Ethan’s words cut through her thoughts:
“My calm rests, weary-winged, atop my breast.
I shan’t disturb it. Forsooth—I will not!
What man merits the flight of tranquility?
None, I say!”
Hear, hear,Isolde thought, lifting an imaginary flute of champagne in Ethan’s direction.
She wrapped her fingers around Tristan’s hand still in her lap.
Who cared if Queen Victoria and all of Polite Society judged her? Isolde knew that the barbs about her unorthodox ways would not cease.
Fortunately, she and Tristan would be leaving for Hawthorn in the morning. Once there, they could ignore everyone else, discuss science or argue philosophy—or, even better, giggle at naughty limericks—and bury themselves in the joy of their newfound love.
7
Isolde clutched that promise right through to the next morning, holding it in her thoughts like a child’s fist around a peppermint stick.
She awoke to gray sunlight glinting around cracks in the shutters and the faint sense that some noise had disturbed her sleep.
Frowning, she stared into the silent room, hearing nothing more than Tristan’s soft breathing at her side.
Nonsense.
She wasn’t ready to arise quite yet.
Sighing, she burrowed deeper into Tristan’s arms.
A knock rang on their bedchamber door.
Gracious. Wasthatthe sound that had awakened her? And who would disturb them at this hour? Tristan had given strict orders last night that they were not to be roused. They intended to have a long lie-in and then leave around luncheon for the countryside and Hawthorn.
The knock sounded again, more urgent this time.
Tristan groaned, eyes still closed.
Gently, Isolde pulled back from his arms.
“No,” he breathed, holding her fast. “Stay.”
She kissed his cheek before wiggling out of his embrace. “Let me at least send whoever it is away.”
He acquiesced with a frowning pout, his closed eyelashes fanning his upper cheek. Unable to resist, she pressed her lips to each of his eyelids in turn before sliding out of their bed.
Drawing on Tristan’s silk banyan, Isolde crossed to the door and opened it a crack.
“Yes?”
Fredericks stood on the other side. “I am terribly sorry for the disturbance, Your Grace, but your presence is needed immediately downstairs.”
Alarm zinged down Isolde’s spine. “Whatever is the matter?”
“I cannot say. But Lord and Lady Hadley are in the library and have requested to speak with Your Grace immediately.”
Isolde stared downat the copy ofThe London Tattlerin her father’s hands.
