wishing to finish that sentence. But the words found wanting lingered on his tongue.

The ton and his lovely wife’s scandalous reputation were like chalk and cheese—never to exist in harmony. However . . . Tristan and his duchess could hardly refuse a summons from the Queen.

A terrible sinking sensation dropped through Tristan’s bones.

This was all happening too soon.

He desperately needed more time to settle into being a husband before returning to his role as the mighty Duke of Kendall. He had changed fundamentally, and his psyche required time to set. To cure and harden into this new persona before facing the bracing winds of London society and the specter of his former autocratic self. Kendall and Tristan needed to merge into a new form. What that form should be, he couldn’t say. Not yet, at least.

Before his marriage, Tristan had been focused on gaining political power. The quest had consumed his life. But Isolde and her unconventional past had put an end to those goals. A gentleman who wished for a future in politics could not marry an outspoken, fiery lass who had traveled halfway around the world for a university education. She was too scandalous. Yet, he had relinquished his aspirations with no regrets. Isolde’s heart was a more coveted prize than the Prime Minister’s seat.

However, who was he now? Aside from loving Isolde, what purpose or focus should consume his future? And how could he navigate London with the question so unsettled?

Grimacing, Tristan looked down at Isolde, noting the strained worry in her eyes. Surely, she must feel the same regarding her own past. Heavens above, he would do anything to spare her this. To spare them both.

“We’re for London, then?” Mac asked.

“Appears so,” Hadley grimaced.

Tristan hated this feeling—the sensation of a cage clanging shut, of events racing out of his control and trapping him without his consent.

“Well,” Hadley continued, gaze dropping to the chained stone forgotten at Tristan’s feet, “ye do still need to throw, Duke. I feel we all would like to know who is going to be rowing that dinghy before we call it a day.”

As one, they all turned to stare at the boat wobbling on the lake’s surface.

“Go on,” Isolde murmured, eyes shining up at Tristan. “I believe in ye.” And to prove her point, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips before stepping back.

Predictably, Mac and James made loud kissing noises, teasing their older sister. Tristan gave the brothers his most ducal stare, waiting until they stuttered into silence.

Idioti , the both of them.

Holding their gaze, he leaned in and kissed his wife again, simply because he could.

That sorted, he turned back to the chained stone with a sigh. Motioning for everyone to stand back, he bent down and grasped the iron chain with both hands, sucking in a deep breath. Spinning in a tight circle, bonnet ribbons smacking his face, he grunted with the weight of the stone. With each turn of his body, questions whirled in his mind—How would he fare in London? What could he do to protect Isolde from cruel tongues? And how quickly could they quit Town for Wiltshire?

Unfortunately, his mind was distracted and, at the last moment, the fruit on his bonnet lost its war with gravity. The fruit slipped forward on the straw brim, causing the whole thing to sag and block his vision. Startled, Tristan released the stone.

It landed wildly off course.

Naturally, Hadley laughed.

“ Och , ye be having a poor run of luck today.” He slapped Tristan’s back yet again before pointing to the bobbing skiff. “Tighten that bonnet. Ye have a boat to row.”

Tristan swallowed. You love Isolde , he thought for the fourteenth time.

Shooting her a long-suffering look, he nodded and trudged down to the water’s edge, praying this run of ill luck didn’t portend worse things for their future.