“Much better,” he said, hand threading into her hair and pulling her mouth to his.
Isolde thought about protesting for approximately two seconds before melting into his kiss. As ever, the touch of his lips ignited her senses—like the world abruptly drowning in golden color.
Well.
This was actually lovely.
Tristan laughed wickedly and set about plundering her neck. Her arms wound around his neck, holding him to her.
Mmm, decidedly lovely in fact.
Dinner would simply have to wait.
3
Tristan stirred as the coach rocked to a stop in front of Gilbert House in Grosvenor Square in London.
Night had fallen hours ago. Quiet ruled over the street, broken only by the patter of rain on the pavement and the occasional steaming hiss from the gas street lamps.
Tristan peered out the carriage window to his townhouse, careful not to disturb Isolde lying asleep on his chest. He stared up at the five stories of his home, frown deepening with each passing second.
The entire edifice was dark, stone gleaming in the rain.
What the devil was going on? Gilbert House should be lit up like a Christmas bonfire in anticipation of their arrival—windows blazing with light and staff waiting to greet them with dinner, warm baths, and clean linen.
But, no, the gas lamps to either side of the door remained unlit, relegating the front stoop to gloomy shadows. In fact, except for a flickering candle in a window, the entire house appeared abandoned and foreboding.
Concern and worry sat heavy in his bones.
Something was not right.
The unease had begun when theSS Statesmanhad docked in St. Katherine’s Wharf just south of London. Tristan had sent a telegram from Norfolk, apprising Mr. Adam Ledger, the secretary in charge of his social calendar—and, by extension, the rest of his staff—of his and his duchess’s imminent arrival.Further, Tristan had requested the ducal carriage be waiting for them at the docks. However, no such carriage had been sent.
Refusing to take a common hack—Tristan shuddered to ponder the sticky floors and rank interiors of such vehicles—he had finally sent a deckhand to hire a carriage from a nearby coaching inn. Allie and Penn-Leith had braved a hack and would be arriving shortly. Thankfully, Lord and Lady Hadley had opted to take the train down from Scotland and would be staying in their own home in Town.
Isolde stirred on his chest, lifting her head. “Are we arrived at last?”
“Yes, my love.”
Even tired, rather disheveled, and dimly lit, Isolde’s timeless beauty—wide-set blue eyes with a constellation of freckles dotting her skin—kindled an ache in Tristan’s chest. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple.
They waited as the coachman lowered the steps, chin tucked against his great coat to avoid the worst of the wet weather. Tristan descended and turned to help Isolde alight. Her gaze skimmed the dark facade, lips pinching. His clever wife had no doubt reached the same conclusion as himself—why were the staff not anticipating their arrival?
Hand in hand, they raced up the front steps, eager to escape the drizzling rain. Tristan’s concern deepened as he noted the laurel wreath hung with black crepe adorning the front door—a sign of a death in the family.
“Is all well with your relatives?” Isolde pointed at the wreath.
“I have received no communication to the contrary.”
“Certainly the wreath isn’t for us?”
“I cannot imagine. The staff know we survived the shipwreck.” Tristan tried to keep the irritation out of his tone. “I sent Mr. Ledger back to London with clear instructions to inform others of our miraculous recovery.”
After their supposed drowning, Ledger had accompanied Lord Hadley north to Scotland, intending to retrieve Tristan’s body. Instead, Tristan had greeted his secretary in person and sent him back south with correspondence and instructions for managing the dukedom’s affairs, as well as a charge to inform others of Tristan’s health and wellbeing. Since then, Tristan had received the occasional communication from Ledger, but as there was little to report, his secretary wrote infrequently. Barring some tragedy, Ledger would be on the receiving end of Tristan’s displeasure. First, the lacking carriage, and now this—his house unprepared for their arrival?
Such incompetence was unacceptable in his employ.
Tamping down his frustration, Tristan tried the handle of the front door, only to find it locked.
