Isolde needed to rehabilitate her reputation herself.
Though he diligently tried to appear the unwavering ally, Isolde suspected that the real trick in all of this would be convincing Tristan himself that, despite her spectacular failures in the past, she could and would conquer this one on her own.
8
Tristan knew Isolde was overset. Given the events since their arrival in London, she had to be.
But his resilient wife refused to buckle. Though her pale cheeks and red-rimmed blue eyes spoke to turmoil within, her determination held firm.
Moreover, he knew that his lovely wife blamed herself for their current predicament.
“This is not your fault,” he told her after they retreated to their rooms to dress for the day. Still in shirtsleeves and trousers, he walked into his private study. Isolde paused in the doorway, his banyan engulfing her thin frame.
“Of course, it is my fault.” She shot him a look of pure disbelief. “I am the one who cavorted with a married man.”
“As your mother said, you didn’t know he was married. You certainly would have behaved differently had you known.”
“That hardly matters, as well you know.”
Anger surged through Tristan’s veins. He wanted to track down the blasted artist who drew that bloody cartoon and beat him senseless. He wanted to swaddle Isolde tightly, take her to Hawthorn, and spend the next year ignoring the outside world.
Isolde sighed and, pushing off of the door frame, walked into his study and slumped into an armchair. She propped her head in one palm, causing his dressing gown to slip low on the opposite shoulder and uncover an expanse of her creamy skin. His lips tingled to kiss it. “That truth is unfortunately irrelevant.Gossiping tongues will not trouble themselves with details as mundane as facts.”
“Perhaps, but I refuse to let you carry the blame for this.”
“Ye be kind, my love, but it scarcely matters. Ye cannot force thetonto accept me.”
“Can I not?” He rather liked the thought of storming through the drawing rooms of Mayfair, demanding one and all treat his wife with respect.
“We both know my behavior is the only thing that will see this righted. I must be unimpeachable in my ladylike manner and address.”
“Isolde—”
She held up a hand to silence him and rose to her feet. Crossing, she slipped her arms underneath his banyan and wrapped them around his waist. Tristan pulled her against him.
Isolde pressed a kiss to his throat, her hands working to pull his shirttails from his trousers. “I know your magnificent heart wants to protect me, keep me wrapped in wool batting and—”
“Cotton,” Tristan grumbled.
“Pardon?”
“Cotton batting. I wish to keep you in cotton batting, not wool.” He slipped the dressing gown off her shoulder entirely, exposing her clavicle and more of her lovely bare skin. “Less itchy.”
As he intended, Isolde laughed. “Cotton then, if you insist.”
He dragged a thumb across her collarbone. “I can’t bear the thought of anything marring your skin.”
She showered kisses on his jaw as a thank you for the compliment. “I know it will be difficult for yourself, but ye need to let me mend this situation on my own.”
“Isolde—”
“Tristan, I am asking ye to trust me.”
He greatly disliked where this conversation was heading. “Of course, I trust you.”
“Ye ken that’s not precisely what I mean—the general promise of my trust. I want your word that ye will let me rehabilitate my reputation in my own fashion. No bloodying newspaper editors or throwing verbal daggers at gossiping matrons.”
“Now you are spoiling my favorite pastimes.”
