A sick worry twisted through her gut. If they assumed Isolde dead, her parents would be bereft.
A telegraph must be sent to Glasgow and then on to London immediately, informing everyone she and Tristan were healthy and well.
With any luck, theSS Statesmanwould be seaworthy. If she and Tristan left tomorrow, they would arrive in London not too many days after their telegram.
Isolde’s mind whirred with thoughts and unanswered questions.
She and the MacDougall men moved on to discussing common acquaintances.
Sir John invited herself and Tristan to join them for dinner tomorrow at Dunollie House.
Isolde tentatively accepted, with the caveat that she and Tristan might be returning to London in the morning. The growing worry gnawed at her stomach.
Fortunately, Sir John was an excellent storyteller and proved effective at distracting her darker thoughts. She was laughing at a particularly funny anecdote when the door to the private dining roomsnickedopen.
Tristan entered.
Or rather, the Duke of Kendall entered.
Her husband’s valet had been thorough in tidying up Tristan’s appearance—hair trimmed, whiskers scraped clean, clothes expensive and neatly pressed. Not a trace remained of the tousled, earnest man he had been on Canna.
Isolde was unsure if she liked the transformation or if she couldn’t wait to muss him. Later. In their private bedchamber.
He froze in the doorway, no doubt taking in the scene of his wife laughing with two unknown men.
“Tristan.” She crossed to him.
“Duchess,” he replied, pure Kendall and more than a hint of reproach in his voice.
Isolde faltered.
Why was he upset with her?
Hewas the one who had left her for hours.
Or did his irritation stem from her addressing him asTristanin company?
Drat.
She did not understand how to navigate this.
Isolde felt her smile turn brittle.
“Come, Husband,” she said too brightly. “Allow me tae introduce our guests.”
Tristan feared Isoldewas slipping through his fingers.
She had been laughing with the wretched Sir John and his son when he entered the dining room.
Tristan’s presence might have been a burial shroud for how thoroughly it dampened the atmosphere.
Not even three words out of his mouth, and his wife’s glorious smile had morphed into a patently false one.
He knew he had done something wrong. That he should have somehow been more tender in that moment. But he only knew how to be Kendall when amongst other people, and he couldn’t see how to soften his public ducal persona.
But what did Isolde expect him to do?
Conversation with Sir John had gone no better. The man took a slew of impertinent liberties with Isolde—calling herlassdespite Tristan’s repeated corrections, treating her as Scottish first and a Duchess of the Realm second.
