TWELVE
12
T he next morning, Isolde found herself sitting in the library, writing out invitations to the ball. Doing some rudimentary math, she figured if she wrote out twelve a day, she would be finished by the end of the week.
Granted, she had laid abed long after Tristan departed for a ride in Hyde Park. Part of her had wanted to ask him to stay. To insist that they remain in their chambers all day. In fact, she had begun kissing him with precisely that intent, but before she could form the words, he had so thoroughly distracted her with his hungry lovemaking, she could scarcely remember her own name, much less her hopes for the day.
By the time she woke again, he was gone and her request remained unspoken. She knew he was anxious, hoping to receive news today from Mrs. Tolman about Ledger’s banking friend. Tristan’s early ride was merely a way to pass the hours and work off his nervous energy.
Still, she had shuffled across to his cold side of the bed and wrapped her arms around his pillow. Pressing her nose into the goose down, she breathed in the lingering scent of him. Anything to feel closer to her husband.
After a leisurely breakfast in bed, Isolde had pulled on a voluminous dressing gown and made her way downstairs to the library to finish her allotted twelve invitations. She had just completed number seven when Lady Lavinia strode into the room.
“Oh!” She paused just inside the doorway. “I did not realize you were in here. I wished to consult a book on . . .” A long pause ensued as Lady Lavinia scrambled for a potential topic. “. . . voyaging.”
Isolde barely suppressed an eye roll. Truly, Lady Lavinia needed to prepare more convincing lies in advance.
Though she knew she shouldn’t, Isolde couldn’t help but ask, “Voyaging?”
“Of course. The art of travel, if you will. Did your university education not cover that, Your Grace?”
Honestly.
Isolde bit back a sigh.
Matters with Lady Lavinia were not improving. It seemed the more Tristan, Isolde, or Lady Hadley laid down the law, the more Lady Lavinia pushed against it. She brought up her mother’s close relationship with Queen Victoria at every opportunity and regularly implied that her mother was noble and oh-so-kind not to eviscerate Isolde’s reputation at Court.
“No,” Isolde said. “I daresay my professors preferred weightier topics, like how to calculate the velocity of a ship amid a long voyage and then use that speed to determine the time to port.”
Lady Lavinia pursed her lips into a judgmental moue.
Isolde pulled her dressing gown tightly around her shoulders with one hand. “Are ye planning a journey then, Lady Lavinia?”
The sooner, the better, in Isolde’s opinion.
“Perhaps.” Lady Lavinia folded her hands primly at her waist.
“Aye, well, our library here has a great many books on travels.” Isolde gestured toward the shelves. “I am sure ye will find something to your liking in no time at all.” And, God willing, it will inspire ye to relocate to California , she thought.
Lady Lavinia crossed to the books and pulled a tome off of a shelf, inspecting the title page and then returning it. Isolde went back to her writing, though she could feel Lady Lavinia’s eyes on her from time to time.
“Writing out invitations, I see,” Lady Lavinia said, abruptly appearing at Isolde’s elbow.
Only a lifetime of dealing with sneaky younger brothers prevented Isolde from startling and blotting her paper with ink.
“Aye,” she replied without looking up.
A pause.
Lady Lavinia remained at Isolde’s side, peering over her shoulder.
Isolde set down her pen and looked up. “May I help ye, Lady Lavinia?”
“I find your Scottish accent so very endearing,” she said with the feigned nonchalance of a spider spinning a web and laying in wait for its prey.
Isolde recognized the words for the lie they were.
“Thank ye,” she replied with equal insincerity.
“Oh, and I found a book to my liking.” Lady Lavinia lifted the book in question, but her smile did not reach her eyes.
“Lovely.” Isolde looked back to the invitation.
“I decided against a book on travel.”
“Indeed.”
“I chose La Mort D’Arthur , instead. I hear it’s a fascinating read.”
Isolde forced herself to not react. Damn this woman. She had deliberately chosen a tome on the legend of Tristan and Isolde. Mischief certainly was her game.
“I wish ye happy reading of it,” Isolde said.
Lady Lavinia rounded the small desk where Isolde worked, effectively blocking the sunlight from the large window and dimming the room. Isolde looked up, forcing her face to reflect nothing but bland interest. She knew that the Lady Lavinias of the world thrived on attention and reaction.
She would give the woman neither.
Lady Lavinia ran a finger over the leather-bound cover. “I wished to refresh my memory of the Arthurian tales and satisfy my curiosity.”
Isolde raised an eyebrow.
“In the legend,” Lady Lavinia continued, “Sir Tristan is forced to fall in love with Princess Iseult, but as soon as the love potion wanes, he disavows her again. I don’t think Iseult was ever actually wanted, poor thing. Sir Tristan’s affections vanish as quickly as they began.” She flipped through the pages of the book nonchalantly.
Bloody hell but this woman was horrid.
Had Isolde doubted Tristan’s affections in the slightest, Lady Lavinia’s pathetic attempt to sow discord might have worked. As it was . . .
“Indeed. How interesting,” she said with an uncaring shrug. And then, in a flash of inspired brilliance—or perhaps stupidity . . . time would tell—Isolde deliberately adjusted the collar of her dressing gown, causing the neckline to sag dangerously low for a fraction of a second.
Just long enough for Lady Lavinia to see the red love mark Tristan had left there earlier in the day.
The woman stiffened.
Isolde tugged her gown tight once more, but try as she might, she couldn’t keep a smug look from her face.
Lady Lavinia swallowed, eyes shooting daggers. “I shall leave you to your writing, Your Grace.”
Isolde watched as the woman all but stomped out the door, skirts swishing.
Mmm.
That might not have been her finest hour.
What would Lady Lavinia do in retaliation?
Because if Isolde knew anything, she and Lady Lavinia were at war.
Isolde didn’t have to wait long for Lady Lavinia’s next attack.
A few hours later, Isolde sat in the large drawing room on the second floor of Gilbert House. An opulent space, it featured not one, but two marble fireplaces. The walls sported gilded mirrors and sconces, silk wallpaper, and priceless artwork by Rembrandt and Caravaggio.
In short, it was a room fit for a powerful duke and his duchess.
It did little to quell the anxiety roiling Isolde’s stomach and threatening to upend her breakfast. She was unsure which she disliked more—making morning calls with her mother or receiving them.
At the moment, they were to be on the receiving end. Isolde, her mother, Allie, and Lady Lavinia all attentively waited for guests to arrive. If they arrived, that was.
The prim smugness on Lady Lavinia’s face loudly proclaimed her wishes for how the day would go.
Isolde took a deep breath and smoothed her skirts.
The knocker sounded from the entrance hallway below.
Hallelujah.
A few moments later, Fredericks ushered in Lady Lockheade and her youngest daughter, Lady Alexandra Whitaker. Both petite and blonde, the ladies were old family friends of the Hadleys. Lord Hadley and Lord Lockheade had known each other for decades and had even voyaged to the South Pacific together.
Isolde rushed to greet them, arms spread wide in welcome.
“Lady Lockheade,” she said, pressing a kiss to the older woman’s cheek and remembering at the last moment to not call her Aunt Lottie . They were not related, but Lord and Lady Lockheade had always felt like family.
“Lady Alexandra,” Isolde said.
Lady Alexandra showed no such restraint. She hugged Isolde boldly. “I am so thrilled for your marriage, Duchess.”
“As am I,” Isolde smiled. Perhaps morning hours wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all. “Won’t you please be seated?”
Fifteen minutes later, the room was buzzing with ladies. Most were close friends or relatives—kudos to Lady Hadley for convincing her niece, the current Duchess of Montacute, to attend—but many were mere acquaintances keen to see how the new Duchess of Kendall was faring in her august role.
The tea cart was brought in, and Isolde set about pouring. It was one of the first rituals a lady learned to perform, and she refused to be found remiss in her execution of it.
Carefully, she tipped the teapot at the precisely correct angle, inquired how the Duchess of Montacute took her tea, and added the required spoon of sugar. The cup was dutifully passed to Her Grace, and Isolde moved on to Lady Lockheade, the next lady in order of precedence.
She had just handed Lady Lockheade her teacup when the Duchess of Montacute began coughing uncontrollably.
Isolde and Lady Hadley turned to Her Grace.
“Is ought amiss, Duchess?” Isolde asked.
Red-cheeked and still coughing, the Duchess waved a hand in front of her face.
“You have”— cough —“put salt, not sugar”— cough —“into my tea.”
Mortification swamped Isolde. The crystals in the sugar dish certainly appeared less lumpish and brown than normal. Hesitantly, she tested a tiny amount.
Salt.
Bollocks.
“Surely, Your Grace,” the duchess continued, her coughing mostly passed, though she kept a hand pressed to her bosom, “your housekeeper and cook are more competent than this?”
The implication, of course, was that Isolde herself was incompetent in her management of the household staff.
“I shall speak with them immediately, Your Grace. I am terribly sorry for this mishap.”
Standing, Isolde crossed to the door.
Unable to help herself, her eyes flickered to Lady Lavinia.
The woman’s tiny smirk of triumph and the twitch of her ferrety nose needed no interpretation.
After the tea debacle, Isolde struggled to calm herself.
The ton had already shown they had no tolerance for her eccentricities. An inability to properly manage her household merely added more fuel to the fire. She fully expected to hear snide comments along the lines of, “What is the point in gaining a university education if the duchess cannot oversee simple household matters?”
Mrs. Wilson had been beside herself over the sugar mishap. Isolde assured the woman she was not to blame. Lady Lavinia had clearly meddled in the kitchen. To avoid future mishaps, Isolde left instructions that she be informed anytime Lady Lavinia descended to the servant’s domain in the basement of the house.
Her mother was apoplectic when she learned of Lady Lavinia’s role in the salt debacle.
“You should have Kendall toss her out immediately,” Lady Hadley fumed. “Such meddling is beyond the pale.”
“I cannot prove that Lady Lavinia actually replaced the sugar with salt, Mamma. It is merely my supposition.”
“We both know that Kendall will believe your word.”
“Aye, he will. But if I am to be a proper duchess, I cannot run to him every time I encounter a difficulty. I need to fight my own battles. No one will respect me otherwise.”
Her mother sighed. “I fear I have taught you too well, my dear.”
Isolde managed a wan smile. “Ye have indeed, Mamma, and I love ye dearly for it. I couldn’t survive this hellish month without yourself at my side.”
Lady Hadley wrapped an arm around Isolde’s waist, holding her close. “Your present circumstances would try a saint.”
“I have been burnishing my halo, I assure ye.”
“Perhaps one day, we will laugh at all this.”
“Perhaps,” Isolde agreed, “but not yet. Now, if ye don’t mind, I think I have earned myself a nap.”
Lady Hadley shook her head, kissed Isolde’s cheek, and as she had since Isolde’s earliest memory, wished her sweet dreams.
The jittery agitation would not let Tristan be. It had a hold on him, tensing his breathing and setting his muscles to bouncing as the energy searched for an outlet.
It was now afternoon, and he still hadn’t heard word from Mrs. Tolman. Should he give it one more day before hiring an investigator? Or post a notice in The Times ? Both?
Regardless, the minutes dragged forward.
Worry over Isolde and Ledger mixed with that same boredom. The emotions nipped at his heels as restlessly as an irritated hound.
Isolde had her first at-home hours today, and so Tristan had made himself scarce—visiting first his cobbler and then inspecting the SS Statesman still docked in St. Katherine’s Wharf.
When he returned home, Fredericks reported that Isolde’s at home had been well attended. But Isolde herself remained closeted with Lady Hadley in the small drawing room. He stood outside the door—fingers tapping against his thigh—listening to the murmur of their voices, wanting to knock but knowing he should respect Isolde’s wishes and wait.
Tristan detested this idleness.
Finally, he broke. He ordered Fredericks to prepare a stack of logs and an axe in the small courtyard in the mews to the back of the house and requested the servants make themselves scarce.
Tristan didn’t wish for an audience.
Dressed in trousers, braces, and shirtsleeves, he carefully sharpened the axe before rolling a thick log into the center of the courtyard.
The axe sank into the wood with a satisfying thunk.
Five minutes later, he had established a steady rhythm.
Damn, this felt good. He was going to produce enough firewood to fuel all of Mayfair before he was done.
Chopping and splitting wood was not something a duke generally learned to do. But some of Tristan’s happiest childhood memories had happened with the gamekeeper, Auld Graeme, in the forests of Hawthorn. There, the brusque Scot taught Tristan to tend to wounded animals and chop wood for his keep. The repetitive motion of swinging an axe, the bite of steel into wood, had soothed his battered soul. It was a useful occupation—trees turning from trunks to rounds to splintered quarters ready for the fire.
Tristan had nearly forgotten about those long days with Auld Graeme. That was until Tristan and Isolde had washed ashore on the Isle of Canna, and their week on the isolated island resurrected his childhood pastimes. On the island, chopping wood had been a way to care for his wife, to ensure she was warm and had a fire for cooking.
The man Tristan had been three months ago would choke in shame over his current behavior. Now, he simply didn’t care. He liked chopping wood. He liked caring for his wife. Tristan truly began to wonder if he hadn’t been born into the wrong station in life. He and Isolde should be living in a country cottage, him chopping wood for the bread oven as she kneaded dough.
After fifteen minutes, he took a small break to drink water and pull off his shirt.
A cool breeze wound down the stone-fenced streets and into the mews, cooling his skin.
Time slowed to a blur, his world descending to the sound of the axe and the satisfaction of watching the pile of split logs grow.
He had just tossed several splintered bits into a pile for kindling when he felt eyes on him.
Turning, he noticed Isolde standing just inside the courtyard door, her arms crossed, gaze appreciative. Like on Canna, she was dressed simply in a well-worn gown that spoke more of comfort than fashion.
“Duchess.” He inclined his head.
“Duke.” Closing the door, she walked toward him with hips swaying and a smile curving her lips.
Gratitude swelled his lungs. How many times had he longed to see just such an expression on her face—welcoming and joyful? To know, with a bone-deep surety, that she loved him?
And now . . .
Tristan watched her approach, heat firing in his veins. Bloody hell but she was delectable—the graceful arch of her long neck, the coppery glint of her hair against her fair skin, the stubborn point of her chin that he longed to kiss.
Maybe he would kidnap her and whisk her away to that very island cottage.
She stopped two feet short of touching him. “I heard the tell-tale sound of your axe from our bedchamber and couldn’t resist changing into more homely attire and coming down for a peek.”
“Ah.” Tristan rested the butt of the axe on the ground, putting his weight into the top. “And has that peek been sufficient?”
“Not particularly.” She dragged her eyes up and down his body, lingering appreciatively on his bare chest. “I think I should like to see more of the show if ye don’t mind.”
Chuckling, he dropped his hold on the axe and snatched her around the waist, pulling her body tight against his.
“I didn’t mean this show,” she laughed. “Ye be sweaty.”
“Hush, love. You adore me like this. Don’t deny it.”
She looped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his ear. “Guilty.”
Tristan buried his face in her neck, his lips hungrily nipping at her throat.
And though she melted into him, something wasn’t quite right. There was a tension in her spine. Or a hesitance in her capitulation. Something.
He pulled back. “What is wrong? Fredericks said your at home was well attended. Did something go amiss?”
Part of him expected her to deny it. To insist that all was well, as she had been saying for days now.
But not this time. Instead, she looked upwards on a sigh.
His pulse sped up. “Isolde?”
Finally, she dropped her gaze back to his, fingers skimming over his chest. “I would prefer not to say, but as ye will hear soon enough, there’s no help for it. Yes, my first at home was well attended. However, someone swapped sugar for salt in the sugar bowl. The Duchess of Montacute took a sip of her sea-water tea and nearly coughed up her intestines.”
Tristan swore.
“I have no proof,” Isolde continued, “but I am sure it was Lady Lavinia who made the switch. She visited the kitchens both last night and earlier today.”
Rage momentarily fogged Tristan’s vision. “How dare that harpy!” He dropped his arms and moved to walk around his wife. “She and my idiot of a cousin will be gone by morning, I promise you!”
Isolde wrapped both hands around his elbow and dug in with her heels, forcing him back to her. “Tristan, ye can’t toss them out.”
“I can and I will.”
“My love, ye promised that ye would let me handle this.” She pulled him back into her arms. “If I’m seen as unable to manage my own problems, they will only multiply. I need to stand on my own two feet.”
No!
All of Tristan rebelled at the thought.
Get a hobby , Allie said. Direct your focus.
But all he wanted was this—Isolde in his arms and their life together. Not this unfulfilling half-life where she fought off sniping harpy attacks, and Tristan watched helplessly from the sidelines.
He hated this . . . this feeling of impotency.
He was a duke, for heaven’s sake! Dukes were not made for inaction.
At least, this duke wasn’t.
“You cannot tell me of such nefarious behavior and expect that I won’t do something about it, Isolde.”
Perhaps Tristan would invite Aubrey to go a round or two at a boxing gym. Bloodying the man for sport would be delightful. Or, perhaps just as satisfying, reduce Aubrey’s allowance simply out of spite.
She ran her fingers through Tristan’s hair, nails scraping deliciously across his scalp and pebbling gooseflesh on his shoulders.
“I tell you because I see us as one unified soul,” she whispered. “I tell you to feel your arms around me, to know of your comfort and care. You can’t fix what has happened, but you can love me in its aftermath.”
Tristan grunted, hating the perceptive truth in her words.
Closing his eyes, he went back to nuzzling her throat. Skimming his nose up her neck, Tristan breathed in the delicious scent of her skin—lemons and a hint of soap.
“I confess I am already endlessly tired of our separate lives,” he murmured.
“Me, too.”
“It is cruel that we cannot meet these challenges together, side by side.”
“Aye! We should start a new fashion—husbands attending morning calls alongside their wives, or wives traipsing with their husbands through Tattersalls.”
He smiled. “I would adore that. As is, I cannot wait to dance with you at our ball. To show all of London this glorious siren I have claimed as my own.”
Isolde stiffened in his arms.
Not quite the reaction he expected. Tristan pulled back, a question in his eyes.
She bit her lip.
“Isolde?” he prompted. “Are you not anticipating the same? I intend to spend the entire evening at your side.”
“I am eager for that, too, love.”
Silence.
“But . . . ?” he prompted.
Her gaze darted to the side.
“Isolde?”
“ Icannotdance ,” she said in a rush.
“Pardon?”
She sent her eyes skyward and then sighed. “I cannot dance.”
He frowned. “Whatever do you mean? Surely, the daughter of an earl would have been taught how to dance.”
“I suppose I should have said I don’t dance well. I do technically know how to dance.”
He blinked. Before their marriage, he had noted that Isolde never danced. He had assumed it was due to her scandalous reputation—men didn’t ask her to dance because they didn’t wish to be seen in her company. But the truth panged his heart—Isolde had been politely declining to dance when asked because she felt her ballroom skills to be inferior . . .
“How is that possible?” he asked. “You are athletic and coordinated. I seem to remember you plucking me from a watery grave with your aquatic prowess.”
“Aquatic prowess,” she giggled, the sound bubbling like champagne in Tristan’s veins.
“You know what I mean.”
She laughed harder, forehead pressing against his bare chest. He grinned in return. How he loved her! That she could still find humor and joy after the day she had experienced.
“And now you’re avoiding my question,” he continued with a low chuckle.
“My apologies,” she grinned. “My lack of dancing talent has perplexed my poor mother for many years. It is rooted in my brain’s inability to count bars of music, and my feet’s insistence on attempting to count anyway.”
“I feel derelict in my duties as your husband that I didn’t know this.”
Her grin turned wicked. “Ye have hardly been derelict in your duties as husband.”
Tristan kissed the grin off her lips.
One kiss quickly turned to twenty, and he began to think seriously about dragging her toward their bedchamber.
But first . . .
“Well, I am glad to have learned where I can improve,” he murmured. “And fortunately for you, Duchess, I am a spectacular dancer.”
“Is that so?”
He smiled. “I cannot wait to give you a demonstration.”
And maybe, in the process, he could carve out more time together.
Perhaps Tristan could spend his days with his wife.
He simply needed to be creative.