Instead, the whole affair had been unspeakably tawdry.
The girl his father forced him to . . .
And shehadbeen a girl, surely no older than Tristan himself, but skilled and experienced . . . with eyes soold, so seeing, he still shivered to remember them.
For her, he had simply been a client. A purchaser of her wares. Yet one more faceless man to whom she sold her body. Another jangle of coin in her purse for food in her belly and a roof overhead.
An act that Tristan believed would be transcendent and loving became violating instead—of his body, of his dignity. His skin crawled at the memory.
He had vomited into the chamberpot afterward.
And then gave the poor girl another coin for not informing his father.
After that night, he had vowed he would never again exchange anything—money, power, protection—for a place in a woman’s bed. He refused to purchase a woman’s body in any fashion. Future liaisons would be freely given.
Of course, that vow extended to his own wife, as well.
Kendall dared a glance at Isolde beside him. She studied the merriment around them, the food on her plate untouched. Occasionally, she would pick up her fork and push a morsel of wedding cake around the perimeter.
“Are you well, Duchess?” he asked.
She startled . . . at his nearness or hearing herself referred to asDuchess, he could not say.
“Of course.” She forced a smile. But not her true one . . . the radiant smile that never failed to arrest his lungs.
She set down her fork and folded her hands in her lap.
He hated seeing her like this, he realized. So unlike the spirited woman he knew from Montacute’s garden, his library, the soirée, the ice house. That lady was practically a force of nature. A whipping breeze of energy and vitality that, quite literally, could steal his breath.
How could he bring her back?
A moment later, Lady Hadley approached to claim Isolde, stating it was time to change into her traveling costume. Kendall and Isolde would leave straight away for St. Catharine’s Dock where Kendall kept his steamship, theSS Statesman, berthed.
He watched Isolde trail her mother across the room. Guests stopped them, wishing his bride well and embracing her, bestowing brief kisses upon her cheek.
Never had Kendall seen it so clearly . . . the vast web of love that surrounded his new bride. What would his life have been like had he been raised with such unconditional affection?
It hardly mattered now, he supposed. He would always remain an interloper within his bride’s family—a witness to the warmth they shared, but never a part of it. Instead, he would be seen as a destroyer of love. As the monster who had tainted their happiness.
It was yet one more misery to bear.
Kendall rose, intent on changing his tailcoat for a traveling frock coat.
But he had only taken three steps before Hadley accosted him.
“A word, Duke,” he said, nodding for Kendall to follow him into a hallway off the ballroom.
“Hadley.” Kendall kept his expression neutral as he faced his new father-in-law.
Folding his arms, the earl fixed Kendall with a steely-gaze, his blue eyes so reminiscent of his daughter’s. “I don’t know what your game has been these past months. Ye have hounded me at every turn and now this.” He waved a hand toward the ballroom.
“Your point?” Kendall asked.
“I never cared about this mess with Jarvis. That is merely business. But my Isolde—” The earl’s voice broke. His chest heaved. “In her, ye have taken something of mine I value more than my name and my freedom. More than my lucre. More than life itself.” Hadley closed the distance between them, his eyes drilling Kendall. “If ye hurt her, damage one hair on her head, or put a shadow of a misery on her face—”
He paused, giving Kendall a truly terrifying look—the sort of expression many an Englishman had likely seen on a Scot poised to deliver a killing blow.
“I dinnae fear Newgate, Duke.” Menace laced Hadley’s words. “Choose wisely.”
