“Yes. I will keep my word. My efforts to attack Hadley ended the day I offered for your hand.”
Isolde hoped that was true.
“But what was the catalyst for it all? The accusations and rancor?”
“You are certainly determined to test my will today, Wife.”
“Yes, well, that is rather the point.”
“Pardon?”
“As I said earlier, I am skeptical of this change in yourself. Over the course of our acquaintance, ye have called me vulgar and unladylike. Not even eight days ago, ye stated that I wouldneverhave been the bride of your choice. And now, ye act as if I were the only bride ye had ever envisioned. The only woman ye have ever . . . wooed.” She tapped a finger against his chest. “Ye can see how I would be confused.”
“And so you ask me about your father?”
“Aye! Because the subject is likely tae spark your temper—to draw out yourKendallself. We both know Papa’s investments with Jarvis were not the origin of your vitriol, but rather an excuse to seek revenge. Does your hatred stem from the fact that Papa targeted the Dukedom of Kendall’s financial interests in revenge for your father’s treatment of Uncle Rafe?”
He leaned back. “How do you know that?”
She shrugged. “Papa says things without realizing I will connect the dots, as it were. So is that the reason?”
Tristan closed his eyes again.
“Isolde.” He said her name with such weariness, as if she had once again pushed him to breaking.
But, then, that had been her purpose. To discover the point where he would retreat inward and shut her out. Like pressing against a cut on one’s finger to locate where it was most sore.
To find the edges whereTristanended andKendallbegan.
It appeared that she had discovered one edge—a border, so to speak—between the two sides of him.
“The problem here, Tristan, is that ye wish tae know myself better, as ye said earlier. But a true relationship is never one-sided. If ye wish tae know me, I must also know yourself. It is how friendship or marriage or any true relationship works.”
He breathed in and out for long moments, eyes still closed.
“I’m trying,” he finally whispered. “But this is new to me. And the answer to your question is . . . difficult. I have never had . . . that is, I do not know how to make . . .”
His voice drifted off, but she easily completed the sentence—
A friend.
He didn’t know how to make a friend. Because he had never had one.
Naturally, his honesty would disarm her indignation. But then, this man had always upended her world.
Her heart ached for the quiet, watchful boy Allie described her twin as being.
“That is a very vulnerable thing to tell me, Tristan,” she said softly. “As a would-be friend, I appreciate your honesty.”
Finally, he opened his eyes, pinning her with his dark ones. Something tortured glittered in their depths, but when he spoke, his voice was pure, icy Kendall—
“I don’t want or need yourpity, Duchess.”
It gave her chills, that voice. So cutting and cold, but when paired with the hurt she knew lay behind it . . .
“Compassion is not pity, Your Grace.” She pressed her palm to hischest. “Empathy is not pity. It is one of many things ye will have tae learn in order to forge a genuine marriage between us.”
She spoke truth, but part of her had to wonder if the task was simply too great.
