She sent her eyes skyward and then sighed. “I cannot dance.”
He frowned. “Whatever do you mean? Surely, the daughter of an earl would have been taught how to dance.”
“I suppose I should have said I don’t dance well. I do technically knowhowto dance.”
He blinked. Before their marriage, he had noted that Isolde never danced. He had assumed it was due to her scandalous reputation—men didn’t ask her to dance because they didn’t wish to be seen in her company. But the truth panged his heart—Isolde had been politely declining to dance when asked because she felt her ballroom skills to be inferior . . .
“How is that possible?” he asked. “You are athletic and coordinated. I seem to remember you plucking me from a watery grave with your aquatic prowess.”
“Aquatic prowess,” she giggled, the sound bubbling like champagne in Tristan’s veins.
“You know what I mean.”
She laughed harder, forehead pressing against his bare chest. He grinned in return. How he loved her! That she could still find humor and joy after the day she had experienced.
“And now you’re avoiding my question,” he continued with a low chuckle.
“My apologies,” she grinned. “My lack of dancing talent has perplexed my poor mother for many years. It is rooted in my brain’s inability to count bars of music, and my feet’s insistence on attempting to count anyway.”
“I feel derelict in my duties as your husband that I didn’t know this.”
Her grin turned wicked. “Ye have hardly been derelict in your duties as husband.”
Tristan kissed the grin off her lips.
One kiss quickly turned to twenty, and he began to think seriously about dragging her toward their bedchamber.
But first . . .
“Well, I am glad to have learned where I can improve,” he murmured. “And fortunately for you, Duchess, I am aspectaculardancer.”
“Is that so?”
He smiled. “I cannot wait to give you a demonstration.”
And maybe, in the process, he could carve out more time together.
Perhaps Tristancouldspend his days with his wife.
He simply needed to be creative.
13
Despite his wood chopping and a delightful evening spent holding Isolde in his arms, the same nervous tension still tightened Tristan’s muscles the next morning.
He knew it partially stemmed from his lingering concerns over Lady Lavinia’s behavior and Isolde’s insistence on managing the harpy in her own fashion. Inaction did not suit his nature, particularly when his wife suffered.
However, Ledger’s continued absence dragged at Tristan’s heels like a leaded weight. He kept expecting Ledger to stroll through the doorway, spectacles on his nose and notebook in hand, ready to meet the day.
Fortunately, just as Tristan finished breakfast, a brief note from Mrs. Tolman arrived with the direction of a bank near Westminster where Mr. John Rutland was employed as a clerk.
Hallelujah.
Tristan couldn’t summon his carriage quickly enough.
He encountered Allie and Isolde in the entryway, preparing to leave for morning visits.
Isolde grinned when he told her the news.
