A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  “Christ.” Garrett slammed the letter down. That was in just over two weeks. How could he be ready to face them by then?

  A servant knocked on the door and murmured it was time for dinner. Garrett didn’t even look up to acknowledge the man, just waved him away.

  He took a long moment to muster his faltering courage before dragging himself to the dining room. He paused at the doorway to take in the scene. A crystal chandelier burned brightly overhead. Tristan and Fisk, both wearing black with white neckcloths, sat across from each other and Sophie sat at one end of the table, dressed in a satiny red evening gown festooned along the neckline and around the edges of the puffy short sleeves with tiny budding roses. Her hair was swept high, leaving curling locks to fall delicately about her ears, and complementing fresh rosebuds wreathed her head. Diamond earrings dangled from her ears, and a matching diamond necklace encircled her neck, glittering in the candlelight. She was elegant. Lovely. An unlikely match for Garrett, who was not only scarred beyond redemption, but wore muddied trousers, boots with holes in their soles, and a plain, yellowed shirt beneath his unfashionable coat.

  Fortunately, Fisk had procured this bulky coat for him. He’d worn it to hide his real appearance, but the wool was beginning to scratch at his neck. Too busy facing more serious crises, he hadn’t yet had enough time to use his newly discovered riches to buy proper clothes. Nevertheless, it was a problem he’d have to address soon. He couldn’t very well pretend to lord over this place looking like a farm worker. Grinding his teeth, he tore his gaze from Sophie and found the one unoccupied place setting at the head of the table.

  Had Tristan sat at the head of the table for the past year? Was this a concession on his part?

  He took the available chair, realizing belatedly that the table’s centerpiece, a garish, twisted mass of metal that he was certain wasn’t supposed to look like Medusa’s locks encased in gold, obscured his view of his wife.

  He debated commanding one of the hovering footmen to remove it, but he couldn’t recall whether such a demand would be appropriate. Damn, but he wished he could remember more of the basics of living the life of a duke.

  Dinner was a quiet, nearly morbid affair. The soft clink of silver on china made the only sound, and with a pang of something—longing?—Garrett remembered the cheerful, intimate dinner conversations he, Sophie, and Tristan used to have. He didn’t really remember what they spoke of, only the image of their younger faces and the sense of utter contentment he’d felt in their presence then. They’d been so happy. The spring soup was oversalted, the vegetables overcooked, and the roasted chicken tasted like cardboard. Garrett ate it all—he was accustomed to eating tasteless food. In the past years, he’d learned the true purpose of food was nourishment, not enjoyment. The only thing that slid over his tongue bursting with flavor was the wine, and Garrett drank several glasses. It seemed everyone else partook generously as well. He leaned to the side and, out of the corner of his eye, watched Sophie force a few bites and wash them down with wine. Adjusting himself to a more upright position, he took a bite of dark meat as a strange sensation of gratification poked at his hardened spirit. He and Sophie had a daughter.

  When they were first married, she’d desperately prayed for a child to nurture, and he’d always thought she’d make a perfect mother. After four years, however, she still hadn’t conceived and they’d all but given up, certain she was barren. Yet through some miracle, she’d conceived Miranda before he went to war. He’d been able to leave her the gift of their child.

  He shoveled a bite of chicken into his mouth, thinking of the pretty little girl in the nursery who shared his blood. She was lovely, really, with a sweet heart-shaped face, wise large blue eyes, and light blonde hair. She had searched his face—his eyes—but hadn’t given his scar a second glance. That pleased him more than he cared to contemplate. He’d missed seven years of the joys of parenting he once ached for. Perhaps Sophie could teach him how to be an adequate father to their daughter. Perhaps… if the rift between him and his wife could be breached. At the moment, the prospects appeared grim. Glancing at Tristan, whose eyes were firmly fixed on Sophie, Garrett set down his fork with a loud clink and took a generous swallow of wine. Whatever they thought about him didn’t matter. He would hold on to Sophie even if she hated him for the rest of his life. She was his, just as much as his title and his lands. He’d lived far too long without the things that belonged to him by rights. He would take it all back, and this time, damn it, he’d hang on to it. To hell with the consequences.

  He lowered his glass and stared at his wine. Light from the candles sparkled and danced through the pale liquid. Hell… he was fooling himself. As much as he wished to remain immune to Sophie, he couldn’t deny that a part of him longed for the way she used to look at him, her hazel eyes brimming with love. Even his limited memory could recall that. Her love was worth fighting for. Even if it meant fighting Tristan. A figure materialized beside him, and Garrett went tense all over before realizing it was just a footman offering him more stewed celery. Waving the man away, he forced himself to relax. He still had not grown accustomed to the servants always milling about. His memories of them were elusive, as if they hadn’t meant anything to him at all, so didn’t warrant a single precious piece of his fractured mind. But how could that be the case, considering they were everywhere, always watching with silent attentiveness, like hovering phantoms? They made his skin crawl.

  Finally Garrett finished his wine, set down his glass, and looked up at his melancholy companions. “We will take our port in the study,” he announced. Everyone paused to glance at him, but he stared across the table, growing more annoyed at that damned centerpiece by the second. “Will you join us, Sophie?”

  The order in his tone belied the polite nature of the question—though he remembered hazily that it was hardly polite to ask a lady to join with the gentlemen to drink port. Not that he cared.

  She inclined her head. “Of course, Your Grace.”

  He tore his gaze away from her as another memory surfaced, this one of her whispering soft words into his ear as she soothed the lash marks on his back after his father had beaten him for some infraction.

  He closed his eyes. Each time he looked at her, more memories assailed him. He recalled her chasing him and Tristan across the meadow behind Calton House, first on foot and then on ponies and finally on horses. He remembered bumping noses on their first awkward kiss, and he remembered making love to her for the first time, when she’d gasped as he’d breached her maidenhead.

  There were so many memories of them making love. He remembered now what it had been like to sleep with Sophie… she had a hot sensuality to her like no woman he’d experienced since.

  He couldn’t believe he’d forgotten, but now he understood why he’d never felt quite right with any of the women he’d known in Belgium… not even Joelle, whom he’d considered taking to wife, though he’d had no prospects to entice her. He had unknowingly committed adultery. The man he was before Waterloo had never touched a woman outside of wedlock. Sophie was his first—the only woman he’d ever planned to make love to. Now they’d both strayed, both in innocence, unaware of the other’s existence. Drawing in a pained breath, Garrett rose from the table, and the rest of them followed suit. He didn’t miss the wary glance Tristan exchanged with Sophie. Their silent, shared communication sent painful jealousy knifing through him, and he had to curl his fists to keep his hands from shaking. Once upon a time, he and Sophie had communicated that way.

  Somberly, they filed out of the dining room and moved four doors down to the study. Rather like a funeral procession, he thought.

  Since he’d left for dinner, someone had come to light the tall lamps in the corners and stoke the fire, which now crackled cheerfully behind the brass grate. Green velvet draperies were drawn tight over the tall windows facing the fireplace. Garrett passed his writing desk near the far wall and sank onto the leather chair behind it. Looking grim, Tristan took a seat
in the mint-green velvet armchair nearest the desk and beside the windows. A footman bustled about with a tray bearing glasses of port and claret, and Garrett took a glass of the dark red liquid. Waving off the servant, Fisk took a straightbacked chair close to the fire, and with a glass of claret in hand, Sophie lowered herself into a soft-looking armchair with roses embroidered on the arms. Garrett blinked against a memory. They had made love here once. Sophie bent over the arm of that chair, him holding her, thrusting into her from behind. He bowed his head, fighting the onslaught. He couldn’t control how the memories came back to him, and he craved them as a pauper covets gold. Yet three people faced him, all with expectant looks on their faces. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by what happened in the deepest recesses of his mind. They wouldn’t understand.

  He placed both his hands flat on the desk and leaned forward, raising his head to meet Tristan’s dark gaze. The man’s presence threatened everything. Garrett couldn’t rebuild his life when Tristan claimed to love Sophie and declared she belonged to him. No… Garrett would nip that delusion—a delusion both of them seemed to share—in the bud. A very large part of him wished he’d pulled the pistol’s trigger earlier, but an even larger part knew that he couldn’t do it. Yes, he could kill men, and he had. But he wouldn’t kill the man he’d once loved like a brother.

  As with Sophie, every time he looked at Tristan, memories crowded his mind… Of tricking their tutor into believing they’d done more reading than they actually had. Of Garrett breaking another boy’s nose for sneering at Tristan’s gawky height during his first year at Eton. Of digging in the dirt on one of Tristan’s famous “archaeological”

  expeditions at Calton House.

  And yet this man had betrayed Garrett in the worst way imaginable. Today, Ansley had confirmed that in his greed, Tristan had stolen Garrett’s title, his money, and his lands and then mismanaged them all. Worst of all, however, he’d stolen Sophie’s affections. Garrett would never forgive him. As long as he lived, he doubted he’d be able to look at Tristan without wanting to murder him in cold blood.

  But he couldn’t kill him. Christ, he didn’t even want to hurt him. He just wanted—needed

  —the man out of his sight.

  “I want you to leave, Westcliff.” He tried to modulate his tone but inwardly flinched at the grating rage he heard on the fringes of his voice.

  Tristan gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. “Of course.”

  Sophie sucked in a breath, but Garrett ignored her. He couldn’t look at her now and risk more memories assaulting him. Last night they had come so fast and hard he had barely possessed the ability to function when he sat beside her on the drawing room sofa. It was far safer to keep his gaze fixed on Tristan. “You will take your child with you, but you will not take mine.”

  Sophie gasped. Apparently it had not occurred to her that he’d want to keep his own child. Tristan’s eyes narrowed.

  “Nor,” Garrett continued through his teeth, “will you take my wife.”

  Tristan returned his stare levelly. “I will not leave this house without Sophie and Miranda.”

  Fisk rose, raising a calming hand at Garrett and taking a step toward the desk. Garrett sat back, happy to allow him to take the reins. Fisk could manage this with far more poise than he could.

  Fisk turned to Tristan. “Your Grace, this is a simple legal matter.”

  “Fine,” Tristan snapped. “Sophie is legally mine.”

  “But Miranda,” Sophie whispered, clearly stricken by the thought of being separated from her daughter.

  Fisk inclined his head at Sophie, his expression gentle. “No, Your Grace, you misunderstand. We were with Mr. Ansley today, sorting it all out in the proper legal fashion.” He turned to Garrett. “Cal, I believe the best course of action will be for Lord Westcliff to remain in the house until everything is settled.”

  Garrett raised a brow. He wasn’t so certain. On the other hand, if Tristan remained in the house, he could watch him, ascertain he did nothing subversive to try to undermine his attempts to win Sophie or his estates back. Perhaps Fisk was right. Still, Garrett knew he couldn’t control the violence that might ensue if he saw Tristan touching Sophie again.

  “I’ll not remain here as a prisoner,” Tristan said.

  Fisk let out a long sigh and gave Garrett a pointed look before returning his attention to Tristan. “Truly you are not a prisoner, sir. Please remember the matter we discussed earlier.”

  “What matter might that be?” Garrett asked.

  “The matter of your amnesia,” Sophie said softly. She rose and stepped toward the table, placing her small, perfect hand over his scarred and callused one. “Mr. Fisk told us everything, Garrett.”

  Unable to meet her eyes, Garrett stared down at the polished wood gleaming in the lamplight. Her hand looked so pale, so delicate over his. Her skin was soft and smooth. With her touch alone, she could melt his bitter insides like butter. He glanced away. His gaze met Fisk’s, and he hardened. Damn the man for revealing his weakness.

  Releasing him, Sophie turned to Tristan. “Please stay, Tristan. We should all work this out together.”

  Garrett hated hearing the tone of voice she used to speak to his rival. Gentle. Loving. Tristan hissed out a breath. “I will not be treated like a common prisoner. That technique might have proven successful when we were children, but it won’t work with me now. I won’t stand for it.”

  Garrett narrowed his eyes at the other man. “I need assurance that you won’t touch her, won’t speak to her, won’t approach her—”

  “You won’t have it,” Tristan shot back.

  “Perhaps you might consider yourself a guest, then,” Fisk said smoothly. Tristan snorted. “Civilized Englishmen don’t lock their guests in their bedchambers.”

  “I never claimed to be civilized,” Garrett retorted.

  “Surely we might come to some arrangement so you aren’t limited to a single room,” Fisk continued.

  Garrett gave Fisk a hard look. He hoped the man knew what the hell he was doing, because he couldn’t stand living in the same house with Tristan, watching the lovers casting longing glances at each other over their dinners. It would drive him mad. Fisk caught his gaze and gave a subtle nod. His expression said, trust me. God, he didn’t know how this would turn out, but Fisk would think things through when his own raging emotions got in the way. Garrett released a breath. “Very well. You may have your freedom. I warn you, Westcliff—”

  Tristan raised his hand. “Don’t say it. I know. More threats of death and murder. I don’t need to hear them again.”

  “The decision of the court will undoubtedly prove that your marriage is invalid and illegal,” Garrett said. “Don’t do anything stupid or there will be repercussions.”

  Tristan snorted. “You make ridiculous assumptions. Though it has now been proven you are alive, you abandoned her for more than seven years, left her alone when she was with child, and forced her into mourning—”

  Garrett shot up from his chair. “Bastard,” he growled. If the damned desk wasn’t between them, he’d grab Tristan and throw him out by the scruff of his neck. How dare he accuse Garrett of abandoning Sophie as if his actions had been malicious and deliberate? “If Fisk told you anything of what happened, you damn well know I never abandoned her. Your accusations will never hold up in court.”

  Fisk flashed him a warning glance, and Garrett stood down, thankful his friend was here to keep him reasonable. God knew he couldn’t manage any of this in an appropriately calm fashion.

  Sophie clasped her hands together in front of her. She looked back and forth from Garrett to Tristan. “The three of us lived harmoniously for years before Waterloo,” she said softly.

  “We were the best of friends, the closest companions one could ever imagine. Surely somehow we can rediscover that love for one another and regain something of our past.”

  Her gaze settled on Garrett, and her eyes shone bronze in the glimmerin
g light of the chandelier. Sophie. Ever the optimist, the girl who lay between them on the grass and whispered grand dreams of future happiness for all three of them as they stared up at the stars.

  Garrett glanced at Fisk, who nodded and beamed at Sophie, then at Tristan, who gave her a dubious look. Garrett shook his head hopelessly. This would never work. One of them would certainly be dead or mad before it was all over. He hoped it wouldn’t be him.

  Chapter Five

  Every morning, surrounded by pens, ink, and paper, Sophie sat at a makeshift desk the servants had erected in her bedchamber. She’d sent word to her mother and all the cousins in Yorkshire while Miranda sat next to her, laboriously writing to her cousins using big words like “amazingly incredible” and “utterly unbelievable” to describe the reappearance of her long-lost papa.Sophie wrote notes to their staff at Calton House and one to Tristan and Garrett’s unmarried uncle. She’d dispatched letters to her friends at their estates scattered throughout the country. On this particular morning, Miranda was with her tutor, so Sophie sat alone as she penned missives to Tristan’s Parliament friends, Garrett’s old army companions, including the Duke of Wellington, and the aristocrats who had begun to filter into Town for the Season.

  Signing her name on the final letter, she set her pen down and held her wrist, rotating her hand and curling her cramping fingers.

  Of course she hadn’t addressed the marriage problem. The ladies and gentlemen of the ton weren’t fools, and they’d recognize the dilemma right away. An ugly scandal loomed on the horizon, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. They’d likely call her The Adulterous Duchess; perhaps something as awful as Her Grace the Bigamist. They’d publish scathing caricatures of her, Tristan, and Garrett. Sophie and her two husbands would be watched carefully, their every public move scrutinized ad nauseam. No matter what happened, Sophie resolved to maintain her dignity. Neither she nor Tristan had been the subject of a scandal before, but they had witnessed them from afar, and they knew how not to behave. They would keep their chins up and never falter. Choosing a wafer from the box one of the servants had brought, Sophie sealed the letter she’d written to the Countess of Harpsford expressing her excitement over Garrett’s return and subtly suggesting the countess and earl refrain from visiting until Garrett and his family had a chance to become reacquainted.