“See, the thing is . . .” Ethan was practically squirming. “I wrote a poem last autumn. An excellent poem, I thought. Mypublisher agreed with that assessment and included it as the lead poem in my new collection,Voices of Legend, that will be published next week.”
“Congratulations, Ethan,” Isolde said.
Given the trepidation on Ethan’s face, Tristan wasn’t so sure felicitations were in order.
“What is the issue?” Hadley’s expression was just as skeptical.
“The poem is titled . . .” Here Ethan closed his eyes. “. . .Isolde.”
“Pardon?” This time Tristan did nothing to stem the autocratic bark of his syllables. “What was that?”
Ethan shot his wife a rather tortured look. Allie nodded as if to say,Get on with it.
Clearing his throat, Ethan continued, “The poem is about Isolde—not our Isolde, of course.” He held a hand out. “But the Isolde of legend—Princess Iseult of Ireland.”
“Ah. Because it is a collection of theVoices of Legend,” James said, only to have Mac elbow him in the ribs. “What?Meow.It’s true.”
“Precisely.” Ethan beamed at him before turning back to Tristan and real-life Isolde. “And current events aside, Sir Tristan and Princess Iseult of legend are compelling characters.”
“And so ye thought to exploit my daughter, my Izzy?” Hadley growled.
Tristan nodded in agreement. When it came to protecting Isolde, he would always side with his father-in-law.
“No!” Alarm flashed through Ethan’s eyes. “Not at all. I changed the spelling to the IrishIseult—I-S-E-U-L-T—for that very reason. I didn’t want readers to think of Lady Isolde . . . uhm, pardon,Duchess. . . at all. But . . .”
“But that was before she married a duke named Tristan, and they both drowned and miraculously returned from the dead,” Malcolm finished for him.
Of course, Malcolm Penn-Leith with his perceptive mind would instantly connect the dots to illuminate the larger picture.
Ethan deflated. “It has rather focused attention on the poem.” He looked apologetically at Tristan and Isolde. “In my defense, as soon as ye announced your betrothal, I attempted to have the poem removed from the book, but it had already gone to press. So . . .” He spread his hands in ahere we areshrug.
“And now Her Majesty has summoned us for a soirée and a reading.” Tristan waved the foolscap clutched in his hand. “Putting myself—and more significantly—my wife under the microscope of theton, pinning her to a card like some exotic butterfly to be scrutinized and . . .” He trailed off, not wishing to finish that sentence. But the wordsfound wantinglingered on his tongue.
Thetonand his lovely wife’s scandalous reputation were like chalk and cheese—never to exist in harmony. However . . . Tristan and his duchess could hardly refuse a summons from the Queen.
A terrible sinking sensation dropped through Tristan’s bones.
This was all happening too soon.
He desperately needed more time to settle into being a husband before returning to his role as the mighty Duke of Kendall. He had changed fundamentally, and his psyche required time to set. To cure and harden into this new persona before facing the bracing winds of London society and the specter of his former autocratic self.KendallandTristanneeded to merge into a new form. What that form should be, he couldn’t say. Not yet, at least.
Before his marriage, Tristan had been focused on gaining political power. The quest had consumed his life. But Isolde and her unconventional past had put an end to those goals. A gentleman who wished for a future in politics could not marry an outspoken, fiery lass who had traveled halfway around the world for a university education. She was too scandalous. Yet, he had relinquished his aspirations with no regrets. Isolde’s heart was a more coveted prize than the Prime Minister’s seat.
However, who was he now? Aside from loving Isolde, what purpose or focus should consume his future? And how could he navigate London with the question so unsettled?
Grimacing, Tristan looked down at Isolde, noting the strained worry in her eyes. Surely, she must feel the same regarding her own past. Heavens above, he would do anything to spare her this. To spare them both.
“We’re for London, then?” Mac asked.
“Appears so,” Hadley grimaced.
Tristan hated this feeling—the sensation of a cage clanging shut, of events racing out of his control and trapping him without his consent.
“Well,” Hadley continued, gaze dropping to the chained stone forgotten at Tristan’s feet, “ye do still need to throw, Duke. I feel we all would like to know who is going to be rowing that dinghy before we call it a day.”
As one, they all turned to stare at the boat wobbling on the lake’s surface.
“Go on,” Isolde murmured, eyes shining up at Tristan. “I believe in ye.” And to prove her point, she pressed a soft kiss to his lips before stepping back.
