Tristan pivoted at the fireplace and strode the sixteen paces to the window, counting each step in an attempt to stem his panic.
.. . three, four, five . . .
“I fear he’s making me seasick with all this back and forth,” Hadley mused conversationally to Rafe.
“Aye,” Rafe replied. “I predict one of us will lose his lunch before this is over.”
Hadley crossed his arms. “It shan’t be myself.”
Tristan turned to stare at his brother and father-in-law, seated so casually before the hearth, unsure if their teasing was meant to enrage or quiet his fears.
Isolde’s waters had broken over twelve hours past, waking them both in the dead of night. At first light, Tristan had sent a telegram to London, as he knew Lord and Lady Hadley wished to be present for the birth of their grandchild. The Hadleys had taken the first train out of King’s Cross, arriving with Rafe in tow not long after lunch.
Lady Hadley was currently at her daughter’s side, providing the support and encouragement Tristan felt nearly feverish to supply himself.
Now he fixed the two men with his ducal gaze. “Were either of you thisblaséabout the births of your own children?”
Both men replied in unison.
“Nae.”
“Not at all.”
“Och, birth is always a worry,” Hadley said. “But Isolde birthed wee Beatrice without incident. She’ll come through this, too.”
As if summoned by her name, the door swung open and Lady Beatrice Gilbert walked into the room, rubbing her eyes. Nearly three years old, she appeared to have just woken from a nap, her fiery red hair wreathing her head like a glowing corona.
“Papa,” she said in her high, lisping voice, stretching and yawning. “Where Nurthe go?”
As usual, the mere sight of his daughter filled Tristan with an unfathomable love—the sort that constricted his breathing and left him desperate to safeguard her. He thought nothing could equal the force ofhis affections for Isolde, but the moment the midwife laid Beatrice in his arms, his heart expanded triple-fold.
Their Honey Bea, as Isolde called her, was her mother’s duplicate—bright blue eyes, red hair, and an endlessly inquisitive personality. She had ensnared Tristan the moment she wrapped her tiny finger around his. How could he not adore her? Bea radiated summer sunshine on even the darkest day.
“Nurse is likely with Mamma, Honey Bea.” Crossing the room, Tristan scooped her into his arms, holding her small body against his. For her part, Beatrice tucked her arms between them and relaxed into his shoulder, the sleepy-child smell of her igniting a joyous ache.
Tristan stroked her back and gently kissed her forehead.
“Ith Mamma no’ well?” she lisped, snuggling closer and closing her eyes.
Her absolute trust in his love and protection overwhelmed him at times. His Honey Bea did not doubt that her parents adored her, a fact Tristan vowed she would always know.
“Mamma is well.” Tristan silently prayed that she would be. “You shall have a younger brother or sister soon.”
“Mmm,” was her only reply, her head tucked beneath Tristan’s chin.
Beatrice had made her ambivalence for a sibling clear.
Tristan turned back to the room, only to find Hadley and Rafe staring at him with matching looks of . . . what? Amusement? Surprise? Respect?
They both knew Tristan doted on his wife and daughter. He still remembered his astonishment at Isolde’s descriptions of Hadley visiting the nursery to read her bedtime stories.
Now, Tristan understood the emotions that had compelled his father-in-law to cherish his daughter and fear for her choice of husband. Tristan could scarcely tolerate half a day apart from Beatrice and loved nothing more than to cradle her against his side and read her a story. She was the perfect embodiment of his love for Isolde—this bright, happy girl. And he would personally disembowel any devil who mistreated her.
Tristan’s transformation from stern, politically-minded duke to devoted family man had not gone unnoticed by Polite Society. The first year of his marriage had been dotted with endless mentions innewspapers and gossip rags, every last observer puzzled by the change in his demeanor. Tristan had ignored them all, too busy enjoying his own love and happiness.
Stirring in Tristan’s arms, Bea finally noticed her grandfather sitting before the fire.
“Granda!” she shrieked, wiggling insistently to be put down.
