Arms folded, she sat in one of two armchairs before the fire, staring at Tristan’s back as he sipped his second glass of brandy. His lungs expanded in and out as if he had run up a hill or, more likely, was attempting to reign in his temper.
The events of the past hour would try anyone’s patience—heaven knew Isolde wanted to rage at Aubrey and Lady Lavinia, as well—but it was troubling how quickly Tristan retreated into his icy Duke of Kendall persona and remained there, even when the source of his anger was no longer in the room.
Her heart thundered, galloping hooves beneath her breastbone. How was she to manage this? How weretheyto manage this? Maybe sheshouldwreak mayhem with his liquor simply to get his attention.
Don’t let him retreat from ye.
“Would ye be willing to share some brandy with myself?” she asked into the quiet.
Tristan flinched, no doubt surprised she was still there.
“Pardon?” He turned around.
His dark eyes glittered in the low light, steely and impassive. As if her presence mattered not at all.
Pure Kendall, in other words.
A month ago, that look might have given her pause. Now, she saw it as the defensive reaction it was—shielding his softTristancore from harm.
Och, she was having none of it.
If theirs was to continue being a true marriage, then they needed to reach for one another, even when circumstances were difficult. Or, perhaps,particularlywhen circumstances were difficult.
Inhaling deep for courage, Isolde stood and crossed to him. He watched her come, taking another slow sip from his tumbler, Adam’s apple bobbing.
She walked right into his space, leaving just a hair’s breadth between them. Eyes locked with his, she tilted the glass in his hand and took a healthy swallow of his drink. The brandy burned its way down her throat.
Then, pressing to tiptoe, she grabbed the back of his head and kissed him.
It was a lewd sort of kiss—debauched, hungry, and tasting of exploring hands and silken sheets. The kind of kiss a woman gave to her paramour. Or Isolde the Duchess gave to her ducal husband to bring him out of his autocratic self.
Tristan responded as she had hoped.
His free hand snaked around her waist—his other hand lifting his brandy aloft—and he pulled her hard against him. Isolde speared her fingers into his hair, nails skimming his scalp, and he grunted in approval. They kissed with wild abandon for a long moment, teeth grazing and bodies tightly pressed.
“I greatly dislike my cousin,” Tristan growled against her mouth. “I dislike his wife even more.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Isolde said, voice dry.
He nipped her bottom lip.
“They do seem rather unpleasant.”
“Ghastly, more like.”
Isolde spread her hands under Tristan’s waistcoat, a finger sliding between the buttons of his shirt to stroke his skin. He inhaled on a low hiss.
“I remember Lady Lavinia from my first two Seasons in London. She was a bit of a harridan.”
Harridanmight be too kind of a word to describe Lady Lavinia.Bullywas more apt, but Isolde held her peace. Her goal was to cool Tristan’s justifiable anger, not stoke it.
She and Tristan would be gone soon enough, and the Lady Lavinias of this world could go hang for all she cared.
Tristan growled again and dipped his head to kiss the place below Isolde’s right ear where a circle of freckles resided.A fairy ring of freckles, he had whispered to her a few weeks ago in their marital bed.Proof that you are indeed an enchantress.She had rewarded him handsomely for the compliment.
Now, she tilted her chin to permit better access.
“Damn my cousin for taking over our bedchambers.” Tristan trailed his lips down the side of her throat. His hand skimmed up her spine and lifted her chest into his. “I could flog him for that alone. We could be half undressed by now and enjoying a late supper in the quiet of our own bed.”
