TEN
10
I solde was exhausted and the day was scarcely half over. Her nerves skittered and hummed, and her stomach tightened as though seized by a swarm of insects. Worse, her eyelids felt laden with sand, and her head kept drooping in sleep. She would need to retire earlier this evening and ensure she got sufficient rest.
She and her mother had left calling cards at the homes of every family member and acquaintance currently in Town. Ostensibly, the cards served the purpose of letting people know that the Duchess of Kendall and her mother, the Countess of Hadley, were in residence and willing to receive callers.
However, everyone would see their calling cards for what they truly were—the new Duchess of Kendall and her allies returning fire after a debilitating enemy attack. Facing the combined righteous condemnation of the ton had not been part of Isolde’s planning—for the day, the week, or quite frankly, ever.
Never before had she so thoroughly appreciated her mother’s strategic understanding of the social mores of their world.
“We must begin organizing the ball,” her mother said as they handed their hats and gloves to Fredericks after returning home from their calling card mission. “Let us summon Mrs. Wilson, as we will certainly require the combined efforts of your household staff, and begin discussing preparations.”
Must we? Isolde longed to say.
Instead, she nodded to her mother before turning to Fredericks. “Has His Grace returned home?”
Maybe Tristan could join them in their planning. Unorthodox, of course, but as the meeting would be behind closed doors . . . who would know? She could rest her head on his shoulder and soak in his strength as they discussed menus and invitation paper.
“His Grace has not yet returned with Lord Hadley, Your Grace.”
“Oh.” That was all Isolde could manage to say, as if the simple syllable could capture the ache in her chest.
It had scarcely been half a day, and she already missed Tristan with a vicious pang. This was the problem with loving her husband with her whole soul, she was coming to realize—when he was away, he took a portion of her with him, and she pined until that portion was returned.
Numbly, Isolde turned and followed her mother into the small drawing room, limbs heavy with fatigue. Fantasies played through her mind—seeking her bed, sleeping the afternoon away, cuddling Tristan when he returned, and filling her lungs with the scent of his sandalwood cologne.
Did she simply need more sleep? Or was she perhaps feeling a tinge of melancholy? Isolde had never been the sort to suffer from a depression of spirit, but so much had happened in recent weeks that a wee stumble would not be surprising.
Most likely, she simply needed a jolt of coffee and food in her belly.
The housekeeper was duly summoned, a pot of coffee and sandwiches delivered, and two hours later, they had composed a comprehensive list of everything that needed to happen.
Tristan still had yet to return. Isolde knew because she cocked an ear toward the entrance hall every time someone opened the front door. But she hadn’t heard the comforting sound of his deep voice.
Exhaustion had Isolde stifling yawns.
“Mrs. Wilson will see to the food and decorations, as well as the hiring of additional staff,” Lady Hadley said after the housekeeper departed, shuffling their foolscap lists on the table where they sat. “You are most fortunate to be inheriting such a competent woman.”
“Aye,” Isolde agreed, her cheek resting on her palm. The coffee had helped somewhat, but her eyelids still sagged as if weighted with lead.
“I will have the haberdasher send over some ribbon samples so we may decide on trim colors for the flowers and chairs. The real challenge will be writing out the invitations.”
“Aye.” That was true. Ideally, all invitations should be hand-addressed by the hostess herself. Which, of course, Isolde would do. But as they wished the ball to be a crush, that meant a significant number to be written.
Maybe after a good night’s rest, Isolde would feel up to—
Snick.
The door opened. Isolde jerked upright as Lady Lavinia swished into the room.
“Oh,” she paused in mock surprise, hand pressed to her bosom, “I apologize for the intrusion. I didn’t realize this room was occupied.”
Truly, the woman should be a better actress if she wished to feign innocence. She knew perfectly well she was interrupting.
“May we help ye, Lady Lavinia?” Isolde asked.
Lady Lavinia looked around the room as if searching for a convincing lie to account for her intrusion, but then, with a small shrug, gave up the pretense entirely.
“Mrs. Wilson mentioned that there is to be a ball? Here? At Gilbert House?”
Ah. There it was. Lady Lavinia’s nosiness laid bare.
“There is. In just over three weeks’ time.” Lady Hadley clasped her hands on the table, the white press of her knuckles reflecting Isolde’s own frustration with this woman.
Lady Lavinia’s nose wrinkled. “Three weeks? Isn’t that a bit . . . ambitious, all things considered?”
“Whatever do you mean?” Lady Hadley stared at Lady Lavinia, her face politely bland. Unlike her foe, Isolde’s mother was an excellent actress.
The question put Lady Lavinia on her back foot, her expression faltering.
A smile tugged at Isolde’s lips. Her mother rarely entered the ring swinging as it were, but if anyone could bring out the haughty side of Lady Hadley, it would be Lady Lavinia. In Isolde’s experience, Lady Hadley could be terrifying when provoked.
Bless her mother for knowing exquisitely well how to play these social games.
Lady Lavinia rallied. “I have been hearing such . . . things about Town.” Her gaze deliberately flickered to Isolde, leaving no doubt as to the nature of said things . “I am merely surprised, is all. I would be devastated for you both if no one attended.”
Isolde sincerely doubted Lady Lavinia would feel anything other than glee if Isolde’s first ball as duchess were a disaster.
“I still struggle to understand your meaning, Lady Lavinia,” Lady Hadley repeated. “Please enlighten us as to the people and things that are being said.”
Ah.
Isolde wanted to applaud. Trust her mother to corner Lady Lavinia so effectively. Now, the lady either had to back down or repeat mean gossip to Isolde’s face.
“Oh, I wouldn’t repeat anything,” Lady Lavinia said with saccharine sweetness. “It’s merely, as the daughter of a duke, I understand how these things are arranged perhaps a bit better than others.” Again, her eyes darted to Isolde.
Isolde nearly laughed at her audacity.
Lady Hadley’s expression did not change, but Isolde could feel her mother’s rage rising.
“Is that so?” Lady Hadley said. “As the daughter of a Duke of Montacute myself, I understand your point, Lady Lavinia . . . specifically how gauche it would be, for example, to correct my social superiors.”
Lady Hadley’s words landed with the precision of a sharp fist to the jaw. And given how Lady Lavinia’s expression contracted and her head snapped back, she felt the jolting impact.
She lifted her chin higher. “Of course. I shall leave you ladies to your planning then.” She curtsied and shut the door behind her with a clack.
Isolde and her mother exchanged a long look.
“And there is no way to send them packing?” Lady Hadley asked on a sigh.
Isolde shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. Not without dealing another harsh blow to my reputation.”
“That woman is wretched.”
“Agreed. Allie refers to her as ‘the ferret’.”
Lady Hadley cracked a weary smile. “I do dearly love Lady Allegra. Lavinia does indeed resemble a weasel, now that I think upon it. That is a delicious image.”
“I find it soothing when Lady Lavinia is at her most fractious.”
“You and Tristan may come stay with us, you know.”
Isolde pressed her fingertips to her brow. “Thank you, Mamma, but Tristan will not cede the house to his upstart relatives. Besides, Allie and Ethan are still in residence, and we can hardly abandon them.”
Her mother’s lips pursed. “Don’t hesitate to tell me, your father, or Tristan if matters become too heavy.”
“I won’t,” Isolde said.
But even that felt like a lie. The entire affair already felt too heavy.
What she wanted was quiet and a modicum of peace. To return to Canna and be lulled to sleep by the sound of the ocean and Tristan’s breathing at her back and forget that London and its societal stratagems existed.
However, as Isolde had created this mess, she needed to be the one to see it cleaned.
And clean it, she would.
Tristan’s week did not improve.
None of the servants had any knowledge of Ledger’s sister or her whereabouts. Ledger himself certainly hadn’t appeared. Worry tugged at Tristan’s mind. What had happened to the man?
A part of Tristan’s heart—the tenderest portion, the one that still housed a lonely, friendless boy—couldn’t shake the fear that Ledger was simply avoiding him. That Ledger had fled and said good riddance to Tristan and the duchy altogether.
When studied in the light of day, however, Tristan recognized the thought for the self-pitying refrain that it was. But as he was learning, ofttimes the heart didn’t deal in rationality.
Adding to his woes, Tristan saw little of Isolde during daylight hours. He missed passing the hours with her, exchanging ideas and talking endlessly about everything from Descartes to gardening.
Having never loved like this before, he hadn’t known Isolde’s absence could make his ribs ache. It felt akin to nails scraping his chest from within—a constant irritation that only her presence could soothe.
Isolde herself appeared in good spirits. Like her father, her good humor rarely flagged.
But Tristan couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t sleeping well. Each night, she retired early only to spend hours tossing and turning in his arms, as if her mind wrestled with difficulties that her muscles tried to sort out.
However, when Tristan asked her about it, she brushed off his concerns.
“I assure ye, I am well, Husband,” she said, as she drew a Kashmiri shawl around her shoulders, preparing to pay a round of morning visits with her mother. “It’s merely a wee bout of insomnia. It will pass.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.” Tristan folded his arms. The morning light from the single window of her dressing room caught the golden highlights in her hair and made him yearn to see it tumbled down her back.
But then, he wished to spend every waking moment with his lovely bride. This forced separation was torturous.
Isolde paused, the shawl gathered in her hands at her bosom. Her gaze snapped to his and then . . . lingered, as if his expression gave her pause.
Her head tilted to the side.
“Are ye . . . are ye pouting, my love?” The delight in her tone and the wide stretch of her smile indicated that she didn’t consider this a negative thing.
“Pouting?” Tristan straightened his shoulders. “I assure you, Wife, a Duke of Kendall never pouts.”
Isolde laughed. The magical sound made Tristan’s palms itch to drag her to their bedchamber and force her to spend the day letting him fulfill her every whim.
“Ye are pouting, my love.” She crossed to him and placed a palm to his cheek. “Oh, Tristan. I am so sorry ye cannot help me in this. Ye ken I have to make these visits myself. This is women’s business.”
Frowning—it was not a pout, no matter what his wife said—Tristan wrapped his arm around her waist. “So you say, but I am a duke. I am permitted to be eccentric. Let me accompany you today. I will merely sit in the carriage as you make your calls.”
“Tristan—”
“Quiet as a mouse. I’ll bring a book.”
Isolde sighed. It was not a good sigh—the sort that foreshadowed delightful activities. Instead, it was the heavy-footed sigh that preceded a refusal.
“My love, aye, ye are permitted to be eccentric, but our purpose here in London is to prove our normalcy—our ability to live by the rules of Polite Society. If ye are seen lurking in my carriage and doubting my ability to navigate the treacherous shoals of the ton . . . well, all our efforts here will be in vain. I am a powerful swimmer, Tristan Gilbert. Ye would be wise to remember that.”
He knew she was right; he simply didn’t like it.
With another frown—again, not a pout—Tristan relinquished his desires. But he did insist on handing her into his carriage himself, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of her hand and savoring her reciprocal squeeze of affection in return.
As for himself, there was little to do in London now. Before his marriage, he passed his days immersed in the business of running Her Majesty’s kingdom. He met with other Peers in Lords and drafted legislation. He attended important dinners where he rallied support and negotiated compromises.
But now . . .
The hours stretched blank and empty before him.
Needless to say, Tristan feared he was somewhat bored.
And boredom did not suit him.
He would not be returning to Brooks.
White’s was still an option, of course.
Tristan attempted a trial visit, but matters there were equally uncomfortable for opposite reasons. As with Brooks, the members of White’s generally ignored him. The stodgy club members had made it clear that they disapproved of Tristan’s marriage to Hadley’s unconventional daughter and, therefore, had no use for him.
Alas, he wouldn’t be returning to White’s, either.
In order to pass the time, he ordered new clothing from his tailor and took bruising rides through Hyde Park. Occasionally, Hadley or Penn-Leith joined him. But none of the activities alleviated the edge of his agitated unease.
Most days, the only place Tristan felt he truly belonged was in Isolde’s arms, but he could hardly spend every minute there.
“You’re being a morose lump,” Allie accused him one morning as he sat reading in the library.
“Pardon?”
“You!” She poked his shoulder. “You mope about this house and only perk up when Isolde returns from calls with Lady Hadley.”
Tristan set down his book, a mind-numbing tome on the mechanics of modern farm management. “I would spend every moment with my wife, if possible. That is nothing new.”
Just that morning, he had grasped Isolde’s hand under the breakfast table and threaded their fingers together, holding her tight. Aubrey and Lady Lavinia had nattered on about some soirée they had attended the night before to which Tristan and Isolde had not been invited. Tristan was sure his cousin meant it as a slight—a reminder of Tristan and Isolde’s precarious social position. But Tristan was so focused on the warm clutch of Isolde’s fingers around his—the slide of her thumb across the back of his hand—that he had scarcely heard a word of what was said.
“Yes, but you don’t need to be so . . . pouty about it,” Allie said.
Pouty? Again?
He glared. “Your point, Sister?”
Allie bent and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m concerned about you. Shouldn’t you be bonding with Hadley?”
Tristan heaved a long sigh. “As delightful as my father-in-law can be, you of all people would understand how his relentless high spirits can feel suffocating after prolonged exposure. The amount of time I currently spend with the man is more than sufficient.”
“Mmm.” Allie tapped her lips with a forefinger. “Well, don’t you have scathing letters to write to recalcitrant managers or neglectful stewards to chastise?”
“Those would be matters for Mr. Eliason, my man-of-business.”
Allie moved to stand before the fire, warming her hands. An autumnal chill had gripped the London air. “What about correspondence with the fancy scientific journals you subscribe to?”
Tristan sighed. “I don’t think I enjoy writing as much as you assume I do.”
“Well, get one of your scores of secretaries to help you, then.”
Truly, he loved his twin, but she could be decidedly vexing. “I have no secretary, at the moment. Ledger has vanished, remember?”
“He still hasn’t surfaced?”
“No.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. Would I be here in this library, reading and . . .”—he waved a hand—“. . . whatever if Ledger were here?”
“Bored, you mean. When you say whatever , you mean bored. You’re bored.”
He pressed a hand to his chest in mock astonishment. “You don’t say? Did your twin sense tell you that?”
“Ha, ha,” Allie said without inflection. “No, I have eyes in my head. I don’t remember you suffering boredom a day in your life.”
“Yes, well, that was before my political ambitions imploded.”
Allie’s chin rose, understanding lighting in her eyes. “Ah. You have lost your hobby.”
He stared at her. “I do believe that any gentleman in Her Majesty’s government would be appalled to hear their efforts to govern and guide this realm described as a hobby .”
His twin shrugged. “But in a sense, it is. Gentlemen don’t sully their hands with the task of earning money. They oversee their lands from a distance and therefore have nothing to occupy their days. What is a hobby if not a pleasant way to pass one’s spare time? Some turn to gambling and hedonism. Some to study or philanthropy. But most find respite in politics. You need a new hobby.”
Heaven spare him from his sister’s meddling. “I am well aware that my life has no real focus anymore.”
For once, his sister pondered his comment instead of immediately jumping in to reply.
“I see your point.” She tapped her lips thoughtfully. “Though, might I say, you are the Duke of Kendall. I suppose you could forge any path you wish and a certain portion of the ton would follow your example.”
“The impertinent, social-climbing portion, you mean.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers and all that.”
“Allie,” Tristan groaned, tilting his head to rest on the back of his chair.
“I trust you will think of something to occupy your time.” She turned from the fire and, stepping over to him, kissed his cheek again. “Otherwise, I fear you will drive us all insane.”