A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  Not that it mattered—Tristan knew her too well. “Please fetch Her Grace some claret,” he said to Delia. “And something to eat as well.”

  The maid curtsied and left them alone.

  “Sophie.”

  “Yes?” Her voice sounded small. Defeated.

  “I must leave this house.”

  “No.” Her head bent, she fought the bile rising in her throat. Her marriage to Tristan was over. In fact it had never really existed, not according to the law.

  “I must. It belongs to the Duke of Calton, and he wishes me gone by tomorrow.”

  She glanced up at Tristan’s handsome face. Would she never hold him in her arms again?

  Would she never again experience his devotion to her and the children, his companionship, his friendship, the gift of his dominance in bed?

  His big hand curled over her knee. “This isn’t over, love.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I plan to appeal to the Court of Arches.”

  She groaned softly.

  “I’ll appeal on the grounds of the length of his absence—of his abandonment. And if that doesn’t work… believe me, there are other ways.” Tristan sighed, and his hand tightened over her knee. “Come, love, you mustn’t give up. Where is your optimism?”

  She traced his knuckle, then trailed her fingertip down his long, elegant fingers. “I’m afraid, Tristan. It will destroy me to let you go, but I…” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I can’t leave Garrett, either. I won’t leave him.”

  “Sophie.” He drew in a breath, and his eyes shone with emotion. “I know you care for him. You care for us both.”

  She swallowed hard at his understanding. “I wish the three of us could be as we once were.”

  His hand left her knee and he gripped both arms of the chair. “I don’t.”

  “Tristan…”

  “I knew I wanted you from the beginning. I always knew you’d be mine. I never wanted anyone else.”

  “Please don’t—”

  He pressed a finger to her lips. “I have to say this, Soph. In Garrett’s last year at Eton, he told me he planned to make you his wife.”

  She stared at him. “You knew before I did, then.”

  Tristan nodded. “Yes. I was fifteen years old, and at that moment, I felt as if my life had ended. But I did nothing. I allowed him to take you from me. Instead of challenging him, I gave up. Damn it, Sophie, I let him walk away.”

  Sophie blinked away the film of tears covering her eyes. She reached to take his hands, and he laced her fingers with his.

  “I’m not weak anymore,” Tristan said in a low voice. “I’m not giving you up this time. I’ll fight to my dying breath if that’s what it takes.”

  Sophie stood at the top of the stairs leading to the back drive, her fists clenched at her sides.

  A hired carriage headed the small procession of vehicles parked on the gravel. Frantic with the task of packing and preparing Tristan’s and Gary’s personal items, servants bustled about the two carts behind the carriage. Garrett had decreed all of Tristan’s possessions be out of the house by noon, and the sun was high in the sky. Sophie had not looked at a clock for hours, but it must be coming upon midday.

  Just under two weeks from Garrett’s return, Tristan and Gary were leaving them. The air was still and close, and a thin haze shimmered over the rooftops of the stables and the line of trees beyond. Nevertheless, Sophie was cold—even with a woolen cloak draped over her shoulders, gooseflesh prickled her skin and she had to clench her teeth to keep them from chattering.

  Tristan wrangled with his son as he stepped into the carriage. Garrett’s imposing presence had no effect on the boy today—Gary clawed at Tristan’s shoulder, trying to squirm free of his father’s hold. “I want Miranda! Don’t make me go, Papa. No!”

  Sophie’s heart ached for the boy. She’d said good-bye to him earlier, but he was more interested in playing with a toy carriage Mr. Fisk had brought for him, and he’d wriggled out of her embrace. He hadn’t understood, but Miranda did, and she was devastated. Sophie pictured her daughter upstairs in the nursery. A row of windows faced the back drive, and she had no doubt Miranda was up there, watching Gary go, a solemn look on her heart-shaped face. Miranda’s feelings for the boy ran deep, and Sophie was certain her daughter’s heart was tied in nearly as many knots as her own right now.

  “Mirandaaaaaa!” Gary screeched.

  Holding Gary firmly against his chest, Tristan closed the carriage door. Only then did his gaze meet hers.

  The depth of anger and remorse in his expression made her stomach clench. She couldn’t fathom what this must feel like for him. Leaving his wife in the arms, and bed, of his cousin and onetime close companion who had risen from the dead. As painful and difficult as this was for her, it must be a thousand times worse for him.

  “Tristan,” she breathed. She took a step toward the carriage, but Garrett’s hand descended on her shoulder, heavy and hard, drawing her to a halt.

  She stood tall, unwilling to create a scene before the servants. Holding her gaze, Tristan rapped the roof of the carriage, signaling the driver to leave. Sophie’s heart fluttered in sudden panic as the reality of it crashed down on her. She was losing the rock that had always stood beside her in both good times and bad. Her confidant, her friend and lover. They might never hold each other in bed, talking late into the night. They might never again laugh together, or argue, or smile over their children’s heads at something sweet one of them did. She might never feel his lips on her again. His hands exploring her body. The hard flesh of his chest pressed to her breast. Loving her. Stroking deep inside her body. Straining against her as he reached his peak. Her body surged toward him, but it was no use. Garrett held her anchored in place. The carriage lurched forward and turned the bend around to the front of the house, wrenching Tristan’s gaze from hers.

  Sophie swallowed hard, pushed her palms over her eyes, then turned on her heel. She brushed past Garrett and strode into the house.

  Tristan sat stiffly on the squabs, one hand relaxed and resting on his knee, the other on the shoulder of his son sleeping beside him. Rather than gazing out the window of the carriage at the elegant Mayfair buildings they passed, he stared across at the seat where his wife should be sitting, all her focus directed at him as she discussed her day or argued politics or household management with him. Now that seat was empty.

  Tristan grimaced and rubbed the back of his hand across his prickly jaw, flinching as he realized he’d forgotten to shave this morning. How unlike him. The carriage came to a jolting halt in front of the townhouse Tristan had selected to be his residence until such time as he could reclaim Sophie. From the corner of his eye, Tristan caught movement, and he turned to look out the window. A servant walked sedately toward the carriage.

  The man opened the door and bowed. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  Tristan turned to Gary and shook him softly, until the boy’s eyes flickered and opened.

  “Wake up, lad. We’re here now.”

  Rubbing his eyes, Gary sat upright to survey his surroundings. Tristan tried not to fixate on the trail of tears carved down his cheeks. The child had fallen asleep sobbing for Miranda moments after they’d left Garrett’s house.

  Looking from Tristan to the scene outside the carriage door, Gary frowned. “This isn’t home.”

  His lower lip began to tremble, and panic welled within Tristan—that uncertain desperation his son’s tempers instilled in him. Gary had always been prone to fits of emotion. Nothing and nobody had been able to pacify him until they had come to live permanently with Miranda and Sophie. For the last year, the females’ constant presence in his life had calmed him considerably.

  He pulled his son onto his lap. “This will be an adventure, Gary.” He motioned outside.

  “See that? That’s the house where we’ll be living for a time.” How would Miranda approach this situation? He searched his memory, trying to recall one of the stories he�
��d heard the little girl telling his son. He found a vague recollection and latched on to it. “I’ve heard it was once a fairy house.”

  The boy eyed the place dubiously. Tristan couldn’t blame him. The townhouse hardly appeared a fantastical home of fairies, with its white painted stone front and rows of plain diamond-paned windows. It was adjacent to an inn that had a large blue placard nailed beside its door, stating, “The Blue Swan Inn,” in black letters with curlicue flourishes.

  “Really, Papa?” Gary asked.

  Tristan nodded sagely. “Indeed. It is said the fairies used their magic powers upon all the swans in the area, and turned them blue, as that is their favorite color.”

  Gary frowned. “Miranda says silver is the fairies’ favorite color.”

  “Oh, not these fairies. This… this is a special fairy family—distant relatives of the fairies who prefer silver. Perhaps if we search hard, we will find a blue swan on the premises.”

  Of course there was a marked lack of premises upon which a blue swan might be found. The house abutted the pavement, and there appeared to be no garden. An alleyway bordered one side, but it led to mews, so it did not offer much hope for a blue swan sighting. But it was the best he could do under the circumstances. Gary looked thoughtful. “Maybe I shall find a fairy inside.”

  “I doubt that, son, as they lived here long ago. But certainly there will be no harm in trying. Perhaps you will be able to find some treasure they left behind.”

  Tristan stepped out of the carriage, looking over his shoulder to the cart behind them. He longed for Miss Dalworthy, but he would not have taken her from Sophie and Miranda. He would have to find a new governess for Gary, posthaste.

  Tristan didn’t wish to linger on the street, for someone might recognize him, and he’d rather not have the gossips making a mockery of the move of all his belongings into a townhouse, not to mention his unshaven appearance. Taking Gary firmly by the hand, he strode to the door and through the small entryway, passing his hat and gloves to the portly butler, who bowed politely. “Welcome home, my lord.”

  “Thank you, Steadman.”

  He looked down the dim corridor, its walls decorated with red fabrics and brown upholstery. This wasn’t his home. But where was? Since childhood, he’d always lived in Garrett’s family homes. Perhaps, at the advanced age of thirty-one, it was finally time for him to make his own way.

  “Come, Gary. Let’s look for those fairies.”

  Sophie was in the nursery reading with Miranda when Garrett found her. His stony expression softened as he knelt beside their daughter to ask how she was. Miranda solemnly kissed him on the cheek, and then held out the thin volume of “The House that Jack Built” for her father’s perusal. Garrett gave a small smile.

  “I know this book. Were you almost finished with Jack’s tale?”

  Miranda nodded. “We’re at the priest, who’s all shaven and shorn.”

  “Shall I read with you to the end? That is—” He slid a glance at Sophie. “—if your mama won’t mind.”

  “Of course not,” Sophie murmured.

  Garrett settled in beside Miranda, looking like a giant on the undersized sofa. In a low, steady voice, he began to read. “This is the priest…”

  Sophie watched as Miranda twisted a curl around her finger and mouthed the words with him, for she’d long since memorized this story. When he was finished, Garrett shut the book and smiled at her. “I need to speak to your mama for a short while, Miranda. Would you excuse us, please?”

  She glanced at Sophie, her blue gaze wiser than Sophie would have liked. “Of course, Papa.”

  Sophie squeezed her daughter’s hand and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be back soon, darling.”

  Miranda shrugged. “It’s all right, Mama. Take as long as you need.”

  Sighing, Sophie followed Garrett to the door, leaving her daughter in the charge of the governess, who was sitting in her favorite chair—a rocking chair brought back from America by Tristan—sewing one of Miranda’s frocks.

  Garrett held the door for Sophie, allowing her to exit the nursery first. Maybe he was slowly learning how to be a gentleman.

  “To my bedchamber,” he growled in her ear after he shut the door. Instantly revising her opinion of his newfound gentlemanliness, Sophie snapped him a stare, then whirled around with a swish of skirts and led the way down the stairs. With each step, her annoyance with him grew. What now? Would he so quickly demand the reinstatement of his conjugal rights? Would he dare go so far?

  When they reached his bedchamber, he nudged her inside, went in after her, and closed the door behind them with a definitive click.

  Clasping her wrist, he led her to the bed, then took her by the waist and lifted her to sit on its edge. “Stay there,” he ordered.

  She slid off the bed instantly, staring daggers at him. “Bullying again, Garrett?” She gestured at the bed. “Why, look, I’ve disobeyed you. What will you do? Force me back onto your bed?”

  “Should I?”

  “You might try.”

  “I merely wanted you to be comfortable.”

  She made a disbelieving noise. “Please. There are several chairs that could be used for that purpose. In fact there are several less suggestive rooms in this house that could be used for that purpose. You try to mask your threats, but they are clear to me. You’re angry with me again for some reason, but your attempts to frighten me into compliance won’t work.”

  “Very well.” He gestured to one of the armchairs near the fire. “Would you like to take a seat?”

  “I’ll stand.”

  He gave a terse nod. “We’ve a few matters of business to discuss.”

  She met his gaze evenly. “Indeed we do.”

  A long silence stretched between them. They stared at each other, each challenging the other to begin.

  Finally he gave a gallant gesture. “Go ahead. Ladies first.”

  She smiled. “Gentlemen first. I insist.”

  He huffed a breath. “Very well.” After a short pause, he said, “I dislike how you behaved when Westcliff left this house.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “What is your complaint? I was the model of propriety.”

  “It was clear to all in attendance that you wished him to stay.”

  “Of course I wished him to stay. Everyone knows that. They’d have to be fools or blind not to. And you should be thankful I restrained myself from doing what I really wanted to do.”

  Garrett raised a brow. “What was that?”

  “Tear myself from your grasp, throw myself into his arms, and go away with him.”

  Garrett’s lips thinned, and he spoke through gritted teeth. “Why did you stop yourself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  His blue eyes seemed to pry into her soul as he regarded her. “Oh, but I think you do.”

  “The law wishes me to stay.”

  “Surely there’s more to it than that.”

  He held her pinned beneath his gaze, and she couldn’t lie to him. She looked away. “Once upon a time, that body held the soul of a man I loved. I want to know if he’s still there, or if the swaggering bully has taken his place.”

  “But you still love Tristan and want to run away with him.”

  Tristan. It was the first time she’d heard him use Tristan’s given name since his return, and it shook her.

  “I love him. But run away with him?” She shook her head. “I… can’t.”

  He thrust a hand through his disorderly hair and let out a harsh breath. “What do you want from me, woman? No matter what you say or do, I will never calmly stand by as my wife professes to love someone else.” His expression darkened. “Westcliff found another woman once before when he fancied himself in love with you. He’ll do it again.”

  “He’s older now, Garrett.”

  Garrett was silent. Then the corner of his mouth lifted. “Yet he walked away from you today. Again.”

  Some of the tension melted in Sophie, a
nd she very nearly smiled. “He walked away because it was the wisest course of action. Because he knew I didn’t want him, or anyone else, hurt.”

  Sighing, she held her hands out toward him in a gesture of peace. “I don’t hate you, Garrett. I am angry, though. Just as you are. Please don’t be a boor. I’m not part of your army. I’m not someone you can lead about by the strings.”

  “You were before.”

  Her breath stalled in her throat. Had she been? It was true she was so in love with him, she’d have done anything he’d asked. And he’d been gone so often… first at Eton, then Cambridge, then Spain and Belgium. Whenever he’d come home, her sole aim had been to please him.

  “The years I spent without you forced me to mature. I’m not exactly the woman you left. We cannot rebuild our lives if you persist in the assumption that I’m someone you can order about.”

  “Rebuild our lives?” He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Together? I can hardly believe you think that is a remote possibility.”

  “I don’t know if it can happen,” she said honestly. “I don’t know who I’m meant to stand beside.”

  Both of you? She didn’t dare say it, but an image of herself standing between them, holding both their hands, flickered through her mind.

  “You’re meant to stand beside me.”

  “I know that’s what you believe. I just don’t know if I agree.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You vowed before God to be mine first.”

  She studied him, long and hard. “You must start treating me like your friend rather than your enemy.”

  A frustrated sound emerged from Garrett’s throat. “Damn it, Sophie, I don’t want your enmity.” He turned and took several steps away from her, then spun around. “I… love you.”

  Sophie froze. Silence lengthened between them as they stared at each other across the room, the thick burgundy strands of the Aubusson carpet stretching like an eternity between them.

  “You’ve a fine way of showing it,” she said softly.

  “What would you do if you loved someone who loved someone else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And what is the solution? I allow you to talk to him, continue to love him? Bed him?”