Chapter 24

CHAPTER 24

“ W ake up, wife.” Arthur’s lips brushed across Isolde’s temple, rousing her gently. “The sun rises, and duty calls.”

Isolde stirred beneath the covers, instinctively curling toward his warmth. “Must you leave so early?”

“Estate business cannot wait.” His fingers traced the curve of her shoulder where her muslin night rail had slipped. “Though I confess, you make duty far less appealing than usual.”

Isolde opened her eyes to find him already dressed in his riding habit, though his cravat remained unfastened. The early morning light painted his features in soft gold, catching the tender expression that made her heart flutter.

“You could stay,” she suggested, reaching up to toy with his untied cravat. “Just this once.”

He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to each fingertip. “Temptress. You know what your touch does to me.”

“Do I?” She sat up, letting the covers pool around her waist. “Perhaps you should demonstrate, just to be certain.”

His low growl sent heat through her as he captured her lips in a searing kiss. One hand tangled in her sleep-mussed hair while the other traced dangerous patterns along her collarbone.

“Minx,” he murmured against her mouth. “If I start demonstrating now, I’ll never leave this bed.”

“What a tragedy that would be.” She nipped his lower lip, delighting in his sharp intake of breath.

“Isolde…” The way he said her name, half warning and half plea, made her shiver.

“Yes, husband?” She pressed closer, feeling his control waver.

For a moment, she thought he would give in. But then he groaned and pulled back, though his hands lingered on her shoulders.

“You’ll be the death of me, wife.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “Tonight. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” She straightened his cravat, letting her fingers graze the warm skin of his throat. “Be safe.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Was it tenderness? But before she could be certain, he pressed one last swift kiss to her lips and rose.

“Sweet dreams, my Duchess.” He paused at the door, his eyes sweeping over her with such heat that she felt it like a physical touch. “Though perhaps not too sweet. Save those for my return.”

Once he was gone, Isolde fell back against the pillows, still smiling. Who would have thought that the notorious Duke of Meadowell could be so… playful? So tender?

A knock announced Martha’s arrival with hot water for morning ablutions.

“Good morning, Your Grace.” Her eyes twinkled knowingly as she took in Isolde’s disheveled state. “Shall I lay out the blue morning dress today?”

“Yes, thank you, Martha.” Isolde stretched languidly, still feeling the ghost of Arthur’s kisses. “Though there’s no rush. I believe I will break my fast in my chambers this morning.”

The rest of the morning passed pleasantly enough, though Isolde found her thoughts constantly straying to her absent husband.

She was reviewing household accounts in the morning room when Crawford appeared.

“Your Grace, Lord Winthorpe has arrived.”

“Papa?” Isolde rose quickly, worry creasing her brow. “Is everything all right? I wasn’t expecting him today.”

“I did not inquire about the purpose of his visit, Your Grace. He awaits you in the blue parlor.”

She found her father pacing before the windows, but he turned around at her entrance, a bright smile on his lips.

“My dear girl!” He embraced her warmly. “You look well. Marriage agrees with you, I think.”

“Papa, is everything all right? Your health?—”

“Perfect! Better than perfect, in fact.” He patted her hands reassuringly. “I am quite well. Better than well, actually. You see…” He cleared his throat, suddenly looking boyishly uncertain. “That is to say…”

“Papa?” She’d never seen him quite so flustered.

“I have asked Lady Langhall to marry me.” The words came out in a rush. “I know I should have spoken to you first, should have explained my intentions, but the moment seemed right, and the words simply… Well, they simply came out.”

Joy bloomed in Isolde’s chest. “Oh, Papa!”

“I know I am perhaps too old for such things,” he continued hurriedly. “But Matilda—that is, Lady Langhall—she makes me…happy, makes my heart full. And now that you’re settled with His Grace, I thought perhaps…” He twisted his signet ring nervously. “She wanted to be here today, but felt that this conversation should be had between father and daughter first.”

“Papa, stop,” Isolde took his fidgeting hands in hers. “I have known for ages. Everyone has known. The way you look at her… I haven’t seen you this happy in so long.”

“Then you… That is, you approve?”

“Approve?” She threw her arms around him, feeling tears prick her eyes. “Oh, Papa, of course I do! After everything you’ve done for me, for Octavia… You deserve every happiness.”

Her father’s arms tightened around her, and she felt him tremble slightly.

“My dear girl. My precious daughter. Do you know how proud I am of you? How proud your mother would be? To see the woman you’ve become…”

“Papa, you’ll make me cry.”

“Let me.” He drew back to cup her face in his weathered hands. “A father is allowed such moments, especially when his daughter has grown into such an amazing woman.” He lowered his hands and took hers, his eyes softening. “And what of your marriage, my dear? You seem… content.”

“I am.” Isolde felt warmth bloom in her cheeks. “More than content, actually.”

“Good.” Her father studied her face carefully. “I confess, I was worried… That is, given the circumstances of your marriage…”

He lowered himself onto the settee with a weary sigh, the weight of his thoughts evident in the movement.

“Papa—”

“No, let me finish.” He patted the settee beside him. “When you were a little girl, you used to read those romantic novels your aunt Jessamine smuggled to you. You’d tell me you wanted a love story, like the ones I told you about your mother and me. After everything that happened with Lord Augustus, then your hasty marriage to the Duke…” He cleared his throat. “Well, a father worries.”

Isolde sat beside him, choosing her words carefully. “His Grace is… not what I expected. He is different from the rake everyone warned me about.”

“Is he?” Her father’s eyes twinkled. “Different enough to put that particular sparkle in your eyes?”

“Papa!” But she was laughing now, reminded of similar conversations about her admirers during her first Season.

“You look at him the way your mother used to look at me,” Lord Winthorpe said softly. “And sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching, he looks at you the same way.”

Something caught in Isolde’s throat. “Does he?”

“A father notices these things.” He squeezed her hand. “Just as I noticed how Matilda brought light back into my life, when I thought those days were past.”

“It’s never too late for love,” Isolde said, then blushed at her own words.

“No,” her father agreed, his smile knowing. “It never is. Though I daresay you’re discovering that yourself.”

Before she could respond, Arthur reappeared with Crawford, who was carrying a tray of celebratory champagne.

Her husband’s eyes met hers from across the room, full of warmth and something deeper that made her heart skip a beat.

Perhaps her father was right about the way Arthur looked at her.

Perhaps…

That would have to wait, as Arthur stepped fully into the room, his expression brightening with genuine pleasure.

“I believe congratulations are in order?”

“Indeed!” Lord Winthorpe beamed, turning to shake Arthur’s proffered hand. “Lady Langhall has done me the great honor of accepting my proposal.”

“Excellent news.” Arthur’s smile was warm as he handed Isolde a glass of champagne. “Though I dare say half of London has been expecting this announcement for months.”

“Has everyone been gossiping about my personal affairs?” Lord Winthorpe asked, accepting a glass with a mock stern look.

“Only because it was so obvious, Papa,” Isolde teased, delighting in the way his cheeks reddened.

“Yes, well.” Lord Winthorpe cleared his throat. “You will receive formal invitations to the engagement party, of course. Matilda insists on doing everything properly.”

“We wouldn’t expect anything less from Lady Langhall,” Arthur said, and Isolde noticed how naturally he said ‘we,’ as though their partnership was the most natural thing in the world.

“You must stay for dinner, Papa,” Isolde said, still glowing with happiness. “Cook is trying a new French dish that?—”

“No, no.” Lord Winthorpe set down his glass after he downed it. “Much as I’d love to, there’s so much to be done. Matilda has already made lists…” He patted his pocket, where Isolde could see several sheets of paper poking out. “Guest lists to compile, venues to consider, not to mention telling her sister in Bath…”

“Breathe, Papa.” Isolde laughed, rising to embrace him again. “You have time.”

“Your daughter speaks wisely, my lord,” Arthur interjected. “Though perhaps not too much time—we wouldn’t want Lady Langhall to change her mind.”

“Arthur!” Isolde scolded, but her father was chuckling.

“No, indeed,” Lord Winthorpe agreed, reaching for his hat. “Though I dare say she is as eager as I am. Who would have thought, at our age?”

“Love knows no time,” Isolde said softly, and she felt Arthur’s hand settle warmly on the small of her back.

After another round of embraces and congratulations, Crawford escorted Lord Winthorpe out.

Isolde watched from the window as her father practically bounced down the front steps, looking years younger than when he had arrived.

“I do believe he is humming,” Arthur observed, coming to stand behind her.

“He used to hum like that when I was a little girl,” Isolde leaned back against him, smiling as her father’s carriage pulled away.

“Apparently, it runs in the family.”

“What does?”

“That particular habit.” His lips grazed her ear. “I’ve heard you humming in the garden these past weeks. Usually after I’ve thoroughly kissed you behind the rose bushes.”

“I do not!” But she was laughing now, turning in his arms to face him. “And as I recall, you were the one who couldn’t stop whistling after that afternoon in the maze.”

“Slander,” he declared, though his eyes were dancing with mischief. “I never whistle. It is beneath me as a duke.”

“Oh? Then who was that cheerful fellow whistling The Bluebells of Scotland while reviewing estate papers yesterday?”

“Must have been Mozart.”

“The cat?”

“He is very musical.”

Isolde dissolved into giggles against his chest, feeling him shake with silent laughter. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

“And yet you seem quite content with your ridiculous duke,” he murmured into her hair.

“Yes,” she agreed softly, recalling her father’s words about the way Arthur looked at her. “Quite content, indeed.”