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

SEVEN

7

I solde clutched that promise right through to the next morning, holding it in her thoughts like a child’s fist around a peppermint stick.

She awoke to gray sunlight glinting around cracks in the shutters and the faint sense that some noise had disturbed her sleep.

Frowning, she stared into the silent room, hearing nothing more than Tristan’s soft breathing at her side.

Nonsense.

She wasn’t ready to arise quite yet.

Sighing, she burrowed deeper into Tristan’s arms.

A knock rang on their bedchamber door.

Gracious. Was that the sound that had awakened her? And who would disturb them at this hour? Tristan had given strict orders last night that they were not to be roused. They intended to have a long lie-in and then leave around luncheon for the countryside and Hawthorn.

The knock sounded again, more urgent this time.

Tristan groaned, eyes still closed.

Gently, Isolde pulled back from his arms.

“No,” he breathed, holding her fast. “Stay.”

She kissed his cheek before wiggling out of his embrace. “Let me at least send whoever it is away.”

He acquiesced with a frowning pout, his closed eyelashes fanning his upper cheek. Unable to resist, she pressed her lips to each of his eyelids in turn before sliding out of their bed.

Drawing on Tristan’s silk banyan, Isolde crossed to the door and opened it a crack.

“Yes?”

Fredericks stood on the other side. “I am terribly sorry for the disturbance, Your Grace, but your presence is needed immediately downstairs.”

Alarm zinged down Isolde’s spine. “Whatever is the matter?”

“I cannot say. But Lord and Lady Hadley are in the library and have requested to speak with Your Grace immediately.”

Isolde stared down at the copy of The London Tattler in her father’s hands.

“It scarcely makes sense.” She pressed fingertips to her forehead.

“Unfortunately, these things don’t have to make sense.” Lady Hadley wrapped an arm around Isolde’s shoulders.

“ Eejits , the lot of them,” Hadley grunted, snapping the newspaper and tossing it atop the map table.

Isolde pressed a hand to her stomach and the wretched nervousness gathered there. First, the Queen’s barbs from last night—the veiled threat to Tristan, the demand that Isolde needed to alter fundamental parts of herself in order to fit in with the ton . And now this? What were they to do? How could Tristan—

Snick.

The library door opened and Tristan strode in. Unlike Isolde, who still wore his dressing gown, he had at least taken the time to comb his gray hair and pull on a pair of trousers and a white shirt with a silk banyan overtop.

His eyes met hers. “Whatever has happened?”

The anxiety in her gut clenched, and Isolde feared she would be sick. Poor Tristan. He didn’t deserve this. He had known what marrying a scandalous woman like herself might bring, but to experience—

“Isolde?” Tristan crossed and pulled her trembling body into his arms. She melted into his chest, her elbows tucking in at her sides, her hands trapped between them. The warm smell of him engulfed her—soap, sandalwood, and male skin. He ran a soothing palm down her spine, and her eyes drifted closed. Anything to shut out the world and tamp down the frustrationembarassmentanger currently racing through her veins.

“This is what happened,” Hadley said from behind her, followed by the sound of a finger tapping on paper.

Isolde knew the moment Tristan registered what the newspaper depicted. She could feel it in his sharp inhalation and the sudden tensing of his muscles.

The newspaper drawing burned in her mind, projecting onto the back of her eyelids.

The damaging image was a scathing political cartoon printed large on the second page of The Tattler . A lampoon of Ethan’s poem of Princess Iseult, captioned “When Legends Go Awry” in scrolling letters.

The paper showed a drawing of Isolde, Duchess of Kendall—her red hair, freckles, and ridiculous height easily identifiable—a book titled The Science of Infidelity peeking out from the pocket of her dress. She was drawn in an amorous embrace with a smarmy, villainous-looking Stephen Jarvis with the label “Tristan” scrawled above his head. On the other side of the drawing stood the real Tristan—the Duke of Kendall complete with sharp jawline, gray hair, and an exaggerated nose—looking off into the distance like a prize idiot, oblivious to his wife’s perfidious ways. The crown on his head read “King Mark.” The text underneath stated, “Methinks, the man of power does not know what occurs under his own nose.”

Merely the thought of all the cartoon implied sent bile climbing Isolde’s throat once more. Even a rumor of such indiscretion would destroy a lady.

In short, it was a disaster.

Stephen Jarvis had been convicted of fraud not even two months ago in a high-profile trial. As his father was a member of the peerage, the case had received an inordinate amount of attention. Everyone would recognize Isolde’s supposed lover in the drawing.

That Jarvis had known close ties to Lord Hadley and had spent time in Boston added credence to the story. How someone had uncovered Isolde’s foolish behavior with Jarvis . . . she would likely never know. It was entirely possible—almost likely, in fact—that some associate of Jarvis’s had leaked the information in a childish retaliation for his conviction.

Naturally, no one seemed to care that Jarvis was already on a boat to Australia and was nowhere near London or Isolde. Such pragmatic details were superfluous when there was salacious gossip to be had.

In the end, Isolde supposed the truth was rather irrelevant. The damage had been done, regardless.

Tristan’s body had gone intensely still around her. Abruptly, she was glad she couldn’t see his face—to witness his expression move from curiosity to outrage to dismay to, possibly, regret. Or worse, to watch him retreat deep within his Kendall self as if his soft Tristan soul needed to be protected from her notoriety.

Isolde’s reputation had already been teetering on the edge of disaster. This would see it shattered entirely. Would she even be received anymore? For herself, she wasn’t concerned. But for Tristan and their children’s sake, she cared immensely.

“Those bastards,” Tristan hissed, the words rumbling through Isolde’s body. “Who furnished them with this malevolent tripe? Can we sue The Tattler for libel?”

Tears stung her eyes. This dear man. She did not deserve him. Not his instant defense of her nor his loving heart. How she hated being yet one more problem for him to fix as if the weight of the dukedom and its thousands were not already sufficient alone.

“Unlikely,” her father said with a sigh. “If the allegations were entirely without merit, then possibly. But as we all know there to be a thread of truth to the claim . . .”

Isolde flinched.

“Andrew,” Lady Hadley said softly, “Isolde didn’t know Jarvis was married when she met him in Boston.”

“Of course, Izzy didn’t,” Lord Hadley agreed. “But try convincing the nosy nebbies of the ton about it. They’ll be blethering on about this until next Spring at the least. It’s a disaster.”

Her mother sighed.

Tristan remained rock still. Blood pulsed in Isolde’s ears. Would the repercussions of her youthful stupidity ever end?

Silence hung in the room.

Isolde stirred in Tristan’s arms, thinking to step back, but he held her fast, refusing to let her go. She felt his lips brush her hair.

“Well,” her mother said, “though I know you both wished to leave for Hawthorn today, unfortunately, I think we will all need to remain in Town for a while yet.”

Isolde’s spirits plummeted. Stay here? With Aubrey and Lady Lavinia in residence?

“Though it pains me, I agree,” Tristan said on an exhaled breath. “If we leave now, it will appear we are running from the scandal. That we feel the rumor has merit.”

“Precisely,” Lady Hadley said. “The best antidote is to be seen and pretend like the cartoon is merely a ridiculous bit of nonsense. To that end, Isolde and I will leave calling cards, informing acquaintances of our intention to remain in Town, and begin morning visits.”

Her mother’s words sent Isolde’s spirits even lower. She detested morning visits—small talk and taking tea with ladies who said cruel things in elegant tones. It was torture, pure and simple.

But as Isolde’s reckless behavior had led them to this moment, suffering through a handful of awkward visits was a suitable penance. She would keep a stiff upper lip and endure it like the foul-tasting physic it was.

“I’ll stop by the printer’s office and let them know of my displeasure,” Hadley said. “Whoever provided the newspaper with this information will feel the edge of my wrath.”

“I should very much like to join you in that, Hadley,” Tristan said.

Isolde turned her head in Tristan’s embrace, resting her cheek against his breastbone. “How long will we need to stay?”

“At least a month, I would think,” her mother replied.

A month? At what point would Isolde’s heart simply sink through the floor and into the earth below?

“And I wonder . . .” Lady Hadley’s voice drifted off.

“What are you pondering, my love?” her father asked.

Her mother sighed. “I think we should consider a ball.”

“Us?”

“No . . . Isolde and Tristan. Their first ball together as husband and wife. If we host the ball for them, then it’s not a powerful statement. But if the Duke and Duchess of Kendall hold a ball . . . well, then it becomes an event. A bold stance, if you will. A direct challenge to any who would disparage our Isolde.”

“A b-ball?” Isolde hated the tremor in her voice. Just pondering all the work hosting a ball would entail sent her thoughts reeling—the invitations, the decorations, the food, the extra staff to be hired. Not to mention the potential tinderbox of herself as a hostess. And what if, after all that, no one came?

“Yes, darling,” her mother said. “But I shall be here to assist you, as will Lady Allegra, I am sure. You will not be alone in this endeavor. We will ensure it is a raging success. I don’t think the dukedom has hosted a ball in at least two decades.”

“You are likely correct, Lady Hadley,” Tristan said. “Such entertainments were beneath my father’s dignity. Holding one now is a brilliant suggestion, as much as I personally dislike the thought. Of course, Isolde will shine.” He said the words boldly enough, but Isolde could hear the forced cheer in his voice.

“There you are,” Lady Hadley said. “A magnificent ball at Gilbert House, the first in over a generation. No one will be able to resist. And one cannot shun a lady and attend her ball at the same time. It will force the ton to choose a side. And I suspect everyone will side with attending. If nothing else, it will nearly guarantee that no one cuts our Isolde directly.”

Morning visits and now a ball?

It didn’t matter. Isolde would see her way through them. She had to. It was the least she owed Tristan for making such a muck of everything.

She ordered her tense stomach to settle.

Tristan hugged her tighter.

“All will be well, my love,” he whispered in her ear. “I shall see to it.”

At his words, alarm bells sounded in Isolde’s mind.

No!

This was not Tristan’s problem to solve. She was not his problem to solve. As Her Majesty’s chiding words had proved last night, Isolde’s tattered reputation was already a burden enough for him. Forcing others to accept her would solve nothing.

Isolde needed to rehabilitate her reputation herself.

Though he diligently tried to appear the unwavering ally, Isolde suspected that the real trick in all of this would be convincing Tristan himself that, despite her spectacular failures in the past, she could and would conquer this one on her own.