Tristan followed his father down the hallway toward the theater exit, the burn of the lady’s gaze smarting between his shoulder blades.
He did not look back.
The sting of his folly scoured him.
How many times had life taught him thatwantingonly brought regret and suffering? And yet, like a damn fool, he had permitted himself to yearn for a pretty woman with a clever tongue. To build fantasies atop dreams of what their life might be together.
But in hindsight, a lady who impulsively accosted a supposed friend in Montacute’s garden would not be entirely genteel.
Unfortunately, knowing himself to be an idiotic fool did not immediately stem the tide of Tristan’s longing.
The spell of Lady Isolde lingered—the bright trill of her laugh, the crackling snap of her wit, the lemon scent of her skin beneath his lips . . .
For the briefest moment, he felt akin to Sir Tristan of legend.
As he recalled, the tale of Tristan and Isolde traveled a similar path to that of Lancelot, Guinevere, and King Arthur. Only in the former case, it was King Mark of Cornwall who tasked his loyal knight, Sir Tristan, with retrieving the king’s chosen bride, Princess Isolde of Ireland. However, as Tristan and Isolde journeyed back to Cornwall, they were betrayed and fed a love potion. From that point, they both loved and hated one another in equal measure—helpless to fight their love-potion-fueled attraction while knowing their love to be a manufactured fiction.
Paradoxical emotions. Ones that Tristan now understood keenly.
No matter.
He had successfully overcome ill-advised bursts of longing in the past.
This too would be surmounted.
And perhaps, he would finally remember, once and for all, thatwantingandlongingwere not emotions he was privileged to indulge. Unlike Sir Tristan of legend, this Tristan would cast his Isolde aside.
In order to erase his father’s legacy after the man departed for the fires of Hell, Tristan needed to remain focused on his political and personal aims.
As he saw his father into the ducal carriage, he vowed to do precisely that.
1
April 1847
Montrose, Scotland
Muirford House
Six Years Later
. . . Your betrayal is that of a viper—stinging, venomous, and fatal to my former loving affections. Return my letters forthwith and never speak with me again.
—private letter from Lady Isolde Langston to the Honorable Mr. Stephen Jarvis
Impulsivity would be her downfall.
Lady Isolde Langston pondered this reality almost daily.
She knew she acted without properly thinking through consequences.
Truthfully, she should enter drawing-rooms with a warning written large across her chest. Or, at the very least, engrave the fact upon her calling cards.
Lady Isolde Langston
Prone to reckless acts of incredible stupidity
Unfortunately,knowingshe was impulsive anddoingsomething to stem said impulsivity were two rather disparate things.
