His beautiful wife laughed again, sliding her hands under his shirt and up his bare back. The heat of her palms singed his nerves. “For your own sake, ye may look imposing and autocratic. I will also say nothing if ye decide to toss Cousin Aubrey and Lady Lavinia into the street.”
Tristan raised his eyebrows. “Don’t tempt me. It’s bad enough to be stuck in Town, but to be forced to endure my odious cousin and his wife . . . I should have kicked them to the curb when I had the chance. If I do so now, it will look unforgivably petty and add to the furor surrounding us.”
“Aye, having them in our home will be trying while attempting to heal my reputation. Again, I am asking ye to let me fight this battle in my own way.”
Tristan sighed. Yes, this was what he feared. “I don’t like that idea.”
“I know ye don’t, but I’m asking ye anyway.” Her clear blue eyes held his. “Promise me?”
He stared at her, at the love and pleading shining in her gaze.
Curse her. He could not deny her this. “Very well. I promise.”
She grinned in triumph.
“But know that it is under duress,” he continued, “and if at any point you feel overwhelmed, you will tell me.”
“I will. But my mother has the right of it, and her ideas are sound. She and I will make calls, send out invitations, andprepare everything for us to host our first ball. As ye said earlier, all will be well, my love. Trust that I shall see to it.”
Tristan frowned, a host of objections marshaled atop his tongue.
But then his diabolical wife slid her hands up his spine and pressed her lush mouth to his and all coherent thoughts fled.
Tristan suspected hewould see little of Isolde during daylight hours for the next few weeks. After dressing, Isolde had left with Lady Hadley and Allie to begin their “war room” planning, as his twin put it.
The thought frustrated him. He itched to help, too. He wanted to be part of the ladies’ fight. But that wasn’t how their world functioned. Not in this, at least.
Within Polite Society, lords and ladies inhabited different spheres and, consequently, led essentially separate lives. Basically, the higher the rank, the greater the wealth, the less time one spent with one’s spouse. To London’s elites, husbands and wives should focus on their own domains and, consequently, interact as little as possible. Doting upon one’s wife was viewed as emasculating and weak.
Who the bloody hell had decided that? They clearly had not had a wife as enchanting and clever as Isolde.
So in order to change opinions of her behavior, Isolde needed to be seen about Town with Lady Hadley and Allie, calling upon friends, attending visiting hours, and behaving exactly as a typical lady of her station should behave . . . no Tristan in sight.
The very notion was ludicrous. Tristan wanted to escort Isolde through London drawing rooms himself and scowl threateningly at anyone who said anything even faintly rude. And then return home and spend the rest of the day closeted together—reading alongside one another, debating a scientific article, perhaps raiding the kitchen larder for biscuits in the wee hours of the morning.
That said, the political side of his brain understood the wisdom in Isolde’s reasoning and the strategic logic in adhering to societal norms. So, though trying for himself, Tristan would respect her request.
However, there remained little for Tristan to do in London.
Mr. Eliason and Mr. Cartwright were busy tending to the duchy’s properties, and they certainly didn’t need, nor even want, their employer’s interference. And Adam Ledger had yet to surface.
So how was Tristan to organize his days? Dine at White’s, his gentleman’s club, and try to resurrect the few acquaintanceships he had managed before his marriage to Isolde? Visit Tattersalls and contemplate new horses for his stables? Or do as most gentlemen of his set, frequent gaming hells in Covent Garden and develop a gambling addiction?
None of those options sounded particularly appealing. He needed to discover how to spend his time now that his political ambitions had evaporated. A way to merge his Kendall and Tristan selves into something useful and admirable without Isolde on his arm.
Establishing a purpose for his days would be simpler if he had a secretary. There was always correspondence to assess and letters to be written. Therefore, the issue of Mr. Adam Ledger’s whereabouts remained problematic.
Naturally, Tristan could simply hire another secretary.
But . . . the thought filled him with repugnance, though he could scarcely say why.
Ledger had been dismissed without a letter of recommendation—Aubrey and his disgraceful behavior be cursed. Such an act was calamitous for an employee, as Tristan’s cousin well knew. All hiring of staff was based upon provided references. Without them, a man or woman would find themselves unemployable. Tristan was furious that Ledger had been discharged in such a fashion.
Perhaps that was why, after everything, he felt some loyalty to Ledger and a need to make amends. Tristan had been raised a duke, after all. His entire existence hinged on his ability to assist those within his care.
Initially, Tristan had assumed that locating Ledger would be a simple task, but it had been over a day and no one had uncovered his whereabouts. That, in and of itself, wasn’t quite cause for alarm. But it did underscore that Ledger hadn’t been waiting around for Tristan to return, nor had he attempted to send word to Tristan directly. So where had the man gone?
Unfortunately, despite Ledger having been his secretary for several years, Tristan knew little beyond Ledger’s behavior as his employee—dependable, competent, quick to enact verbal instruction, and patient with his brisk, occasionally volatile ducal employer.
