Tristan didn’t care. He stared at her, at the flush of her cheeks, at the taut peaks of her nipples showing through the thin muslin of her nightgown, at the smooth, pale flesh of her thigh.
“Lord,” she groaned, casting a terrified glance at the door, “if Garrett should find us—”
He didn’t care about that, either. Not now.
She saw the intent in his eyes and gave a little whimper, holding her hand out in a gesture for him to stop. “No, Tristan. Stop. Please. He’ll kill you.”
He moved closer, like a prowling panther prepared to pounce. The musky scent of her sex swirled around him. His cock was like steel, aching with the desire to be buried inside her softness, throbbing with the need for release.
Her expression was fraught. Her skin was pale, her eyes wide. “No, Tristan.”
He froze. Tightening his fists, he reined in his lust.
She sank her face into her hands, her breaths harsh in the room’s stillness. “What are we going to do?”
He reached forward and peeled her fingers from her face, studying her. Was she truly so afraid for him? And if so, what did that say of her belief in him, in her confidence he could protect himself and what was his? And why did she care so much about Garrett’s reaction?
He had to get the hell out of here. He was a fool. Jealous, apprehensive, in a tangle he couldn’t seem to fight his way out of without sacrificing what was most important to him: his family and his honor.
God, what a damn fine mess.
He squeezed her hands. “It’s still possible it was no one, but if the man is there, you must distract him while I slip away.” He smoothed his thumbs over the pulse points on her wrists. Her heart was beating too rapidly. “Sophie?”
She gulped in a breath. “Yes.”
Trembling, she climbed out of the bed. He came to stand beside her as she stared at the doorway.
“It’ll be all right,” he murmured into her ear. He brushed his lips over her cheek. Without further hesitation, she took a fortifying breath, moved to the door, turned the knob, and pulled it open.
She stepped out and looked to the left, where the guard usually sat on his chair. Then she glanced in the other direction.
“There’s no one,” she whispered.
He could stay longer, but it would only cause her further anxiety and him to go mad with wanting her. With a sigh, he walked to the door. “Goodnight, Soph,” he murmured. He gave her hand a quick squeeze and strode out of her room.
But he stood in an alcove and watched her door for the remainder of the evening. Nobody came. Apparently Sophie was no longer being guarded at night. Tristan slipped back inside the Tulip Room, absorbing this information. Delia slid the final pin in Sophie’s hair and then patted the tight chignon she had created. Peering into the foggy old mirror, Sophie sighed. Delia had left soft curls to fall about her face and skim her shoulders, making her appear much younger than her thirty years. Her day dress, a soft periwinkle blue muslin with darker blue flower buds embroidered around the hem, neckline, and cuffs, added to the impression of youth. For a long moment, she simply stared at herself in the mirror. Other than the dark smudges under her eyes, she looked as she always did, and besides the thinning of her face and the faint lines at the edges of her mouth, she had to concede it was not very different from how she had looked the day Garrett had left for Brussels.
Since then, however, she had borne much, and even if she appeared similar on the outside, inside she was a completely different woman.
“You look lovely, ma’am.”
Sophie smiled. Delia said the same thing every day. “Thank you, Delia. You may go.”
After the maid left, she sat a few moments longer, taking deep, strengthening breaths. She would go to the nursery to see the children. Maybe read to them awhile. It was important to stay close to both Miranda and Gary—surely they must be feeling the tension between the adults.
Prepared to explain to her disagreeable guard where she was going, she opened the door and stepped into the corridor. But to her surprise, Garrett was sitting in the chair his henchman usually occupied. He looked like a new man this morning—for once he wasn’t wearing that awful old coat. Instead he sported striped trousers and a sharp black waistcoat over a fine new linen shirt with a tall collar and a white stock. His clean, combed hair fell in waves down his neck and shone in the dim light. His face was freshly shaved, revealing the tiny cleft in his chin and the broad, masculine lines of his face. His gaze raked up and down her body, giving her the distinct impression that he was undressing her in his mind’s eye, and a flutter of fear—or was it desire?—brushed through her.
How awful she was, after just having felt a similar desire for Tristan last night. Yet as much as the feeling was similar, it was different, too. Her need for Tristan was a clawing, relentless, wild longing. She’d wanted to devour him last night. Be devoured. It had nearly killed her to push him away. Only fear for his life had kept her sane. On the other hand, her desire for Garrett was a warm, clinging ache deep within her. An ache that hadn’t disappeared for eight years.
“Sophie,” he said gruffly.
“Good morning, Your Grace.” She made to walk past him, but rising from the chair, he caught her arm.
“I’ve come to speak with you.”
She stopped and turned slowly to face him. It was no use fighting him. An image of the bulging muscles she’d seen in the bath flashed through her mind. “About what?”
“The guards outside and at your door. I’ve called them off. You may come and go at your leisure, and they will not be present to upset my sister’s delicate sensibilities.”
“Thank you, Garrett,” she said softly, but even as renewed hope welled within her, his hand tightened around her arm.
“However, I demand you steer clear of Lord Westcliff. Promise me you will obey me in this matter.”
She hissed out a breath. Just when she thought he was softening, becoming reasonable, on his way toward forgiveness, he once again turned into a boor.
“Forgive me.” She glanced pointedly at his fingers wrapped around her sleeve. “I was on my way to see the children.”
He tugged her closer and said in a low voice, “You are my wife. Is it not your primary duty to be by my side, seeing to my needs?”
She stiffened. “First of all, the courts have not yet reached a decision as to whose wife I am.”
“They will soon. Within the week, I’m told.”
“Second, I’ve no doubt you can see to your own needs.”
He arched a brow and his lips twisted sardonically. “What needs do you imagine I speak of?”
Carnal needs. She remembered the kiss yesterday, how she had almost given over to it, and she clenched her teeth. “I’m sure I have no idea.”
He bent down, and when he spoke, his lips brushed her ear. “I need you, Sophie. I’ve never stopped needing you. You must know that.”
She inhaled sharply. “Have you forgotten you discovered me in another man’s bed a few days ago? Because I haven’t, Garrett. In fact, I find it rather difficult to forget.”
He dropped her arm as if it were on fire. She brushed past him and headed for the stairs. This time, he let her go.
Chapter Eight
Confound the woman. Garrett could survive battle, memory loss, living in a strange land, and losing everything, all the while keeping his—admittedly tenuous at times—hold on sanity. But Sophie—God. The woman might just drive him over the edge. It was easy to fall under her spell. Yesterday, as she had bathed him, her focus singularly on him, her hands caressing him, he had almost forgotten Tristan’s unfortunate presence in her life. And in her bed.He didn’t understand her snappishness after their comparatively civil interaction yesterday. Had his kiss upset her? Perhaps she believed he was rushing her into fleshly relations. But hell. He couldn’t help himself. Her body called to his. And, goddamn it, she was his wife.
Garrett descended the staircase, the heels of his new shoes clicking o
n the polished planks, and turned toward his study. Since he’d returned to London, the room had rapidly become his only escape from a world that seemed determined to drive him straight to insanity. He passed a curtsying maid polishing silver in the corridor and entered the study. Now that he was clean and the tailors had delivered the first batch of quickly made clothes he’d paid a small fortune for, he was beginning to feel somewhat at home, but the servants still unnerved him.
The room was peaceful and blessedly empty. He strode to the desk and sat behind it, wearily observing the piles of papers that awaited him. A glass of wine set on a round silver platter stood on the corner of his desk, and he sipped at it as he contemplated what he needed to do, abstractedly tugging at the unfamiliar stiff collar that felt like a board round his neck. Work had already begun to bury him. Problems he’d rather not have to think about or address until the situation with Sophie was resolved. Today, especially, the issues twisted and tangled in his mind until his head throbbed with pain and he couldn’t think straight.
The door swung open without warning. With a roar, Garrett surged up, yanked open the top drawer of his desk, withdrew his pistol, and aimed it at the intruder. The man stumbled backward, his hands raised. “Please, Your Grace—”
Garrett blinked hard. Hell, it was Connor. The damned butler. He lowered the weapon shakily and uttered an oath. “I apologize, Connor.”
The man had turned completely white. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Garrett squeezed the bridge of his nose as he slid the weapon back into its drawer. Hell, he felt dizzy. “It’s all right. Just knock in the future, why don’t you?”
“Of course, sir.”
Garrett dropped into his chair. “What can I do for you?”
“There are several visitors here for Her Grace. The Countess of Duns—”
“No.”
“ ‘No,’ sir?”
“Right. Tell them—” He filed through his memory for the appropriate thing to say. “Tell them the duchess is not at home to visitors.”
Connor bowed. “Of course, sir.”
As he began to leave, Garrett, said, “Oh, and Connor?”
Connor turned. Garrett couldn’t help but to be impressed at the blankness in his expression less than a minute after nearly receiving a bullet in the chest. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“That shall be your standard answer, understand? Until further notice, any visitors to this house are to be informed the person they wish to see isn’t at home. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Thank you.” When Connor didn’t move to leave, Garrett added, “You may go.”
After Connor shut the door behind him, Garrett sank his face into his hands. Good God, he’d just aimed a loaded weapon at his butler. Had he lost his mind? Rising unsteadily, he took his empty wineglass to the sidebar and, after studying a bottle of brandy for a long moment, decided on plain water. The liquid seemed to clear his muddle, and he drank several glasses before returning to his desk.
Blinking at the pile of work, he began to sift through it, painstakingly organizing it and taking notes. Hours passed, and eventually the headache faded and his mind cleared. Lost in his work, he bolted upright in his chair when someone scratched at the door. He took a few deep, calming breaths before responding. “Who is it?”
The door opened to reveal his daughter followed by the timid Miss Dalworthy. Garrett’s heart began a slow thud as he rose from his chair.
Miss Dalworthy curtsied. “I am so sorry, Your Grace. Lady Miranda has been—” She looked up, her round face flushed and her expression flustered. She was a young girl, probably not too many years out of the nursery herself. “Oh, dear.” She wrung her hands as Miranda stepped fully into view, looking like a determined little Sophie but for her eye and hair color, which were more like his own.
She nodded regally at him. “Good morning.”
Garrett’s lips twisted. He glanced at the governess. “Is it normal for the child to be traipsing freely about the house?”
The governess’s mouth moved like a landed fish. She seemed incapable of speech. Christ, was he really so terrifying?
Miranda strode right up to him and stood across from the desk. “I usually stay in the nursery unless I am with Mama. However, today is special.”
“Special?”
She nodded pertly, her blonde curls bobbing. “Indeed. You see, you have been home for many days already.”
“Yes?”
“And I have not seen you often enough. It is time for us to become better acquainted. I am curious about you, you know. You are my papa.”
Garrett’s twisted lips eased into a wry grin. “So I am told.”
“Oh, you are,” she assured him. “The fact is listed on my baptismal records, as you would find if you were to read them. And just looking at you is proof—when I look into the mirror, I see it, clear as day.”
“Exactly what do you see, child?”
She placed her little hands flat on the desk and leaned forward, staring at him.
“Your eyes and mine, for one. They are the same color. But yours are… older.”
He stood still under the scrutiny of her blue eyes. It was true hers were the same color as his own. But whereas his might be called chilling, hers were light and airy and happy, like a cloudless summer’s day. It was as if the girl had never experienced pain. Something flared within him, some protective, unfamiliar paternal instinct. At all costs, he would protect her from pain. He never wanted to see the jaded look in her eyes that shone in his own.
“What else?” he inquired.
She looked him up and down. “The shape of your jaw. It is just like mine.”
He laughed out loud, a sound that surprised him as much as it seemed to surprise Miss Dalworthy, who took a step backward. How could his large, masculine jaw, with its shadow of a beard, compare to her little one?
“Don’t laugh, I beg you,” she said. “I speak the truth. Come, I’ll show you.” She held out her hand. Bemused, he took it and allowed her to lead him to the large gilt-edged mirror set between the two long shelves of books set in the wall.
She slid a look up at him and lifted both her arms. “Carry me, please, Papa. I’m not tall enough to show you what I mean.”
Papa. The word resounded through his chest and dove straight into his heart. He picked her up and turned her in his arms until their faces were level in the mirror.
“Very good.” She pointed at the glass. “See there. See the curve of our jaws where they reach our ears? They are very, well—” She pondered for a moment. “—they are triangular, I think. And look—” She motioned to his chin, then hers. “You see, we both have little dimples in our chins.”
“I do see,” he admitted.
She shrugged. “Well then. There’s absolute proof that you are indeed my very own papa.”
Garrett gently set Miranda down. “Well then.” He was at a loss. He cleared his throat.
“Now… ah, run along, child. I have work to do.”
She curtsied to him. “Of course, Papa. I wouldn’t want to interfere with your extremely important work. But I shall come back to you tomorrow, yes? Here in the study at noon? It is a good time for me, because that’s when Gary lies down for his nap, and I’m far too old to be napping, you know.”
She didn’t wait for him to answer but threw her arms around his waist before dropping another quick curtsy and sweeping out the door, followed by a harried Miss Dalworthy. He stared after her, spellbound.
Miranda. His own precocious, precious daughter.
As his carriage rattled along the busy roads of Westminster, Tristan mulled over his first visit to his club in several days, as his face had finally healed enough for him to appear in public. Men had surrounded him as soon as he arrived, and he’d spent a good hour patiently and circumspectly answering questions about Garrett’s return. He soon discovered the murmurings were circulating in earnest. The Duke of Calton liv
ed!
Mortally wounded on the battlefield of Waterloo, he miraculously recovered! He suffered torture and imprisonment in Belgium before he was able to escape and return to England, his adventures comparable to Odysseus’s long journey home from the Trojan War!
But alas, the duke’s wife didn’t wait as faithfully as Odysseus’s Penelope. No, she’d married the duke’s heir instead. Whatever would become of them all?
The rumor mill had churned theories at astonishing speed—divorce, separation, a ménage à trois akin to Admiral Nelson’s scandalous relationship with Emma Hamilton, or perhaps a duel?—and the best Tristan could do was feed it truth. He explained they were attempting to work out the legal ramifications of Garrett’s return, but they had no intention of killing each other, engaging in illegal or illicit behavior, or arousing the enmity of their families or their peers.
Just as the questions became tedious, Tristan had received a message from Jennings, the man he’d hired to follow Fisk and Garrett. Jennings had suggested they meet at the Somerset Coffeehouse in The Strand in an hour’s time, and Tristan was more than happy for the excuse to leave his club.
Jennings was a one-time Bow Street officer who had retired from the runners for reasons undisclosed, but according to Tristan’s sources, he was honest and discreet, and most important, loyal to his employers.
The older man rose from a table and strode toward Tristan as soon as he opened the coffeehouse’s black door. A thin ring of white hair encircled Jennings’s otherwise bald scalp, and such deep grooves lined his forehead it was a wonder they didn’t trap debris. He took Tristan’s hand in a firm grip and shook it. “Shall we walk outside, my lord?”
Tristan nodded his acknowledgment, clapped his hat back on his head, and strode out behind Jennings. Street lamps cast long shadows across the damp pavement, and evening traffic rattled by. Tristan and Jennings headed eastward, toward the spire of St.-Mary-leStrand Church, with its garish baroque ornamentation and tiered steeple glowing pale in the gas light.
Rain hung in the air, and people hunched over and moved quickly, as if to hurry home before being caught in the downpour. It was a perfect opportunity to speak without being overheard, and Jennings drew close to Tristan as they made their way over the paving stones and avoided oncoming pedestrians.
A Hint of Wicked Page 11