TWO
2
I solde leaned a shoulder against the door jamb between the bedchamber and bathing room, brazenly watching her husband bathe.
Poor Tristan had only made it halfway across the lake before the wee boat lost its battle with entropy and sank to a watery grave. Thankfully, he was a strong swimmer, but her brothers had teased him mercilessly when he pulled himself from the water—soaking wet with the bonnet plastered to his head and dripping into his eyes.
For her part, Isolde had merely enjoyed the sight of her husband’s white shirt turned transparent and painted over the chiseled planes of his chest. He might be a duke, but Tristan was no stranger to exercise, and it showed.
Now, Isolde took full advantage of their marital state and ogled him freely as he rinsed the lake water from his bare skin.
Ever forward-thinking, her father had installed modern bathing rooms off every bedchamber when he built Muirford House nearly forty years ago. Each room was similarly fitted—a substantial iron clawfoot bathtub with a creamy painted interior sitting in the middle of a tiled floor, a porcelain washing basin to one side, and a commode in one corner.
At the moment, Tristan relaxed against the rear curve of the tub—arms resting on the brim, head tilted back, eyes closed—looking eerily like a Michelangelo sculpture come to life. It was moments like this when his Italian heritage surged to the forefront, acres of bronze Mediterranean skin and prematurely gray hair clinging in curly strands to his forehead.
“What will you do about Her Majesty’s invitation, my love?” Isolde asked into the quiet.
If he heard her, Tristan didn’t show it. Instead, he languidly dipped a hand into the bath and scooped a handful of water onto his chest.
No one would take this man for a pampered English duke. He looked more akin to a Barbary pirate relaxing in a harem’s bath—the taut power of his broad shoulders merely wanting an excuse to spring into action.
“What shall I do?” Tristan said conversationally, eyes still closed. “Well, if you keep looking at me like that, Wife, you will soon find yourself ravished, which will result in us being late for dinner.”
The smooth rumble of his aristocratic vowels rolled over Isolde’s senses.
“Wouldn’t that be a tragedy?”
The faintest smile curved his lips. “It will be when your mother gives us a scolding, and your brothers say something lascivious that I find offensive. I should hate to have to challenge one of them to a duel.”
“Choose Mac. He’s a terrible shot.”
Tristan’s smile morphed into a low chuckle. “I was thinking more rapiers by moonlight, not pistols at dawn.”
“How very romantic of ye.”
“Romance, eh?” Tristan opened his dark eyes—pools of melting chocolate . . . Isolde’s favorite treat. “I appreciate the direction of your thoughts, but my original concern still stands.” His eyes flitted up and down, openly admiring her dressing gown and the loose chemise underneath. A low warmth gathered in Isolde’s belly. She could practically see all the delightful activities his look portended.
“Ye be misdirecting, my love,” she said.
“It’s working.”
“We should discuss Her Majesty’s summons.”
“Come here.” His eyes danced with hunger.
“Nae.” She knew this tactic of his and had no intention of finding herself toppled into his bathwater, dressing gown and all. If he kissed her, she would lose herself to his touch and forget everything else.
“Isolde.”
“Tristan.”
They stared at one another for two heartbeats.
“The fact that ye are avoiding the topic tells me all I need to know,” she said. “Ye be worried.”
“Of course, I’m worried. I would much rather sail back to our island and shut ourselves away from the world. Let Polite Society go hang for all I care.”
“Canna is hardly our island, my love. It belongs to Clan MacLean.” Though even as she said the words, Isolde experienced a stab of longing. It did feel like their island. A refuge from pressure and expectation.
“Clan MacLean should sell it to me.”
“Now, ye are being ridiculous.”
“Hardly. Come here,” he repeated, this time using his stern Kendall voice. The one he knew turned her kneecaps to jelly, the wretch. “You are too far away, and I miss kissing my wife.”
Shaking her head, Isolde sashayed slowly into the room, carefully keeping her body out of reach of his long arms. “I’m not sure ye are to be trusted, Husband. Ye aim to distract me.”
“With a kiss?” His expression was pure innocence. “A kiss shouldn’t be distracting unless you wish it to be.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I am happy to oblige.”
Isolde tilted her head in skepticism.
“Or you could be particularly wifely and scrub my back,” he continued.
She studied his obnoxiously benign face.
“Promise to behave.” She pointed a finger at him, a grin tugging her lips. “And I will.”
A smile touched his eyes, but not his mouth. He pressed a palm to his bare chest. “Upon my word as a gentleman.”
Moving in a wide arc to avoid his grabbing hands—Isolde still wasn’t sure she trusted him, word of a gentleman or no—she fetched a sponge from beside the wash basin and a bar of the housekeeper’s renowned lavender soap. Kneeling behind Tristan, she pushed on his spine, urging him to lean forward. He peered at her over his shoulder, dark eyes hooded and glittering. His expression said he knew she was avoiding him and like a giant black panther, he was content to wait for the right moment to pounce.
Dipping the sponge into the warm bath water, Isolde lathered it with soap and began to draw sudsy loops on his back.
“Let me guess what is concerning ye.” She drew the sponge in a bubbly line down the arch of his spine. “Ye be worrit that ye will return to your former autocratic ways once back in familiar London. Become Kendall entirely with only a small portion of Tristan remaining.”
It was her biggest concern, truth be told. That her beloved husband would find himself in London, surrounded by memories of his old ways, and would retreat deep within—protecting his soft Tristan self behind the steely armor of the Duke of Kendall.
“Perhaps a little.” He arched his back, muscles pulling between his shoulder blades. “I feel the key to avoiding that will be determining how to spend my days . . . what my purpose will be. As Kendall, I was obsessed with power and that necessitated a certain ruthlessness. That is no longer my focus, but my life requires a purpose. Some work to do. How do you think I should occupy my time?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? “I am sure my father would have suggestions.”
Tristan’s shoulders bunched. Isolde knew he was not a proponent of gentlemen directly managing their own business affairs, as her father did.
“I shall ponder it,” he said, neutrally. By which, Isolde understood he would not be discussing the matter with Hadley. “Regardless of what I choose, I have faith that my formidable wife will lecture me should I slip into old habits.”
“True. I have never shied away from that.” She squeezed the water from the sponge, letting it drip down his spine. “So if it is not yourself . . . then perhaps I am the source of your concern?”
He said nothing, but those same muscles contracted, tensing with her words.
“Ah, so it is myself that worries ye,” she continued. “Ye be nervous about my ability to navigate Polite Society in London.”
“I do not doubt your abilities, Duchess.”
Her eyebrows raised in disbelief, but she let his words pass unchallenged.
He sensed her doubt regardless.
“That is my truth,” he said. “You are more than capable, my love. I am a duke. I lead. I don’t follow. You are an Amazon and a warrior. You will lead with me.”
She rewarded his kind words with a press of her lips to his nape.
Reaching back, he cupped the back of her head and, turning his head, tugged her in for a slow, hungry kiss. As usual, their mouths touched and she combusted, sparks igniting along her skin and stoking the heat simmering in her abdomen. How she adored this—the drugging give of his mouth, the rumble of need in his chest.
Hmm.
Maybe, they could be a wee bit late for dinner . . .
He broke off the kiss and she chased his lips, demanding more.
“Now who is proving a distraction,” he murmured against her mouth.
“It’s one ye like very much.”
“Indeed, it is.” He gave her one last searing kiss before turning and proffering his back once more, tapping his right shoulder for her to scrub there.
Isolde obliged him. “I am strong, my love. I am an earl’s daughter and the granddaughter of a duke, thanks to my mother. I was raised to know precisely how to navigate the upper echelons of the ton . I have often chosen not to do so, but that doesn’t mean I am ignorant of what my behavior should be.”
Tristan said nothing, but she knew him well enough to guess at his thoughts.
“Ye be concerned,” she continued, “that because I have made unorthodox choices as an adult—my education and university degree chief among them—I will remain an outsider, despite my pedigree. That because Her Majesty still does not approve of myself, others in the ton will take their cues from her and treat me poorly.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Isolde rinsed his back, water pouring over his shoulders and cascading down his spine.
“Once upon a time, you didn’t care about earning the ton’s approval,” he finally said, voice quiet. “I seem to remember some rather sharp words after our marriage.”
“Aye, well . . . that was before I fell in love with your surly self.” Isolde stood and returned the sponge and soap to the wash basin, drying her hands on a towel. “Before I started to see ourselves as united in our future. I want our children to have every opportunity. I want ye to be able to realize every political goal ye may have. And to do that, I must begin rehabilitating my own reputation. An evening with the Queen will be the perfect place to start.”
She rounded the side of the bathtub, looking down at him.
“I don’t like this.” He scowled up at her. “I do not like that this odd summons from Her Majesty upset our tranquility. I do not like having to place you in situations where you will suffer others’ cruelty.”
“Ye can’t coddle me like a hothouse lily, Tristan.”
“Watch me.”
Smiling, she shook her head. “Ye be spouting absurdities again. I wish to be your duchess in every sense— ergo , ye will need to let me be your duchess.”
“Very well,” he sighed. “We will depart tomorrow for Gilbert House in London. But I want it noted that I refuse to stay long in Town. We will attend Her Majesty’s summons, listen to Penn-Leith recite whatever latest masterpiece he has written, and then we will leave the next morning for Hawthorn. There will be time in other years to mend worn reputations.”
“Very well.”
“Now . . . about that favor I am owed.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.” He abruptly grinned, looking far too much like a mischievous lad for Isolde’s peace of mind. “I shall be collecting it . . . right . . . now.”
She realized his intent too late. Lunging forward, Tristan snatched her wrist and tugged her to the side of the bathtub. Her balance upset, Isolde toppled into the bath with a loud screech. Warm water instantly soaked her chemise and dressing gown.
“Tristan,” she gasped, looping an arm around his neck, her shoulders coming to rest against one side of the tub and her knees crooked on the other.
“Much better,” he said, hand threading into her hair and pulling her mouth to his.
Isolde thought about protesting for approximately two seconds before melting into his kiss. As ever, the touch of his lips ignited her senses—like the world abruptly drowning in golden color.
Well.
This was actually lovely.
Tristan laughed wickedly and set about plundering her neck. Her arms wound around his neck, holding him to her.
Mmm, decidedly lovely in fact.
Dinner would simply have to wait.