She took in a slow breath, trying very hardnotto think upon the making of said children. As an educated woman well-past the years of naiveté, she knew how a man and woman conceived a child.
It was simply impossible to imagine Kendall as the man in that scenario.
Or rather, shecouldpicture Kendall in some dimly-lit bedchamber—and had many times in the days since their betrothal—but in all her imaginings, he was never tender or affectionate.
No. Other adjectives surfaced. Cold. Clinical. Unfeeling.
Words thatdidaccurately describe him.
Though . . . Kendall had been none of those things when he held her in the ice house. Briefly, she relived the breadth of his chest, the tender press of his arm around her.
Isolde would happily spend more time with that caring man.
Anxiety fluttered in her stomach. And maybe . . . a wee bit of hope.
Perhaps with patience on her part, she could coax more warmth to Kendall’s surface, as Allie suggested.
“All will come right, Papa,” Isolde said, hoping if she said the words enough, she could will them into being. “Catriona is deliriously happy, and tomorrow will be a joyful day. Ye shall see.”
Her father grunted, tossing back his whisky.
Isolde, of course, did not say the day would be a joyful one for herself.
But knowing her decision ensured those she loved remained safe . . . that would be reward enough.
When Kendall hadimagined his marriage—albeit a moment he had rarely envisioned—it had always been a staid affair. Polite applause. Restrained guests. A solemn ceremony followed by an intimate breakfast at Gilbert House or Hawthorn.
The bride in question hadalwaysbeen a woman of reserved elegance and impeccable behavior.
His actual marriage, however, involved none of this.
At the moment, he found himself seated beside his new bride—a woman whose behavior was anything but reserved—in the Earl of Hadley’s ballroom-turned-dining-hall, listening as raucous Scots toasted the newly-married Lord and Lady Barnaby.
Scarcely anyone spared a glance for the new Duke and Duchess of Kendall, seated quietly beside one another at one end of the table.
Kendall remembered little of the ceremony itself. Just the dreadful finality of his decision. The tremor in Lady Isolde’s hand as he slid a simple gold band onto her left ring finger. The fleeting press of his mouth to hers.
It lingered withhim still—the lift in her chest, the petal softness of her lips . . .
He took in a steadying breath and reached for his wine glass.
The only positive aspect of his marriage would be having Lady Isolde—no, Isolde, Duchess of Kendall—in his bed.
Would she welcome him there, he wondered?
Thoughts of her—thoughts he had spent years holding at bay—had kept him awake the previous two nights, restless and rather fevered with desire.
He would never force her. The very idea of Isolde stoically enduring the consummation of their marriage was so distasteful, so repugnant . . .
No.
Even as a boy—when he was still Tristan—he had regarded the act of sexual union as something more than a base urge to be slaked. Touch and affection were so rare in his life, that the notion of accepting them from a woman’s hand . . . the vulnerability of the moment, the intimacy . . .
The prospect had felt laden with importance. Reverence, even.
His sire had found Tristan’s prudishness repulsive. He wanted his son to flaunt his virility—to swive his way through London and then swagger into White’s, boasting of his conquests.
To that end, Old Kendall had marched Tristan to a brothel in Covent Garden on his sixteenth birthday. For himself, Tristan had been apprehensive and, well, curious. He was a sixteen-year-old boy, after all. He had faced the evening hoping to discover connection. To feel . . . well, notlove, naturally, but something akin to it. Gentleness, perhaps. Tenderness.
