“Hah! I am glad you said that. I do have one assignment for you, if you feel you possess the energy. Something that could easily be done from here. I think you will enjoy it.”
19
When Lady Hadley first suggested a ball, Isolde had flinched in dismay.
A ball? With herself as hostess?
The horror!
But now that the day had finally arrived . . .
Well, Isolde felt positively giddy.
Tristan had been true to his word—together, they would be the duke and duchess they wished to be, not what society decreed.
To that end, over the past two weeks, Tristan had routed all her enemies and ensured that Isolde was tended to and entertained. Instead of separating each morning to pursue their own activities, they spent their days in each other’s company. They visited museums and the theater. When Isolde hosted visiting hours, Tristan sat at her side. They argued philosophy and gathered before the hearth of an evening, each reading their separate tomes but occasionally engaging in conversation when one asked a compelling question. Often, Allie and Ethan would join them, making a merry party of four.
Most importantly, Isolde did not attend a single event she did not wish to, and neither did Tristan.
In short—life was bliss.
And now, the evening of their ball had arrived at last. All was prepared in readiness. Hopefully, guests would be arriving soon.
Isolde stood before the looking glass in her dressing room, watching as her lady’s maid finished adjusting the silk ballgown hanging from Isolde’s shoulders.
“You look lovely, Duchess,” the woman said, smoothing a bit of cream lace.
“Thank ye.” Isolde turned to the side, admiring the subtle flounces in her full skirt. “I think His Grace will like this dress very much.”
Made of shimmering dark green silk, the gown skimmed her shoulders and cinched her waist and showcased yards of expensive lace. The rich colors set her hair afire. She touched the emerald necklace glinting on her collarbones. Tristan had raided the Gilbert family jewels for her tonight.
A knock sounded.
“Come,” Isolde called.
She knew that bold knock.
Tristan strode through the door, a smile tugging on his lips. To say he looked devastatingly handsome would be like declaring the sun shone in the sky or the ocean stretched to the horizon—a statement so banal, it was patently absurd. The bronze of his Mediterranean skin gleamed against the white of his collar and neckcloth, while the rich black of his evening dress pulled out the remaining dark strands in his gray hair.
“Good evening, my love.” He crossed and pressed a careful kiss to her cheek.
Isolde’s maid dipped a curtsy and departed, closing the door behind her.
“Husband.” Isolde patted his chest.
“You will put every other lady to shame tonight with your brilliance.”
“Thank ye,” she grinned. “That was my plan.”
Tristan laughed and withdrew a slim box from his breast pocket. “For you, my love.”
Ah.
Isolde had heard of this. Of gentlemen gifting their wives jewelry on the evening of important events.
“Are my emeralds currently insufficient?”
Tristan’s expression turned cryptic. “Not precisely. Consider this something to complement them.”
