Clearly, this was no place for him.
He simply didn’t know how to be an open book like Hadley. Even the thought of attempting it felt too vulnerable, too exposed, particularly as gentleman after gentleman appeared uneasy in his presence.
In years past, Tristan had firmly believed himself to be unlikeable. Allie and Isolde—along with his half-brother, Sir Rafe Gordon—had disabused Tristan of that notion, and he now recognized the real harm his father’s abuses had incurred. But a lifetime of belief was difficult to erase entirely. And the response of gentlemen whom he had long viewed as adversaries rather confirmed his beliefs. That, for certain people, Tristan truly was repellent.
In short, despite the enormous adjustments he had made and how changed he felt as a result, he was still intrinsically unlikeable. He had simply managed to dupe Isolde and Sir Rafe into liking him. And, perhaps, Hadley and Penn-Leith. But then, Hadley and Ethan generally liked everyone, so that was hardly an achievement.
Perhaps there truly would be no place for him, no purpose outside of his ducal responsibilities to land and tenants. And given that he had promised not to interfere as Isolde faced the combined disdain of the ladies of theton. . .
Jittery tension tightened his arm muscles and set his heart to pounding.
Ah.
He had forgotten this feeling. This unsettling energy that scoured his veins and urged him to lash out. To attack others before they attacked him. Since his marriage, the emotion had largely retreated.
But now . . .
Tristan swallowed.
Normally, Ledger would have arranged a bout with a fencing master for him. A gentlemanly way to release the frustration, the agitation, leaching into Tristan’s veins.
But Ledger had taken that knowledge with him, adding one more layer to Tristan’s unrest. Likely, Ledger didn’t wish to be found. After all, even before Aubrey’s arrival, Tristan had not been the easiest employer. The thought that Ledger was deliberately avoiding his company merely amplified the restlessness scouring his limbs. One more person who did not wish to be in Tristan’s orbit and had eagerly seized upon the opportunity to escape it.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity—though the mantel clock chimed barely an hour—Hadley noticed Tristan’s rigid shoulders and monosyllabic responses.
“Had enough, Kendall?” he murmured.
“More than enough.” Tristan gave a white-lipped smile.
Neither man said a word as the carriage made its slow way back to Grosvenor Square, fighting the tide of London traffic. Tristan pushed back his increasingly morose thoughts.
Isolde loved him and that was sufficient.
Upon arriving home, he would task Fredericks with acquiring some wood to chop in the mews. Anything to vent this anxious energy.
What was the use of being a duke if one could not embrace an occasional act of eccentricity?
Mayhap that should be his motto.
10
Isolde was exhausted and the day was scarcely half over. Her nerves skittered and hummed, and her stomach tightened as though seized by a swarm of insects. Worse, her eyelids felt laden with sand, and her head kept drooping in sleep. She would need to retire earlier this evening and ensure she got sufficient rest.
She and her mother had left calling cards at the homes of every family member and acquaintance currently in Town. Ostensibly, the cards served the purpose of letting people know that the Duchess of Kendall and her mother, the Countess of Hadley, were in residence and willing to receive callers.
However, everyone would see their calling cards for what they truly were—the new Duchess of Kendall and her allies returning fire after a debilitating enemy attack. Facing the combined righteous condemnation of thetonhad not been part of Isolde’s planning—for the day, the week, or quite frankly, ever.
Never before had she so thoroughly appreciated her mother’s strategic understanding of the social mores of their world.
“We must begin organizing the ball,” her mother said as they handed their hats and gloves to Fredericks after returning home from their calling card mission. “Let us summon Mrs. Wilson, as we will certainly require the combined efforts of your household staff, and begin discussing preparations.”
Must we?Isolde longed to say.
Instead, she nodded to her mother before turning to Fredericks. “Has His Grace returned home?”
Maybe Tristan could join them in their planning. Unorthodox, of course, but as the meeting would be behind closed doors . . . who would know? She could rest her head on his shoulder and soak in his strength as they discussed menus and invitation paper.
“His Grace has not yet returned with Lord Hadley, Your Grace.”
