A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  While the countess would likely respect Sophie’s wishes, many others would not, and soon people would crowd their doorstep intending to welcome the Duke of Calton home. Sophie planned to fend off visitors for as long as possible. It fell on her to see to it that Garrett’s reemergence into the public eye went as seamlessly as possible, and he wasn’t ready yet. He displayed no interest in reacquainting himself with his peers. From his behavior, Sophie began to wonder whether he’d interacted with polite society while in Belgium. In fact, he hardly seemed accustomed to interacting with anyone, and the servants seemed to discompose him most of all. She tapped the letter on the desk, thinking. Could it be possible he hadn’t managed servants for so many years?

  She frowned as she tried to imagine the Duke of Calton, the Garrett she had known, strong but accustomed to getting his way in all matters, dressing himself, shaving himself, preparing his own food. Even in the army, he had servants and Sir Thomas to wait upon him.

  Perhaps he had forgotten his social standing. Perhaps he had forgotten he’d once depended on others to manage nearly all the mundane tasks associated with his well-being. Troubled, she considered Garrett’s sister Becky and his aunt, Lady Bertrice, who were due to arrive in London soon. Was he aware they were coming? Did he even remember them?

  She straightened the desk, creating neat piles of letters and stationery, and resolved to seek Garrett out and ask him herself.

  She rose, smoothing her hair and straightening the long sleeves and shaking out the pleated skirt of her red-trimmed ivory lawn day dress. She fussed with the fichu tucked into her neckline—she could never get the folds as perfect as Delia could, but Delia was nowhere to be found. Giving up on adjusting the gauzy material, she retrieved the batch of letters and stepped out of the duchess’s chambers. At the bottom of the stairs, she handed a footman the letters to post and headed toward the study, certain that if Garrett was home, she’d find him there.

  Garrett was hunched over the desk, his face in his hands, wearing that same tattered black coat he never seemed to remove. He looked up when she entered, the exhaustion in his expression transforming to wariness.

  “Sophie.” His voice was completely flat, devoid of any emotion. “To what do I owe this pleasure, my love?”

  The words were gentle, but the tone was as hard as granite. She paused just inside the doorway. The first time he’d called her “my love” was on their wedding night. They were both naked, and he was holding himself over her. She’d stroked the strong planes of his chest, awed by this man who now belonged to her. Smiling, he bent to run his lips over the shell of her ear. “Sophie,” he whispered, and the timbre of his voice sent a shudder through her that she felt all the way to the tips of her toes, “my love.” He placed the emphasis on

  “my”—a subtle claim of possession. And then he had slowly pushed inside her. It was the first time for both of them.

  Perhaps he didn’t recall that moment. His face was devoid of emotion except for a quizzical tilt to his brow.

  Remembering he’d asked her a question, she stepped deeper into the room. Someone had opened the curtains, and hazy sunlight drifted in the two tall windows. She walked over and pretended to look out at the back garden, where she grew herbs and a few rosebushes. The roses, pruned into sticks a few months ago by the grounds-keeper, were covered with tiny new leaves and buds almost invisible to the eye.

  “We’ve not had the opportunity to spend much time together.” She ran her fingertips over the green velvet of the curtain. “I thought we ought to begin to reacquaint ourselves.”

  She watched him from the corner of her eye. His face darkened as surely as if storm clouds had passed overhead before he dropped his gaze to a paper on his desk and casually dipped a pen in the inkpot.

  “I have work to do.”

  Curling her fingers round the soft edge of the curtain, she turned to face him. “Garrett, are you aware that your sister and aunt will be here soon?”

  He glanced at her, then back to his writing. “Yes.”

  She paused. It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but she shrugged it off. He must’ve heard about his family’s impending visit from Connor or another one of the servants. Or, more likely, Mr. Fisk had heard and then told Garrett.

  “I considered stopping them, or at least asking them to delay their visit while you and Tristan and I work through our… dilemma.”

  Garrett shrugged and dipped his pen into the ink.

  “But we have very high expectations for Becky’s Season,” she continued. At that, he paused, pen in midair. Looking up, he raised a brow at her. “Are you certain you want to go forward with a Season for her? I’m informed my shocking arrival is likely to cause a scandal of the first order.”

  She set her shoulders. “Canceling her Season will be akin to conceding defeat, admitting that there is legitimacy to whatever gossip people choose to bandy about. I won’t do it.”

  “I am certain you will prevail,” he said. “But Rebecca? What will her reaction be to the ladies twittering from behind their fans?”

  “She will hold her head high, just as we all shall.” Sophie released the curtain and lowered her hand to her side, facing Garrett head-on. “She is a duke’s daughter, a duke’s sister, a lady in her own right with a sizeable fortune to boot. No one will dare spurn her.”

  He smiled thinly. “Go forward with your plans, then. I am sure you won’t disappoint.”

  “But what about you? Are you prepared to see her again?”

  He shrugged. “It appears I don’t have much choice in the matter.”

  “Just be civil with her, Garrett. Your sister…”

  “What about her?”

  Sophie took a deep breath. “She has become a lovely young woman. She’s beautiful, but she is quite innocent. Rather soft-hearted and unused to shows of temper.”

  “I’ll endeavor not to shout in her presence, then.”

  “You must disband your henchmen.”

  “No.”

  “I shouldn’t like them gawking at her. They might frighten her.”

  He swallowed and seemed to deliberate before releasing a breath through pursed lips. “I’ll take that into consideration.”

  “Thank you.”

  He inclined his head.

  “There’s so much to do. And when they arrive, I’ve no doubt things will become hectic.”

  “No doubt.”

  “And, Garrett, you will ultimately be the one responsible for approving her choice for a husband.”

  “I realize this.” He plunged his pen into the ink again and began scribbling. She took a step toward him. “Don’t do this. Please.”

  “Do what, Sophie?” He kept writing, diligently keeping his gaze averted from hers.

  “Avoid me. Cut yourself off from me. This isn’t you—this isn’t who you were before Waterloo. Surely there must be something of the old Garrett inside you. Remember how it was before? It was never like this between us. Why are you so cold?”

  “Walking in on your wife in bed with someone else rather forces it, wouldn’t you say?”

  Garrett smacked the pen down and rose from his chair, ominous and large in his big black coat, a ferocious scowl painted across his face. Sophie faced him head-on, unwilling to be cowed.

  “How could you stand beside him, even after he hurt you like that? He tied you to the bed, for Christ’s sake. And I saw the bruises—” His lips thinned. “Hell. He beat you, too. I could kill him for that alone.”

  “No! Tristan would never hurt me.”

  He shook his head, disbelieving.

  “We went riding that morning and I was kicked by my horse. He was frantic with worry.”

  Garrett’s scowl deepened, and just as she opened her mouth to tell him more, a gentle knock sounded at the door. Mr. Fisk leaned in. “Forgive me for the interruption, Your Graces. Cal—they’re here. I offered them some refreshment and told them you’d meet them in your bedchamber.”

  In his bedchamber? Who on
earth would meet with Garrett there?

  “Thank you, Fisk.”

  Smiling graciously, Mr. Fisk retreated, closing the door softly behind him. She turned back to Garrett, and he gave her a small shrug. “As I said, Sophie. I’ve some matters I must attend to.”

  “In your bedchamber,” she said dryly. “Very well, Your Grace.”

  Garrett lips curled into a smirk. “Never fear, wife. I have no intention of engaging in adulterous behavior, contrary to—”

  “Don’t be a fool, Garrett,” she snapped. “Lord. I thought you were dead. Honestly! Would you rather I’d joined a nunnery than marry the man I loved most in the world? Would you rather I lived in purgatory than find happiness again?”

  “Yes.”

  She gaped at him. Then she shook her head. “Did you never touch another woman during our years apart?”

  He rose and took one menacing step toward her. Then another, and another, until he was hovering over her, close but not touching.

  “I didn’t recall that I was married.”

  “And I was a widow! I didn’t touch another man for seven years. How long was it before you took a lover?”

  He gritted his teeth. “That is of no consequence.”

  She laughed bitterly. “Less than a year? I wouldn’t be shocked if it was before I gave birth to our daughter.”

  Garrett threw up his hands. “You’re dwelling on the past.”

  “So are you.”

  “No, I’m not. You know I’ve returned, yet you’re still in love with another man.” His features tightened. “And of all the men in the world, you had to choose Tristan, didn’t you?

  I might be able to accept it if it were any other man, but Tristan? Goddamn it, Sophie.”

  Clenching her fists at her sides, she met his narrowed eyes. “You can’t expect me to douse my love for him as easily as I can douse a candle flame. We’ve lived the better part of a year as man and wife. I can’t simply extinguish that.”

  “Why not?” Garrett asked. He raked a hand through his hair, causing it to stick up in clumps. “I could.”

  They stared at each other, so close she could feel the warmth of Garrett’s powerful body. The air between them seemed to crackle. His lips were so close, she could almost taste them. She remembered their taste. So masculine. Firm and strong. From the way he was gazing at her mouth, she knew he was remembering, too. Slowly, he reached for her hand. His big fingers twined with hers.

  “Sophie.” His voice rasped over her, low and alluring, sending skitters down her spine. The door’s hinges creaked as it swung open. “Sophie, I—”

  Her attention swung to the threshold. Tristan stood there, the look of shock on his face transforming to anger then dissolving into impassivity. Mr. Fisk hovered just behind him, his expression unreadable.

  Tristan gave a short bow. “I’m sorry to interrupt. I was led to believe you were in here alone, Soph—Your Grace. Please forgive me.”

  Garrett didn’t falter. Squeezing her hand, he dragged his gaze from her to glare at Tristan and Mr. Fisk. But he said nothing.

  The tension in the room thickened to a muddling mist. Sophie wished Garrett would let her hand go, but he gripped it firmly, and she couldn’t tug away without being obvious. She looked helplessly at Tristan, easily reading the anger and betrayal behind the blank expression on his face.

  “I will thank you to unhand my wife,” Tristan finally said, his voice as rigid as she’d ever heard it.

  Garrett didn’t flinch. “The conversation becomes tiring. We both know whose wife she is.”

  “Yes. She’s mine.”

  “Do stop, both of you,” Sophie said. Finding strength in exasperation, she wrenched her hand from Garrett’s.

  Garrett turned to Mr. Fisk and Tristan. “If you will excuse me—I have someone awaiting me in my bedchamber.”

  Brushing hard past Tristan, he exited the room. As soon as he disappeared, Mr. Fisk excused himself as well and left, shutting the door behind him. Sophie released a pent-up breath as Tristan strode to her. Reaching out, he took hold of her shoulders and gripped tight. “What happened in here, Sophie?”

  “Nothing. We were merely talking.”

  “I don’t want him touching you.”

  “It was nothing, Tristan.”

  He was silent for a moment, then muttered, “Goddamn it,” and strode to the window, thrusting his fingers through his dark hair in a frustrated move contrary to his normal calm and precise mannerisms.

  Garrett had posted armed guards outside her room at all hours, so Tristan hadn’t come to her that first night, nor any of the nights since. She missed him desperately. It was so unnatural to live in the same house as him and yet be forced to maintain such distance.

  “You are still legally my wife,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you think I will allow him to touch you, to worm his way back into your affections?”

  She frowned. Tristan well knew Garrett had never left her affections to begin with.

  “Nothing happened,” she repeated.

  “I will not stand by idly as another man makes love to my wife.”

  “He was merely holding my hand. He wasn’t making love to me, Tristan.”

  Tristan spun to face her, his eyes wild. “But he will, Sophie. Don’t you see? He will.”

  Soon afterward, a still-frustrated Tristan left to meet with a new solicitor, for he had determined it would be impossible to work with Mr. Ansley, who was first and foremost employed by the true Duke of Calton.

  It was a fine spring day, and Sophie had been cooped up in the house for far too long. Every room was oppressive to her, and the duchess’s bedchamber was intolerable. A walk would clear her mind of cobwebs and help her to think more clearly.

  “Delia?” she called as she entered the narrow little room she’d slept in for the past several days.

  Her lady’s maid turned from the clothes press and peeked through the door to the tiny dressing room. “Yes ma’am?”

  “We shall be going for a walk.”

  “Of course, Your Grace.”

  Delia donned a cloak and helped Sophie into a red pelisse that matched the color of the satin ribbons shot through the hem and sleeves of her ivory dress. Her hat, piled high with feathers and red apples, provided a jaunty complement to the ensemble. Tugging on her gloves, Sophie walked downstairs and through the back room toward the door opening on the path along the edge of the property that led to the street. Carrying her parasol, Delia followed close behind.

  As Sophie stepped onto the path, a hand clamped around her wrist.

  “I think not, milady.”

  Yet another of Garrett’s henchmen. She stared from the dirty fingers clasped around her snow-white gloves to a man’s sneering, pockmarked face, too surprised to inform him he had addressed her improperly.

  After a long, silent moment of shock, she found her voice. “Please unhand me, sir.”

  “No, ma’am. You’re not to leave the house. Master’s orders.”

  Sophie’s jaw dropped. “What did you say?”

  She’d assumed Garrett had dispensed with the ridiculous notion of caging her inside the house when he’d granted Tristan his freedom. Apparently not. The man laughed. His breath reeked of onions, and she staggered backward. Only his continued grip on her wrist prevented her from stumbling over a loose rock in the path.

  “The duke says you’re not to leave the house, even if it’s to walk the grounds. Under no circumstances are you to set foot outside.” The man dropped her hand. “Now you’d best get back inside, ma’am.”

  Sophie hesitated. She could return to the house and cower in her cramped room for the remainder of the day. The Sophie Garrett had married would have done so without a second thought.

  She glanced at Delia, whose blue eyes were wide with shock. She stood frozen, as if waiting to see what her mistress would do.

  This was impossible, intolerable, insufferable. Garrett could not imprison her in the house. He could not.


  Sophie pinned the guard with a disdainful stare. “You will not dare to place your hand upon my person again,” she said, her voice calm but laced with steel. “I am going for a walk. You may inform your master that I refused to be bullied and that I shall return home before dinner.”

  The man seemed to lose some of his bravado, but his hand wandered to the pistol at his waist. Sophie laughed tightly. “What do you plan to do? Shoot me? I should think that would be rather unwise.”

  “My orders are—”

  “Your orders? Last I checked, I was the mistress of this house. Come along, Delia.” Her back stiff, she turned to march down the path leading to the street. She didn’t deign to look back at the guard, much as she wished to view the expression on his face. When she reached Curzon Street, she released a breath of relief, for a small part of her had wondered if he’d shoot her regardless. Or, more likely, toss her over his shoulder and carry her back into the house. But he had done neither, and she was free.

  Delia didn’t say a word, and for that she was grateful. Sophie glanced at her to see her eyes still large with shock. “Everything’s all right,” she soothed. Delia gulped. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come. Let’s walk.”

  With Delia hurrying after her, Sophie strode along Curzon Street and turned past Berkeley Square, which was crowded with people on this fine spring afternoon. Hoping she wouldn’t meet anyone she knew, she kept her gaze on the pavement as she marched down the far side of the street past the square and turned into Mount Street. By the time she reached the street that led back home, she was bristling.

  How dare he set his henchman on her on the grounds of the house that had been her home for the past twelve years? With a gun, no less. What if Miranda or Gary had been with her?