Brows drawn down, Ethan took his own letter with a shake of the head.
A flash of light blue flickered in Tristan’s peripheral vision. He looked up as Isolde stopped at his side.
“What is it, Husband?” She placed a gloved hand on his forearm. Her eyes flitted to his bonnet, lips twitching in amusement.
“Not a word, Wife,” he warned.
She valiantly tried—and failed—to stifle a smile. Letter forgotten, Tristan wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into him. But as Isolde was only a few inches shorter than his own six-foot-two-inch height, the motion caused the brims of their bonnets to collide and sent hers tumbling down her back.
Isolde collapsed onto his chest in hysterical giggles.
Sighing, Tristan glanced at Ethan over her head, watching his brother-in-law read his letter. The poet’s frown had deepened, which for genial Ethan amounted to almost panicked alarm. Allie slipped her hand through her husband’s elbow, a knowing look passing between them . . . as if a letter from the Queen wasn’t entirely unexpected.
Worry tightened the muscles at the back of Tristan’s neck. With brisk movements, he opened his own letter, quickly skimming the few lines written in Her Majesty’s sprawling handwriting.
Isolde turned in his arms to read it as well.
“We’ve been summoned to attend a reading by Ethan at Buckingham Palace in five days’ time?” She looked up at Tristan. He could see his ridiculous bonnet reflected in her summer-blue eyes. “That seems soon and . . . oddly specific. Are ye often invited to such events at the palace?”
Tristan shook his head. No, he was not.
They both looked back at Ethan.
“Now would be a good time to tell them,” Allie said to her husband.
“Aye.” Ethan bent his head to hers, darting a meaningful look at Tristan. “But have ye met your brother? He’s a wee bit terrifying.”
The poet didn’t lower his voice as he spoke, ensuring all heard his words. No doubt intentionally.
Trust Penn-Leith to make a scene.
“Tristan is not that bad. You like him.” Allie placed a palm on her husband’s cheek.
“I do, but my knees always quake when he does that ducal thing of his.”
“Ducal thing?” Allie lifted an eyebrow.
“Aye! With the deep voice and the wrinkled forehead and the subtle threat of violence if—”
“What has occurred, Penn-Leith?” Tristan asked, trying (and surely failing) not to look sternly ducal.
Ethan gave aSee what I mean?sweep of his palm.
“Ethan,” Allie chided.
Sighing, Ethan turned back to the assembled group.
“I might have done . . . something.” He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
“Something?” Tristan asked. Unfortunately, even he could hear the ducal snap in his tone.
“As ye all ken, I am a poet.”
“Aye.” Hadley rolled his hand. “That has been well-established for some years now.”
“Yes, well . . . I write poems on all topics and subjects, from contemporary ideas and experiences to historical events to figures of interest in—”
“You’re belaboring the point, my love,” Allie murmured.
