“I climbed into his wagon in Stroud.”
Tristan let out a bark of laughter. “From the frying pan into the fire. I expect you didn’t think you’d wind up back here.”
Lady Sarah shrugged in his arms. She’d stopped shaking and batting at his chest, resigned to his embrace. But he could still feel the tears flowing.
This was all kinds of wrong. She didn’t want to marry him—she didn’t want to marry, period. Her father was a buffoonish bully who had no right to manipulate their lives and threaten the livelihood of Puddling.
But Lady Sarah was in his bed, barely clothed. He’d seen more of her in the past few days than many men did of their own virtuous wives. Tristan had never seen Linnet completely nude in all their years of marriage, and now that seemed absurd. He’d been an idiot.
He was still an idiot.
He wanted to finish that kiss she had started the other evening. He’d almost returned it. True, it had been unexpected and at the time unwanted. He’d stopped following through with it when he’d come to his senses.
Oddly enough, he didn’t want to be sensible right now. But someone must be.
Gently, he set her back into the pile of pillows. “I’ll go sleep in Anstruther’s room.” He wondered what her expression was—he couldn’t see in the dark. Was she relieved? She must be.
“But you must promise me not to run away again. We’re getting married tomorrow.”
He felt the mattress shift. She was silent. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, reminding him he was not much of a nocturnal creature. He needed to sleep.
“Lady Sarah? I need your word.”
“I cannot give it.” Gone was the weepy woman. She sounded quite forthright. Determined.
Hell. So much for Morpheus turning up anytime soon.
“You would run away in the dark?” he asked, incredulous.
“If I have to. I’m only here because Mr. Ross made me come back. And I was so tired. I smelled, too.”
She didn’t smell of anything now but lavender and his own bergamot soap, a heady fragrance that was playing tricks with his senses.
“You took a bath in my tub?” Against his will, Tristan pictured her, snow-white skin, endless legs, and her breasts bobbing in the bubbles—he stifled a groan.
“I had to. There had been a goat, you see.”
Of course he didn’t see. The only thing he saw clearly was that he’d need to stay awake all night with this infuriating—and intriguing—young woman.
Chapter 17
She should never have come here.
But here she was.
Sadie should have lied, said of course she’d stay the night. Of course she’d marry him tomorrow. She was relatively good at lying, had honed her skills on her nannies and governesses and father. Her untruthfulness was one of the reasons there had been such a turnover in the staff as she was growing up. Until Miss Mackenzie, who was built like a stevedore and could swear like one too.
Nothing naughty Sadie did escaped Miss Mackenzie; the least little infraction was always punished. Sadie believed her father had stolen the governess from a women’s prison. She might have even been an inmate for all Sadie knew. Miss Mac was a terror.
And long gone to her reward, wherever that might be.
God hates a liar. Miss Mac’s favorite words as she blistered Sadie’s ruffle-clad behind.
God probably was not all that pleased with Sadie now either. She had caused a commotion running away, frightened her elderly minders, and had not even managed to get anywhere.
What were her chances setting out at night on foot from Sykes House? Sadie peeked out the casement window. There wasn’t even a moon, just a spatter of stars in the velvet-black sky. Her borrowed clothes were in a terrible goat-infused state, and she still had no money.
If she hadn’t been so filthy and exhausted earlier, she would have secreted away a pair of Tristan Sykes’s candlesticks to sell somewhere once she ran away again. He had some lovely things in this little house. Evidently he was a man of some taste and discernment, which was only fitting for an architect and garden designer.
Did he look upon her as a collector might? It was too dark to tell now that he’d blown out the candle. Was she one more pretty thing to put on a shelf? Some men thought that’s all a wife was—a decorative object who was meant to keep her mouth shut and her legs open.
He didn’t really want to marry her either. Why was he so insistent upon it? Just because he was afraid her father would make a stink about Puddling’s propriety and efficacy? No one with any sense would pay attention to her father.
“Fine. I won’t run away again. But you can help me leave.” She could borrow some money instead of steal from him. Once she was on her feet somewhere far, far away from her father, she’d repay him, of course.
“I will do no such thing. I’ve made a promise, and I intend to keep it.”
“Why?” Sadie cried. “Because of this stupid village?”
“‘This stupid village,’ as you call it, depends upon me. I am temporarily the head of its board of governors. It is due to my failing that the life’s blood of Puddling could dry up in an instant.”
“Pshaw,” Sadie said. “My father is a bankrupt.”
“But a well-connected one. He is a duke, Lady Sarah, and dukes have sway, no matter how disappointing and duplicitous they might be. We cannot survive any rumors, my dear. Our unimpeachable reputation has lasted almost eighty years. We’ve done an awful lot of good in that time. I’ll not be the one to let Puddling down.”
“But it’s your life! Your future! We don’t even know one another!” How could he willingly martyr himself to silence her father’s bluster? It wasn’t as if he were a soldier who had to fall on his sword to save his country.
“I’ll manage,” Tristan said shortly. “You will too.”
No. Sadie didn’t want to manage. She wasn’t going to lie underneath a virtual stranger for the convenience of Puddling, no matter how attractive he was.
And she had to admit that Tristan Sykes was a very good-looking man.
But that didn’t matter. She hardly knew him, and he didn’t know her at all. Did he know her favorite color or fruit or what she liked to read?
“I don’t understand you at all,” she said.
Tristan sighed from across the bed. So far, with the exception of trying to console her when she briefly lost her composure, he was keeping a scrupulous distance. “No, I don’t expect you do. We men have our sense of duty and honor beaten into us from the time we’re in leading strings. You ladies may complain the male sex has all the advantages, but there are disadvantages as well.”
She waved a hand between them. “This is all ridiculous.” Although hardly a laughing matter.
“Is it? Marriages have been built on shakier foundations. At least we’ve met.”
“Just a few days ago! We have nothing in common.”
He chuckled. “We don’t know that, do we? We both may be mad for...plum pudding.”
Stir-up Sunday. Sadie used to help with Christmas preparations at the castle, such as they were. Her father had rarely been home for the holiday.
“One cannot live on plum pudding.” She did have an excellent recipe, though.
“Right. It’s much too rich to eat every day. We’d have to buy you a new wardrobe to accommodate your growing avoirdupois if that was all that was on the menu. Well, a wardrobe in any event. You do need one, although you missed your chance today.”
Why was he making fun? Sadie had thought of him as a serious person. A bit boring and stodgy, actually.
She felt herself tearing up in frustration again. Perhaps she should try to go back to sleep. Maybe some sort of miracle would occur tomorrow morning and all this difficulty would disappear. Her father might choke on his toast...
Oh, she would be punished for breaking that pesky respect-your-parents commandment. And truly, she didn’t wish her father ill. She just
wanted him to go away and leave her alone.
“You’re crying again!” Tristan accused. He must have particularly acute hearing, since one couldn’t see one’s finger in front of one’s face, it was so dark in the cozy bedchamber.
“Am not.” Sadie sniffled.
“Blast it. Come here.” He patted the space between them as if she were an obedient dog.
“I’m perfectly fine.”
Tristan snorted. “No one in this room is perfectly fine. We’ve both had a wretched day. Let’s make the best of this, shall we?”
“And how do we do that?”
“I think I have to kiss you.”
Sadie’s heart stuttered to a stop. She remembered that last kiss. If one could call it that. She’d wound up on her bottom in the dirt. “I beg your pardon?”
“You know what a kiss is. Our lips will brush against each other oh-so-gently, then still and glory in the touching. You might open your mouth just a little out of curiosity. Our breaths will mingle, and the hair on the back of your neck will rise. You might actually shiver a bit, and I’ll want to warm you. Stroke your shoulders and arms. Cup your cheek. My tongue will enter your mouth and seek yours. You’ll be so surprised when they make the softest contact possible that you’ll forget your troubles and relax in my embrace. Enjoy yourself. Get into the spirit of the thing. Kiss me back. Feel a flood of heat from your scalp to your toes.”
She felt hot right now with his every reasoned word. “Dream on!”
“Well, all right. We won’t kiss, though it seems a great pity. We’ll just go to sleep together. Next to each other. But I don’t trust you not to flee, so I’m afraid—” He stopped talking and got off the bed. Sadie could hear him rummage in the chest of drawers.
“What are you doing? I already said I wouldn’t run away!”
“We all say things we don’t mean, you more than most. Don’t forget, I’ve read your dossier.”
So had Sadie, even if it had been a bit butter-smudged at the baker’s. Talk about a pack of lies. Well, exaggerations. Her father had not stinted in describing her behavior in the worst possible light. No wonder Puddlingites gave her the side-eye as she walked down the five streets on her daily constitutional.
Tristan fiddled with his tinderbox and the candle sprang back to life.
And then Sadie bit back that tongue which was supposed to tangle with his. Dangling from his hand was a set of shiny silver manacles.
Chapter 18
Tristan had never used the cuffs before. In fact, he’d forgotten all about them, bought on a lark for a fancy-dress party he couldn’t attend after all. He’d intended to go as a Regency-era Bow Street Runner, red waistcoat and all.
But the prospect of staying awake all night watching Lady Sarah Marchmain had reminded him that help was, so to speak, at hand, in case he couldn’t keep his eyes open after all.
Now where the devil had he put the keys? Anstruther might know, but the poor fellow was off on a wild goose chase.
“You cannot be serious!” The horrified look on her face was worth every moment of agony he’d experienced today.
Served her right. It was best to begin as you meant to go on. Tristan would have to assert the upper hand in this relationship or the saucy Lady Sarah would run him ragged.
Goodness, he was chock-full of hand references.
“I am. Would you prefer to be attached to the bed or my wrist?”
“Are you insane?” she spat. She was like a cat, hackles raised. Even the loose tendrils of her red hair looked like it was standing on end.
“I don’t believe so, although dealing with you might predicate the eventual loss of one’s mind. Hmm, I suppose the bedpost is a better option—it would be awkward to have company in the bathing chamber. Speaking of which, perhaps you should avail yourself of it before I limit your movement.” Surely the keys could be found tomorrow morning. If not, Tristan could take a hacksaw to the metal before the wedding ceremony.
Or not.
“I am—you are—I don’t need to go!” Lady Sarah spluttered.
Tristan shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s practically morning anyway.”
Lady Sarah leaped out of bed, putting Tristan in mind of a gazelle he’d once seen in a zoo. “You are not to touch me! I will tell my father what you planned to do!” She backed herself into a corner, and her legs were very much in view.
“No doubt the old boy will applaud me and wonder why he never thought of it himself. Really, how else am I to get a wink of sleep?” He fought back a yawn. Perhaps just the threat of handcuffs would induce her to lie down and behave herself.
“You are barbaric! Criminal!”
“Let’s not get carried away with the name-calling.” He twirled the manacles, and they glinted in the candlelight. “Fine. What do you suggest then? Would you prefer rope? One of my neckties?”
“I would prefer my freedom! In all things. In four years I am to come into a substantial sum, and I want no husband to take my money away from me!”
“I have no interest in your money. Your father and I have already discussed that in our negotiations. You are to spend what you want, and leave the rest of it in trust for our children. If we have any, which at this point remains doubtful. The solicitors are writing up the formal contracts.”
Lady Sarah gave him a goggle-eyed stare.
“By the way, your father thinks I’m crazy,” Tristan continued. “It’s a pity I can’t take advantage of a twenty-eight-day sojourn in Puddling to cure myself of my magnanimity.”
“Oh.” There was quite a lot of emotion in that one syllable.
“Did you really think I was such a villain?”
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind an ear. She had braided her hair before bed, two long ropes that fell over her breasts and down to her waist. Tristan tried hard not to look at her ankles or her calves or any parts north. “Roderick wanted my money.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that was all. Your father says the man loves you to distraction.” Tristan wasn’t sure why, exactly. Yes, Lady Sarah was rather glorious to look at, yes, but she wasn’t precisely lovable.
But then, he wasn’t either. He could be a right moody, dull sort of bastard, or at least Linnet had thought so.
Bah. He should not be thinking of poor Linnet hours before he was to get leg-shackled again. Maybe this time would be different.
Maybe it wouldn’t.
“So.” She paused, working her long white fingers together. “You and my father have sorted all this out?”
“I hope so. I saw my solicitor in London today. Your father has been telegraphing his.” At Tristan’s expense, no doubt. The completed paperwork was due to be delivered tomorrow—this—morning by special courier.
“And you won’t keep my money.”
“Not a farthing.” He had more than enough for his, and a wife’s, needs.
She still didn’t look happy. Maybe it wasn’t just about the money. Maybe she didn’t want to live as any man’s wife. Was she afraid of intimacy?
Tristan though back to her spontaneous kiss the other night. A grandfatherly kiss, according to her, meant for his cheek until his lips got in the way. A short while ago, she had trembled under his touch like a startled fawn.
He faced her from across the room. “Has Charlton kissed you?”
Her russet eyebrows knit. “What?”
“Have you been kissed, Lady Sarah? Do you remember my description?”
“One could hardly forget it,” she replied dryly.
“Shall we put it to the test? Seal your pledge to not run away tonight?”
Her eyes slid away from his. “My word should be good enough.”
He raised an eyebrow and she flushed. As the pink stained her cheeks, Tristan felt an unaccountable urge to trace the color to her collarbone. She looked very, very fetching in his nightshirt.
“J-just one kiss. And then you will go to sleep in Anstruther’s
room like you said and leave me alone.”
Tristan didn’t want to leave her alone. The idea of securing her to the bedpost and having his wicked way with her was tempting beyond belief.
But how much better would it be if she came to him willingly? Sought her pleasure freely? He wondered if that would ever happen. If it didn’t, they were both facing a future of emptiness. A marriage in name only. Unlike her, Tristan kept his word, although it would be hell not to ever touch her. He’d only mentioned heirs to rattle her since she’d given Puddling—and by extension him—such grief today.
If he wanted her in his bed at some point in time, he would have to woo her, and frankly, that seemed like a lot of trouble. Too much trouble. Tristan was tired of jumping through hoops.
He was just plain tired.
But he walked across the room, dropping the manacles to the carpet, palms open. “See? No coercion.”
She was very still, almost rigid. He could almost hear the argument within her. She’d agreed to the kiss only to get rid of him, but there was something...
Did she find him as attractive as he found her? His physical response to her was treacherous. Surely she could see the bulge in his smalls.
Because men were pigs. Tristan was only confirming her opinion. He was at the mercy of his body because, God help him, she was a lovely disheveled vision of young womanhood. Innocence. She might have been wearing a plain man’s nightshirt, and her glorious hair was confined to two meandering braids, but he’d never seen anything lovelier in his life than his doubtful, devious fiancée.
Tristan recognized the abyss when he saw it. And he was about to jump into it, for better or worse.
Chapter 19
It was only one kiss. Contrary to what Tristan Sykes thought, Sadie had been kissed, and sometimes it was even she who had initiated the kissing. But that was years and years ago, when she was a foolish, lonely young girl. Before her heart had hardened to the world and men’s monetary machinations. The most recent of her many suitors had gotten nowhere near enough to touch their lips to hers. Roderick had only kissed her hand, and she had immediately rubbed it clean on her skirt every time he did.
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