Intrigued, Isolde opened the box.
Inside, instead of finding another necklace or bracelet, she was greeted by a piece of folded parchment.
On a frown, she set down the box and, unfolding the paper, read its contents.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Tristan,” she gasped. “How—”
“My love?” He lifted an eyebrow, face impassive but eyes glinting with humor.
“Ye bought me an island!”
“No, I bought youourisland—the Isle of Canna. ’Tis a small but rather important distinction.”
Isolde was already shaking her head. “You can’t purchase an entire island, my love.”
“I’m quite sure I already did. Ledger was delighted to help. Do you not like it? I can send it back.” He reached for the paper.
“No!” She lifted the paper out of his reach. “I love it.” She sniffled back tears. “But what about the caretakers and their family? Mr. and Mrs. Thorburn? Where will they live?”
“I ensured they were taken care of, love. I knew that would be important to you.”
Still shaking her head, Isolde stared at the paper once more. “I can’t believe you purchased our island. Why?”
Tristan grinned at that, low and decidedly wicked. “Some of my best memories happened there. And I very much like the idea of keeping those for myself. Perhaps even repeating them from time to time . . .”
“Tristan!”
His smile softened. “Ah, love. I want a place for us to escape, somewhere away from the pressures of the dukedom and Parliament. I want our children to grow up with memories of us there as a family. I want for us all to go a little feral—chopping wood, racing along the beach, climbing the moorland, and just . . . breathing.”
“Oh! I want that, too. Can we leave tomorrow?”
Tristan pulled her against his chest. “If I could, I would say let’s leave right this instant. But as we have a ball to host, tomorrow will have to do.” He kissed her gently. “Come, Duchess. Let us go show London how balls are done.”
Grinning, her hand threaded through Tristan’s elbow, Isolde descended the main staircase in a rustle of silk. A quick glance at the clock said there were still ten minutes before guests would begin to arrive. And as with all things in London, everyone wished to be fashionably late, so she anticipated a few moments yet of reprieve.
She tugged Tristan into the ballroom. “Let us admire our handiwork before our guests make a hash of it.”
Tristan chuckled. “What do you think they will do? Dandle from the chandelier?”
“I’ve heard stories.”
His eyebrows rose. “Have you now?”
She winked at him.
The ballroom of Gilbert House gleamed in the gaslight like a jewel, cascades of ribbon and greenery hanging from sconces and swagged across the ceiling. A small orchestra of musicians sat tuning their instruments in an alcove at one end.
Isolde took a deep breath, smoothing her skirts with her palms.
Tristan pressed a kiss to her temple. “You will be the toast of London tonight and forever after, Duchess. Mark my words.”
“Do you truly believe that?”
“Without a doubt.”
Isolde turned to look up at him, words stacked on her tongue, but a sharp rap sounded on the front door.
