15
Isolde awoke to the sound of church bells ringing.
Given the bright exuberance of the clanging, a couple must be marrying at St. George’s Church this morning.
Sighing, she pulled a pillow over her head, but it was of no use. The noise abraded her nerves. Pushing upright, she noted Tristan’s cold, rumpled side of the bed. She had a vague memory of him kissing her and mentioning a ride in the park. After that, she assumed her husband would continue to investigate the messages from people with supposed knowledge about Ledger.
Well, she certainly wasn’t going to breakfast downstairs this morning. There were still two weeks and counting before the ball, and Isolde intended to spend them avoiding Lady Lavinia as much as possible.
Ringing the bell, she summoned a maid and requested breakfast before relaxing back against her pillows, her eyes closing again.
Isolde roused again at the sharp clack of the shutters opening and the clink of china on a tray. Two maids bustled about the room, pouring hot water into the washstand pitcher and placing a breakfast tray on the bed. The pair bobbed curtsies and left as efficiently as they had arrived.
Shaking her head, Isolde struggled to understand how she could still be so tired. It was as if manacles encircled her wrists and chains anchored her legs.
Strong coffee and a hearty breakfast should help.
Sitting upright, she lifted the silver dome off her breakfast plate. The smell of scrambled eggs and fried sausage filled the air, assaulting her senses and setting her to gagging.
Isolde barely made it to the chamberpot in the corner before purging the meager contents of her stomach.
Swallowing convulsively, she sat on the floor, waiting for the spasms to pass.
Bloody hell.
She didn’t feel ill, per se. No fever or dizziness. Just a queasy stomach that would not settle.
Had Lady Lavinia poisoned her?
Or . . .
In a brilliant flash, all the signs coalesced into a stark, simple possibility.
Her fatigue and nausea. Tristan’s ardent affections since their marriage. And—here she did some quick maths—the glaring fact that her courses should have started over two weeks ago.
She couldn’t be . . .
And so soon . . .
Could she?
Hours later, Isoldeaccepted a footman’s hand as she stepped from the carriage in front of Gilbert House.
A visit to a physician had confirmed what she already suspected—Isolde, Duchess of Kendall, was in a family way.
Now that she had confirmed the news, Isolde felt like a prize idiot. She was a woman of science. Her physical symptoms overthe past week had overwhelmingly pointed to one conclusion. How could she have been such a blindeejit?
Tristan, she hoped, would be thrilled. After all, he needed a son as soon as possible, if only to demote Cousin Aubrey from his throne of heir apparent.
But worry churned in her stomach. Or rather, her stomach churned, and she feared it was partly from her nervous anxiety—anxiety for the vast unknown she now faced.
She likely should have had the carriage take her straight to the Hadleys’ townhouse. But she couldn’t bear the thought of telling her mother about the pregnancy before her husband. As the babe’s father, Tristan should hear the news first.
Isolde had one foot on the stoop of Gilbert House when the front door opened and an entourage emerged—Cousin Aubrey and Lady Lavinia, the Duchess of Andover, and Allie and Ethan.
All were dressed for walking.
Allie’s eyes lit up when she saw Isolde.
