“I do not doubt your abilities, Duchess.”
Her eyebrows raised in disbelief, but she let his words pass unchallenged.
He sensed her doubt regardless.
“That is my truth,” he said. “You are more than capable, my love. I am a duke. I lead. I don’t follow. You are an Amazon and a warrior. You will lead with me.”
She rewarded his kind words with a press of her lips to his nape.
Reaching back, he cupped the back of her head and, turning his head, tugged her in for a slow, hungry kiss. As usual, their mouths touched and she combusted, sparks igniting along her skin and stoking the heat simmering in her abdomen. How she adored this—the drugging give of his mouth, the rumble of need in his chest.
Hmm.
Maybe, theycouldbe a wee bit late for dinner . . .
He broke off the kiss and she chased his lips, demanding more.
“Now who is proving a distraction,” he murmured against her mouth.
“It’s one ye like very much.”
“Indeed, it is.” He gave her one last searing kiss before turning and proffering his back once more, tapping his right shoulder for her to scrub there.
Isolde obliged him. “I am strong, my love. I am an earl’s daughter and the granddaughter of a duke, thanks to my mother. I was raised to know precisely how to navigate the upper echelons of theton. I have often chosen not to do so, but that doesn’t mean I am ignorant of what my behavior should be.”
Tristan said nothing, but she knew him well enough to guess at his thoughts.
“Ye be concerned,” she continued, “that because I have made unorthodox choices as an adult—my education and university degree chief among them—I will remain an outsider, despite my pedigree. That because Her Majesty still does not approve of myself, others in thetonwill take their cues from her and treat me poorly.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Isolde rinsed his back, water pouring over his shoulders and cascading down his spine.
“Once upon a time, you didn’t care about earning theton’sapproval,” he finally said, voice quiet. “I seem to remember some rather sharp words after our marriage.”
“Aye, well . . . that was before I fell in love with your surly self.” Isolde stood and returned the sponge and soap to the wash basin, drying her hands on a towel. “Before I started to see ourselves as united in our future. I want our children to have every opportunity. I want ye to be able to realize every politicalgoal ye may have. And to do that, I must begin rehabilitating my own reputation. An evening with the Queen will be the perfect place to start.”
She rounded the side of the bathtub, looking down at him.
“I don’t like this.” He scowled up at her. “I do not like that this odd summons from Her Majesty upset our tranquility. I do not like having to place you in situations where you will suffer others’ cruelty.”
“Ye can’t coddle me like a hothouse lily, Tristan.”
“Watch me.”
Smiling, she shook her head. “Ye be spouting absurdities again. I wish to be your duchess in every sense—ergo, ye will need to let me be your duchess.”
“Very well,” he sighed. “We will depart tomorrow for Gilbert House in London. But I want it noted that I refuse to stay long in Town. We will attend Her Majesty’s summons, listen to Penn-Leith recite whatever latest masterpiece he has written, and then we will leave the next morning for Hawthorn. There will be time in other years to mend worn reputations.”
“Very well.”
“Now . . . about that favor I am owed.”
“Truly?”
“Yes.” He abruptly grinned, looking far too much like a mischievous lad for Isolde’s peace of mind. “I shall be collecting it . . . right . . . now.”
She realized his intent too late. Lunging forward, Tristan snatched her wrist and tugged her to the side of the bathtub. Her balance upset, Isolde toppled into the bath with a loud screech. Warm water instantly soaked her chemise and dressing gown.
“Tristan,” she gasped, looping an arm around his neck, her shoulders coming to rest against one side of the tub and her knees crooked on the other.
