“It scarcely makes sense.” She pressed fingertips to her forehead.
“Unfortunately, these things don’t have to make sense.” Lady Hadley wrapped an arm around Isolde’s shoulders.
“Eejits, the lot of them,” Hadley grunted, snapping the newspaper and tossing it atop the map table.
Isolde pressed a hand to her stomach and the wretched nervousness gathered there. First, the Queen’s barbs from last night—the veiled threat to Tristan, the demand that Isolde needed to alter fundamental parts of herself in order to fit in with theton. And now this? What were they to do? How could Tristan—
Snick.
The library door opened and Tristan strode in. Unlike Isolde, who still wore his dressing gown, he had at least taken the time to comb his gray hair and pull on a pair of trousers and a white shirt with a silk banyan overtop.
His eyes met hers. “Whatever has happened?”
The anxiety in her gut clenched, and Isolde feared she would be sick. Poor Tristan. He didn’t deserve this. He had known what marrying a scandalous woman like herself might bring, but to experience—
“Isolde?” Tristan crossed and pulled her trembling body into his arms. She melted into his chest, her elbows tucking in at her sides, her hands trapped between them. The warm smell of him engulfed her—soap, sandalwood, and male skin. He ran a soothing palm down her spine, and her eyes drifted closed. Anything to shut out the world and tamp down thefrustrationembarassmentangercurrently racing through her veins.
“This is what happened,” Hadley said from behind her, followed by the sound of a finger tapping on paper.
Isolde knew the moment Tristan registered what the newspaper depicted. She could feel it in his sharp inhalation and the sudden tensing of his muscles.
The newspaper drawing burned in her mind, projecting onto the back of her eyelids.
The damaging image was a scathing political cartoon printed large on the second page ofThe Tattler. A lampoon of Ethan’s poem of Princess Iseult, captioned “When Legends Go Awry” in scrolling letters.
The paper showed a drawing of Isolde, Duchess of Kendall—her red hair, freckles, and ridiculous height easily identifiable—a book titledThe Science of Infidelitypeeking out from the pocket of her dress. She was drawn in an amorous embrace with a smarmy, villainous-looking Stephen Jarvis with the label“Tristan” scrawled above his head. On the other side of the drawing stood the real Tristan—the Duke of Kendall complete with sharp jawline, gray hair, and an exaggerated nose—looking off into the distance like a prize idiot, oblivious to his wife’s perfidious ways. The crown on his head read “King Mark.” The text underneath stated, “Methinks, the man of power does not know what occurs under his own nose.”
Merely the thought of all the cartoon implied sent bile climbing Isolde’s throat once more. Even a rumor of such indiscretion would destroy a lady.
In short, it was a disaster.
Stephen Jarvis had been convicted of fraud not even two months ago in a high-profile trial. As his father was a member of the peerage, the case had received an inordinate amount of attention. Everyone would recognize Isolde’s supposed lover in the drawing.
That Jarvis had known close ties to Lord Hadley and had spent time in Boston added credence to the story. How someone had uncovered Isolde’s foolish behavior with Jarvis . . . she would likely never know. It was entirely possible—almost likely, in fact—that some associate of Jarvis’s had leaked the information in a childish retaliation for his conviction.
Naturally, no one seemed to care that Jarvis was already on a boat to Australia and was nowhere near London or Isolde. Such pragmatic details were superfluous when there was salacious gossip to be had.
In the end, Isolde supposed the truth was rather irrelevant. The damage had been done, regardless.
Tristan’s body had gone intensely still around her. Abruptly, she was glad she couldn’t see his face—to witness his expression move from curiosity to outrage to dismay to, possibly, regret. Or worse, to watch him retreat deep within his Kendall self as if his soft Tristan soul needed to be protected from her notoriety.
Isolde’s reputation had already been teetering on the edge of disaster. This would see it shattered entirely. Would she even be received anymore? For herself, she wasn’t concerned. But for Tristan and their children’s sake, she cared immensely.
“Those bastards,” Tristan hissed, the words rumbling through Isolde’s body. “Who furnished them with this malevolent tripe? Can we sueThe Tattlerfor libel?”
Tears stung her eyes. This dear man. She did not deserve him. Not his instant defense of her nor his loving heart. How she hated being yet one more problem for him to fix as if the weight of the dukedom and its thousands were not already sufficient alone.
“Unlikely,” her father said with a sigh. “If the allegations were entirely without merit, then possibly. But as we all know there to be a thread of truth to the claim . . .”
Isolde flinched.
“Andrew,” Lady Hadley said softly, “Isolde didn’t know Jarvis was married when she met him in Boston.”
“Of course, Izzy didn’t,” Lord Hadley agreed. “But try convincing the nosynebbiesof thetonabout it. They’ll bebletheringon about this until next Spring at the least. It’s a disaster.”
Her mother sighed.
Tristan remained rock still. Blood pulsed in Isolde’s ears. Would the repercussions of her youthful stupidity ever end?
