Tristan’s logical brain knew this was how some families showed affection—relentless teasing and general piss-taking. However, such laughter and affection were nearly a foreign language to him. His brutal, dictatorial sire had ensured that gaiety and humor were non-existent in his childhood—no stone-throwing or teasing, most decidedly no humorous meowing. Consequently, Tristan had always taken himself and his position as Duke of Kendall seriously. A bittooseriously, both Allie and Isolde would declare.
All that to say, Tristan found such boisterous behavior unnerving—unnervingbeing the politest adjective he could summon.
You love Isolde, Tristan reminded himself for the twelfth time (yes, he was counting).You would die for her. Humoring her family in this absurd game is a simple task.
As if seeking confirmation, his eyes drifted across the lawn to where Isolde sat under the shade of the canopy—a glass of lemonade in one hand and gesturing to Allie with the other. As usual, Tristan’s heart constricted at the mere sight of his wife, her red hair gleaming bright in the August sun, waist cinched in a blue muslin gown.Howhe loved her. The knowing hummed beneath his skin, a song of devotion he would carry to his last day.
On a steadying breath, he turned back to his father-in-law.
“Thank you, Hadley, for assisting me with my bonnet.” Tristan offered a polite nod. The fake fruit attached to the straw brim wobbled with the motion.
“Andrew.” Hadley gave Tristan a friendly slap on the back, causing the fruit to lurch ominously. “Ye agreed to start calling me Andrew, remember?”
Right.
That, too.
Sigh.
“Thank you . . . Andrew,” Tristan tried again.
Hadley grinned and gave Tristan’s back another hearty pat.
The ever-present Scottish wind caught the brim of Tristan’s bonnet, prompting the ribbon to chafe his chin. He tugged on it, struggling to swallow. How did women tolerate these things?
The ladies cheered on Ethan’s efforts from under their canopy. Isolde caught Tristan’s eye and blew him a kiss. In his mind’s eye, the kiss flew across the lawn and melted into his chest, spreading warmth across his skin.
His beautiful wife knew he was feeling uncomfortable and out of place. She knew he itched to drag the ridiculous bonnet off his head and stomp it under his feet. And she was telling himthank you—thank you for participating, thank you for being a good sport.
Today marked ten days since Isolde had said the wordsI love youto him. Ten days since Tristan and Hadley had called a truce. Ten days of familial cheer and marital bliss.
The ten happiest days of Tristan’s life.
Granted, everything in his life had changed for the better once he opened his heart and accepted the depth of his love for Isolde. He had become more self-aware, more capable of understanding his own emotions, and therefore more able to show affection to those he loved most.
The whole experience had been profoundly illuminating.
Over the short weeks of his marriage, he had realized that there were two clear components to his psyche—the coldly autocratic Duke of Kendall and the gentler, more open Tristan. The Kendall portion often shielded his soft Tristan core, particularly when in company. The problem, of course, was somehow merging those two aspects of himself into one cohesive whole. On days like today, with the teasing and the jesting, it took nearly all of Tristan’s fortitude not to retreat deep within his Kendall shell.
But for Isolde, he would continue to try.
And Tristan instinctively understood that the change he sought would be easier to accomplish in the company of friends and family. It was why he was here today, enduring humiliation on Hadley’s back lawn, instead of traveling south toward London. The longer Tristan and Isolde waited before plunging again into Polite Society—before confronting the specter of their former selves—the better.
Hadley had hinted at similar reasoning the day before.
“Do ye plan to return to London come autumn?” the earl had asked. Tristan and Isolde, along with Allie and Ethan, had justarrived in Montrose Harbor aboard Tristan’s steamship, theSS Statesman.
“No,” Tristan had replied. “Isolde and I will make for Hawthorn, my principal seat in Wiltshire, after our stay here. I have no intention of setting foot in Town before next spring at the earliest. Lords has made it clear I am no longer welcome in politics, and I need time to settle into my new role as husband.”
Here, Hadley had nodded, knowingly. “That is wise of ye.”
“Yes . . . also, I am loathe to subject Isolde to . . .” Tristan drifted off, not wishing to voice what he and Hadley both already knew. The earl had merely nodded again in understanding.
Isolde’s reputation had been precarious even before her hasty wedding to Tristan. He preferred to wait several months, or even a year, before attendingtonevents as a couple, allowing memories to dim and gossiping tongues to flag.
Tristan would not subject his beloved wife to the vitriol of Polite Society before it became absolutely necessary.
What he truly wished was to return to Canna, the small island where he and Isolde had been shipwrecked. There, in the crofter’s cottage and along the white sands of a protected bay, Tristan had experienced a rebirth. A place out of time where he could woo his wife—race her down the beach during daylight hours, laugh with her before the fire while dining, and then snug her to his chest in their matrimonial box-bed at night.
