NINETEEN
19
W hen Lady Hadley first suggested a ball, Isolde had flinched in dismay.
A ball? With herself as hostess?
The horror!
But now that the day had finally arrived . . .
Well, Isolde felt positively giddy.
Tristan had been true to his word—together, they would be the duke and duchess they wished to be, not what society decreed.
To that end, over the past two weeks, Tristan had routed all her enemies and ensured that Isolde was tended to and entertained. Instead of separating each morning to pursue their own activities, they spent their days in each other’s company. They visited museums and the theater. When Isolde hosted visiting hours, Tristan sat at her side. They argued philosophy and gathered before the hearth of an evening, each reading their separate tomes but occasionally engaging in conversation when one asked a compelling question. Often, Allie and Ethan would join them, making a merry party of four.
Most importantly, Isolde did not attend a single event she did not wish to, and neither did Tristan.
In short—life was bliss.
And now, the evening of their ball had arrived at last. All was prepared in readiness. Hopefully, guests would be arriving soon.
Isolde stood before the looking glass in her dressing room, watching as her lady’s maid finished adjusting the silk ballgown hanging from Isolde’s shoulders.
“You look lovely, Duchess,” the woman said, smoothing a bit of cream lace.
“Thank ye.” Isolde turned to the side, admiring the subtle flounces in her full skirt. “I think His Grace will like this dress very much.”
Made of shimmering dark green silk, the gown skimmed her shoulders and cinched her waist and showcased yards of expensive lace. The rich colors set her hair afire. She touched the emerald necklace glinting on her collarbones. Tristan had raided the Gilbert family jewels for her tonight.
A knock sounded.
“Come,” Isolde called.
She knew that bold knock.
Tristan strode through the door, a smile tugging on his lips. To say he looked devastatingly handsome would be like declaring the sun shone in the sky or the ocean stretched to the horizon—a statement so banal, it was patently absurd. The bronze of his Mediterranean skin gleamed against the white of his collar and neckcloth, while the rich black of his evening dress pulled out the remaining dark strands in his gray hair.
“Good evening, my love.” He crossed and pressed a careful kiss to her cheek.
Isolde’s maid dipped a curtsy and departed, closing the door behind her.
“Husband.” Isolde patted his chest.
“You will put every other lady to shame tonight with your brilliance.”
“Thank ye,” she grinned. “That was my plan.”
Tristan laughed and withdrew a slim box from his breast pocket. “For you, my love.”
Ah.
Isolde had heard of this. Of gentlemen gifting their wives jewelry on the evening of important events.
“Are my emeralds currently insufficient?”
Tristan’s expression turned cryptic. “Not precisely. Consider this something to complement them.”
Intrigued, Isolde opened the box.
Inside, instead of finding another necklace or bracelet, she was greeted by a piece of folded parchment.
On a frown, she set down the box and, unfolding the paper, read its contents.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Tristan,” she gasped. “How—”
“My love?” He lifted an eyebrow, face impassive but eyes glinting with humor.
“Ye bought me an island!”
“No, I bought you our island—the Isle of Canna. ’Tis a small but rather important distinction.”
Isolde was already shaking her head. “You can’t purchase an entire island, my love.”
“I’m quite sure I already did. Ledger was delighted to help. Do you not like it? I can send it back.” He reached for the paper.
“No!” She lifted the paper out of his reach. “I love it.” She sniffled back tears. “But what about the caretakers and their family? Mr. and Mrs. Thorburn? Where will they live?”
“I ensured they were taken care of, love. I knew that would be important to you.”
Still shaking her head, Isolde stared at the paper once more. “I can’t believe you purchased our island. Why?”
Tristan grinned at that, low and decidedly wicked. “Some of my best memories happened there. And I very much like the idea of keeping those for myself. Perhaps even repeating them from time to time . . .”
“Tristan!”
His smile softened. “Ah, love. I want a place for us to escape, somewhere away from the pressures of the dukedom and Parliament. I want our children to grow up with memories of us there as a family. I want for us all to go a little feral—chopping wood, racing along the beach, climbing the moorland, and just . . . breathing.”
“Oh! I want that, too. Can we leave tomorrow?”
Tristan pulled her against his chest. “If I could, I would say let’s leave right this instant. But as we have a ball to host, tomorrow will have to do.” He kissed her gently. “Come, Duchess. Let us go show London how balls are done.”
Grinning, her hand threaded through Tristan’s elbow, Isolde descended the main staircase in a rustle of silk. A quick glance at the clock said there were still ten minutes before guests would begin to arrive. And as with all things in London, everyone wished to be fashionably late, so she anticipated a few moments yet of reprieve.
She tugged Tristan into the ballroom. “Let us admire our handiwork before our guests make a hash of it.”
Tristan chuckled. “What do you think they will do? Dandle from the chandelier?”
“I’ve heard stories.”
His eyebrows rose. “Have you now?”
She winked at him.
The ballroom of Gilbert House gleamed in the gaslight like a jewel, cascades of ribbon and greenery hanging from sconces and swagged across the ceiling. A small orchestra of musicians sat tuning their instruments in an alcove at one end.
Isolde took a deep breath, smoothing her skirts with her palms.
Tristan pressed a kiss to her temple. “You will be the toast of London tonight and forever after, Duchess. Mark my words.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
“Without a doubt.”
Isolde turned to look up at him, words stacked on her tongue, but a sharp rap sounded on the front door.
Isolde frowned. “So soon?”
Tristan offered her his arm again. “We set the trends, remember? I think arriving early for one of our renowned entertainments might be a new one.”
Together, they strode into the entryway, smiling as Fredericks and two footmen helped a group of lords and ladies with their coats and hats.
Beyond their shoulders, a string of opulent carriages disappeared around the corner of Grosvenor Square, coachmen patiently waiting to discharge their passengers.
“What did I say?” Tristan murmured. “The toast of London.”
Taking in a deep breath, Isolde turned to their guests, a wide smile on her lips and the warm press of Tristan’s palm against her spine.
“Good evening!” She strode forward, hands outstretched. “Welcome to our home. We are so glad you could join us this evening.”