“You glide like an angel,” Tristan said, pulling her into a tight spin as they waltzed one morning only seventeen days before the ball.
The extravagance of Tristan’s words caused her to stumble and miss the beat.
“Tristan!” she laughed. “What have I said about flowery praise? I can’t keep count when ye say such things.”
“I am unrepentant, Wife. You must learn to endure outrageous compliments as you dance, as I am sure you will receive many during our ball.”
Och, this dear man.
He spun her again, and this time, Isolde managed to follow his lead. Mrs. Wilson continued to play, though her knowing smile said she had overheard their flirtatious conversation.
“You have mastered the waltz, I think,” he continued. “Shall we move on to the mazurka next?”
“Do ye think I’m ready?”
“Of course. I suggest we start with—”
Bang.
The ballroom door opened with force.
Both Isolde and Tristan jumped at the sound. Mrs. Wilson’s playing stumbled to a halt.
Lady Lavinia stomped into the ballroom. A lock of her hair stood out jet black against the brown of its neighbors—a discoloration courtesy of Allie secreting ink black onto Lady Lavinia’s hair brush earlier this morning.
Lavinia shot daggers at Isolde, before aiming her gaze at Tristan.
“Your Grace,” she said shortly, “might I have a word?”
Given how Tristan’s arm tensed where it encircled Isolde’s waist, he clearly found the lady’s intrusion as offensive as Isolde did.
“If you wish,” he replied, his expression and voice instantly becoming that of the toneless Duke of Kendall.
Lady Lavinia’s eyes drifted to Mrs. Wilson at the pianoforte in the corner, and then back to Isolde tucked against Tristan’s side, before raising her eyes to his once more.
“Alone, if I could, Your Grace,” Lady Lavinia said.
“As I have repeatedly stated, Lady Lavinia, anything you have to say can be said in the presence of my wife and staff.”
Lady Lavinia clenched her jaw. “It is a private matter.”
“If the matter is so private that it cannot be said in front of my wife, then I daresay it is not something I should be privy to regardless.”
Lady Lavinia’s gaze flickered to Isolde and then back again. The lady clearly wished to complain about Isolde herself. She nearly snorted at the woman’s effrontery. As if Tristan would side with Lady Lavinia on anything.
“I merely thought . . .” Lady Lavinia took in a deep breath. “I merely thought Your Grace should be apprised of what is being said.”
“Being . . . said?” Tristan repeated slowly.
“Yes.” Lady Lavinia’s eyes darted meaningfully toward Isolde.
Tristan went terrifyingly still at Isolde’s side. “I dislike your undertone, Lady Lavinia. Are you implying that I should give heed to scurrilous gossip regarding my duchess?”
“Not all gossip is scurrilous, Your Grace.”
Isolde started to doubt Lady Lavinia’s intellect and sanity.Wasshe a madwoman? How could she still think that Tristan’s loyalty could be swayed? Heaven knew Isolde had said plenty of terrible things about the Duke of Kendall over the years—and he about her in return—but since those days on the Isle of Canna, Isolde had never once doubted his adoration of her. He would always take her side. Over anyone and everyone else.
“Lady Lavinia,” Tristan’s tone crackled with the hauteur of the generations of arrogant dukes who had come before him, “Ifear you are not quite understanding the lay of the land here. All vulgar gossip is libelous if it involves my wife. I do not care what is being said. They are lies spread by jealous, spiteful tongues. And anyone who wishes to remain under my roof would be wise to repudiate such falsehoods if and when they are heard.”
