“Your Grace, truly—”
“Am I clear, Lady Lavinia?” Tristan held the woman’s gaze with his steely one. Isolde knew precisely how unnerving that look could be.
Lady Lavinia’s chest heaved, and she shot another daggered look at Isolde.
“You may go.” Tristan dismissed his cousin’s wife with a final withering glance and then turned his back on her.
“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson, for your accompaniment,” he said to the housekeeper. “We shall let you return to your tasks.”
Mrs. Wilson stood, curtsied, and quietly slipped from the room.
Lady Lavinia, however, remained rooted in place, nostrils flaring.
Utterly ignoring her, Tristan turned to Isolde, gazing into her eyes. She saw the outrage and mischief lingering there. Never let it be said that Allie was the twin with the greatest penchant for mayhem. As if to emphasize the point, Tristan pulled Isolde tightly against his chest, cupped the back of her neck, and kissed her. A hungry, fervent sort of kiss that Isolde knew was meant to taunt Lady Lavinia with what she would never have.
Isolde heard a rustle of silk skirts, followed by the ballroom door shutting with a loud thunk.
She burst into giggles, pressing her forehead to Tristan’s chin.
“I can’t say that is the response I had hoped for my kiss,” Tristan murmured. “I should probably try harder.”
“You are terrible, Tristan.”
“I truly am.” He placed a mock hand over his chest. “Some enterprising lady should reform me.”
“Not Lady Lavinia, I hope.”
“Never.” He shuddered. “I had a significantly more beautiful lady in mind.”
“Did ye now?”
“Absolutely. Besides, what is the point of being a duke if I can’t clear a room in order to ravish my wife?”
Isolde grinned. “No point at all.”
Tristan kissed her again, and Isolde tried to ignore her niggling worry. Lady Lavinia had been left seething and humiliated.
What dreadful retribution would she conjure next?
With every passingday, Tristan loathed London more.
Isolde suffered. Oh, she hid it well and refused to let him see how Lady Lavinia’s presence wore on her, but Tristan understood regardless. The smudges under his wife’s eyes continued to grow and her appetite seemed off.
Stubborn woman.
Perhaps he should kidnap her away regardless. To hell with London and the Lady Lavinias of theton.
But he had given Isolde his word that he would permit her to fight this battle, and he would honor his vow, no matter how taxing.
Consequently, he focused on spending as much time as possible with his wife, trying to fill her hours with non-Lavinia activities whenever he could. They danced for an houreach morning. And in the afternoons and evenings, if matters permitted, he took Isolde driving in Hyde Park and escorted her to soirées and dinners.
When he was not with her, he spent the occasional afternoon with Hadley or Penn-Leith. But mostly, Tristan chopped wood and chased information about Ledger as it arrived. He was slowly losing faith that the situation with his former secretary would resolve happily. Surely, Ledger had suffered some calamity or become a victim of violence.
Or, perhaps, he led a secret life—one that his friends and family weren’t privy to. He wouldn’t be the first man to do so. But surely the contents of his personal trunk would have hinted at such a thing. The more Tristan examined Ledger’s disappearance, it was as if the man had simply stepped out of the door of Gilbert House and vanished into the ether.
Yes, Tristan’s notice in the newspaper had elicited messages and suggestions, but nothing had come of it so far. Most who responded were fraudsters attempting to earn a coin through lies. Yet, tracking each snippet of information down gave Tristan a sense of purpose, a rhythm to his days.
Something had to come of it. Tristan refused to give up hope.
