The woman she had been three weeks ago would be shocked to know her thoughts now.
That she would be eagerly wanting—no, begging, pleading!—for the Duke of Kendall to take her to his bed.
And yet, she could scarcely think of anything else, the anticipation was so keen.
Nightfall could not come quickly enough.
After a rather lengthy hour of reconciliation in the private dining room, she had helped Tristan set his neckcloth and hair to rights. Her own coiffure had required similar repairs.
And even then, only a completeeejitwould be unaware of what had transpired.
Isolde appeared thoroughly kissed, lips red and plump, while the skin on Tristan’s neck was deliciously abraded.
Hadley’s faint frown when they emerged spoke volumes. As did the way his eyes dropped to Tristan’s solicitous palm resting on the small of her back before lifting to her surely radiant smile.
Tristan bid her farewell with a lingering kiss on the cheek.
There were matters he needed to discuss with Captain Woodbury, and Isolde wished to spend more time with her father before he departed on the clipper ship the following morning.
“I shall see you at dinner,” her husband promised.
“Aye,” she smiled in return.
His returning gaze was pure Tristan—gentle, worshipful, awestruck—and she adored him all the more for it. Infatuation bubbled through her veins, rendering her light-headed.
“Hadley,” he nodded politely, taking his leave.
Isolde watched Tristan’s long, sure strides retreat, admiring the broad set of his shoulders, the confident swing of his arms.
Tonight.
Finally.
Her father cleared his throat at her side.
Isolde tore her eyes away from her husband.
Hadley’s expression could best be described as puzzled.
“I cannot say I ever expected tae witness such softness in Kendall’s demeanor,” he said, his own gaze drifting up to where Tristan still walked along the pier. “I suppose he does have something of a heart.”
“Papa!” Isolde laughed, taking his arm.
“Though whether Kendall can maintain such affection . . .thatremains tae be seen.”
Isolde enjoyed alovely day with her father.
They walked up the coast north of town, scrambling over the ruins of Dunollie Castle and admiring the view across the inlet to the Isle of Mull. Sir John and Lady MacDougall joined them, lending the excursion a festive air.
However, dinner with Hadley and Tristan proved strained. But both men summoned their best behavior, and the whole didn’t revert into a shouting match, so Isolde considered it a step—albeit a rather wee one—in the right direction.
And then it was nightfall once more.
Isolde bid her father farewell, as he would be departing at first light on the clipper ship.
Her maid helped Isolde change into a nightrail and plaited her hair before being dismissed.
A portion of Isolde’s mind stood aside, marveling that her hands actually trembled. Not with virginal nerves, but with feverish anticipation, eager for her husband’s arrival.
