But Tristan couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t sleeping well. Each night, she retired early only to spend hours tossing and turning in his arms, as if her mind wrestled with difficulties that her muscles tried to sort out.
However, when Tristan asked her about it, she brushed off his concerns.
“I assure ye, I am well, Husband,” she said, as she drew a Kashmiri shawl around her shoulders, preparing to pay a round of morning visits with her mother. “It’s merely a wee bout of insomnia. It will pass.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.” Tristan folded his arms. The morning light from the single window of her dressing room caught the golden highlights in her hair and made him yearn to see it tumbled down her back.
But then, he wished to spend every waking moment with his lovely bride. This forced separation was torturous.
Isolde paused, the shawl gathered in her hands at her bosom. Her gaze snapped to his and then . . . lingered, as if his expression gave her pause.
Her head tilted to the side.
“Are ye . . . are ye pouting, my love?” The delight in her tone and the wide stretch of her smile indicated that she didn’t consider this a negative thing.
“Pouting?” Tristan straightened his shoulders. “I assure you, Wife, a Duke of Kendall never pouts.”
Isolde laughed. The magical sound made Tristan’s palms itch to drag her to their bedchamber and force her to spend the day letting him fulfill her every whim.
“Yearepouting, my love.” She crossed to him and placed a palm to his cheek. “Oh, Tristan. I am so sorry ye cannot help me in this. Ye ken I have to make these visits myself. This is women’s business.”
Frowning—it wasnota pout, no matter what his wife said—Tristan wrapped his arm around her waist. “So you say, but I am a duke. I am permitted to be eccentric. Let me accompany you today. I will merely sit in the carriage as you make your calls.”
“Tristan—”
“Quiet as a mouse. I’ll bring a book.”
Isolde sighed. It was not a good sigh—the sort that foreshadowed delightful activities. Instead, it was the heavy-footed sigh that preceded a refusal.
“My love, aye, ye are permitted to be eccentric, but our purpose here in London is to prove our normalcy—our ability to live by the rules of Polite Society. If ye are seen lurking in my carriage and doubting my ability to navigate the treacherous shoals of theton. . . well, all our efforts here will be in vain. I am a powerful swimmer, Tristan Gilbert. Ye would be wise to remember that.”
He knew she was right; he simply didn’t like it.
With another frown—again,nota pout—Tristan relinquished his desires. But he did insist on handing her into his carriage himself, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of her hand and savoring her reciprocal squeeze of affection in return.
As for himself, there was little to do in London now. Before his marriage, he passed his days immersed in the business of running Her Majesty’s kingdom. He met with other Peers in Lords and drafted legislation. He attended important dinners where he rallied support and negotiated compromises.
But now . . .
The hours stretched blank and empty before him.
Needless to say, Tristan feared he was somewhat bored.
And boredom did not suit him.
He would not be returning to Brooks.
White’s was still an option, of course.
Tristan attempted a trial visit, but matters there were equally uncomfortable for opposite reasons. As with Brooks, the members of White’s generally ignored him. The stodgy club members had made it clear that they disapproved of Tristan’s marriage to Hadley’s unconventional daughter and, therefore, had no use for him.
Alas, he wouldn’t be returning to White’s, either.
In order to pass the time, he ordered new clothing from his tailor and took bruising rides through Hyde Park. Occasionally, Hadley or Penn-Leith joined him. But none of the activities alleviated the edge of his agitated unease.
Most days, the only place Tristan felt he truly belonged was in Isolde’s arms, but he could hardly spend every minute there.
“You’re being a morose lump,” Allie accused him one morning as he sat reading in the library.
