Seducing Mr. Sykes

by Maggie Robinson

  Roderick. He would not be pleased at this course of events, but that was her father’s problem to deal with. At least if she married Tristan Sykes, she would not have the urge to brush crumbs from Roderick’s ginger mustache for the rest of her life. Happily, Tristan was clean-shaven, though his face was shadowed by dark bristles at the moment.

  She wouldn’t touch them.

  Sadie took a step forward and wobbled a bit. She really didn’t feel quite steady on her feet, but it was best to get this kissing business over with.

  Tristan had been married, so he must know how it was done. Her previous kisses with Dermot were inexpert to say the least, and six years ago. Once her father had discovered their budding liaison—thanks, she knew now, to Dermot’s treachery—Dermot had been sacked from Marchmain Castle. Sadie had long stopped wondering what had become of him.

  One couldn’t marry the groom when one was a duke’s daughter. Even Sadie knew that.

  Why was she thinking of Dermot, with his straw-thatch hair and the friendly little gap between his front teeth? By now, he probably was the father of a houseful of children with some accommodating country girl. He’d had such a way with horses and women it was inconceivable to think he wouldn’t have fallen on his feet, found employment and female company. And the money her father had given to shut him up would have helped to get him settled somewhere.

  Not that they’d really done anything irrevocable—Sadie was boringly intact as far as she was aware—but Dermot had claimed they had, armed with all the stupid letters she’d written to him. Had he even known how to read?

  Her first betrayal. The bastard. Which was accurate in all ways.

  Don’t think, Sadie. Regret was too bitter a taste, and led to indigestion.

  She wasn’t going to let herself feel, either. She wasn’t going to look into Tristan’s careful blue eyes, or notice the tic at his jaw. Nor would she look at his broad bare chest and the springy dark hair that wended down below the waistband of his smalls.

  She shut her eyes reluctantly. It seemed the only way to get through this.

  Sadie heard him move across the floor, a telltale creak that he was too near. She felt the heat of his body, smelled bergamot and man and a greenness that was always present about his person.

  A roughened fingertip lifted her chin. She wouldn’t look.

  At first she wasn’t sure she’d understood him correctly. His mumbled words vibrated against her temple, causing a chilly lick down her spine.

  God help me.

  This was an odd time for him to pray, wasn’t it? And surely the god of the Anglican Church had no interest in two betrothed—if unwillingly—people kissing the day before their wedding. It was all very regular. Unexceptional.

  Until his mouth claimed hers and Sadie’s knees buckled.

  His lips were hot and hard. There was no preliminary tentativeness, no gentle exploration. This was a kiss meant to conquer, to destroy all doubt. His tongue swept her mouth open and found hers, smoothing its way across the soft tissue with complete confidence. Sadie parried back, surprising herself. She was grateful he held her shoulders with iron fingers so she wouldn’t stumble, though she wondered if she’d be bruised by morning.

  The kiss showed no sign of lessening or lightness. Tristan was making a credible, thorough, very respectable job of making Sadie swoon. Lose all sense of time, propriety and dignity. Make her limbs turn liquid and her blood sing a song she couldn’t understand. There had never been a kiss like this before in the history of her world.

  One corner of her disintegrating mind made her realize that Dermot was not the established Romeo she had once thought him to be.

  Who could imagine one’s mouth could be so sensitive? That something as blunt and ugly as a tongue could work such magic? That this man, who was a stranger who didn’t even like her, could make her feel—

  No. She wasn’t going to feel. This was simply a physical reaction, like putting your hand down on a hot stove and scorching yourself. Nerves or synapses or something—she hadn’t really paid attention when Miss Mac lectured her on the natural sciences. Of course her body was responding, but it did not mean her head and heart had to.

  But, oh, she would let him do this for a little while longer before she shoved him to his arse.

  He showed no sign of wanting to stop either. One of his hands had left her shoulder and was snaking through her bound hair. The nape of her neck lit with fiery joy. Just more action and reaction, Sadie reminded herself. It didn’t mean anything, though his touch at her scalp had an adverse influence on her nipples, which were suddenly erect. But he wouldn’t know that; there were still some inches between their bodies, though their faces remained attached to each other.

  Tristan was a very deliberate man, attentive to details. Well, he’d have to be, wouldn’t he, since he was an architect. One needed strong foundations to support pillars and posts and what-not. He licked her teeth and the inside of her cheek. Both of them. Her palate, too. His tongue had been completely given over to her pleasure, dancing across it with adeptness.

  Mr. Sykes was nothing but adept. In fact, he was dangerous.

  Sadie felt an alarming heat skip through her body, a desire to eliminate those inches between them and press herself against his bare chest like the hoyden everyone thought she was. But there would be grave consequences, for once Sadie embarked on one of her harebrained ideas, she usually couldn’t stop herself.

  And it was definitely harebrained to fall into Tristan Sykes’s clutches like some moony schoolgirl. Yes, he was handsome as blazes. And skillful with women, if this kiss was anything to go by. She could easily imagine his rough hands running over her naked skin and having no objection whatsoever.

  “Unh.” The groan just slipped out. She’d always had an overactive imagination.

  Tristan took it for permission, wrapping a braid around his fist and drawing her closer.

  Oh dear.

  And there it was. They were front to front, and every marble plane of his masculinity was imprinted upon her. She certainly couldn’t miss his manhood jutting into her belly, and he probably was not missing her diamond-hard nipples, either.

  Inconceivably, the kiss became even better as their bodies touched, when Sadie could have sworn it had been perfect as it was. Tristan’s remaining hand relinquished her shoulder and cupped her misbehaving breast. He thumbed the naughty nipple, soliciting another groan from Sadie.

  This was all too much yet not enough. Why were they still standing up when a perfectly good bed was a few feet behind them?

  No no no.

  Sadie pushed him away with remarkable feebleness. She, who was known for her strong right hook, even if she was left-handed. She stood gasping, hot and cold, elated and miserable.

  Tristan’s bronzed face was flushed, his blue eyes hooded. His hands hung at his side, hands that were apparently as magical as his tongue.

  “Stop,” she whispered.

  “As you must notice, I already have.” His voice was grave.

  “Well, now I’ve promised. You can go,” Sadie said with false brightness.

  “Can I?” He made no move to leave the room.

  His room. Maybe Sadie should sleep in Anstruther’s.

  “W-we had a deal.”

  “Did we?”

  Why was he being so obtuse?

  “Yes, we would kiss, and I wouldn’t run away.” Tonight, anyway. She could barely stand up, her heart was racing, and her mind was total mush. How far could she get? She doubted she could find the front door of the Red House at the moment.

  “You know we did! I only kissed you to make you go to bed.”

  His lips quirked. They were still swollen. “I’d love to go to bed.” He raked her with a look that sent shivers to her toes.

  “Well, go on then. Anstruther’s gone off to look for me, as you know, and his room is available.”

  “Is it?”

  “Stop asking these damna
ble questions!” she cried. “Go away!”

  He shook his head. “I think not. It wouldn’t be wise under the circumstances. Now that you’ve experienced true passion, you might be frightened and renege upon your promise. I’ll stay to comfort and reassure you.”

  Ridiculous, wretched man! “I’m not afraid of you or anyone. And passion? Pooh!” Sadie tried to snap her fingers but failed.

  “Nevertheless.” He blew the candle out and the room was in full darkness. What the devil would he do next?

  And would she let him?

  Chapter 20

  By the saints and all that was holy, Tristan was in trouble. Why didn’t he walk out the door and bed down in his valet’s monastic little cell?

  Three words: Lady Sarah Marchmain. A few more: a cockstand that wouldn’t quit. He doubted he’d be able to walk anywhere for a bit. Let her get settled back onto the bed, then Tristan would thrust—unfortunate choice of words—a pillow between them and try to get some sleep before the wedding day arrived. He still didn’t trust her not to escape. No kiss could constrain her innate wildness and poor judgment.

  The kiss had frightened her. Hell, it had frightened him. He was not unfamiliar on how to arouse a woman, despite his youthful failure with Linnet. Lady Sarah had been aroused and then some. He had never in his thirty years felt such a violent, desperate desire for a woman, and he was fairly sure that desire was reciprocal.

  And now he thought to sleep chastely beside her, separated only by a pillow and his gentleman’s sense of honor? He was a hopeless optimist.

  Or a first-class fool.

  The sky outside was turning gray. His white nightshirt on her luscious body was visible in the gloom, though Lady Sarah’s face was in shadow. She wasn’t gliding toward the bed like an obedient future wife, but standing stock-still.

  Tristan sighed. “Please, Lady Sarah. The cock will crow any minute now.” Hopefully his own cock would quiet down.

  “I don’t want you here!”

  “Can’t be helped.” He was so exhausted he didn’t trust himself not to sleep through any attempt on her part to flee. Would he hear the quiet snick of the front door or a creaking floorboard? But if she had to crawl over him, now that would surely wake him up. Her strong, long legs, her soft bum brushing by—

  “I won’t kiss you again!”

  A pity.

  “That’s quite all right.” Tristan couldn’t withstand another burning encounter and keep his wits about him anyway. They were more or less wandering as it was. He gave in to a yawn without covering his mouth. She couldn’t see him or his tonsils.

  “I don’t like you at all.” He imagined he could see her scornful pout. The little liar.

  “Again, that can’t be helped. Maybe one day you won’t find me to be such an ogre. Now, do be a good girl and get into the bed.”

  He knew that was a mistake as soon as the words came out of his mouth. Lady Sarah Marchmain hadn’t been a good girl since she was a little one, and probably not even then. By her own admission, she didn’t know how to behave. He ducked her fist with an agility he didn’t know he possessed at this late hour.

  She was shouting at him now as he darted about the room trying not to trip on anything. Where was the soft, sensual woman of their kiss? He had no interest in subduing this virago by placating words or gestures.

  He’d have to grab the bull by the horns. Or grab the cow, since Lady Sarah was most definitively female. Not a flattering appellation, and he had the good sense not to state it out loud. He tackled her as she came at him and tossed her onto the bed.

  There was a great deal of squirming and invectives. The latter did not bother him, but the former did nothing to squelch his lust. It was like wrestling with a slippery if seductive eel. Because of her height and slenderness, she was very difficult to get hold of, but Tristan and Wallace had wrestled as part of their youthful fitness regime. Lady Sarah was no one’s little brother, however, and it took far too long for Tristan to remember the basics.

  “If you do not cease this at once,” he growled, “I will not only manacle you to the bed, but gag you. Enough!”

  She stilled too quickly under him. What trick was she contemplating now? Did she know how to unman a man? It seemed very likely, and Tristan adjusted his position accordingly.

  “Let me go.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You are a brute!”

  “Name-calling never solved anything.” He could think of a few negative names for her himself. Shrew. Provocateur. Imp.

  Goddess. Oops. Where did that come from?

  “You cannot make me stay!” Her voice was wobbly, and Tristan knew what that meant.

  Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

  He was only a man, and she had unmanned him without benefit of a knee. So he kissed her again, tenderly this time. At first she sniffed and didn’t open to him, but he was patient and she relented. The kiss was very sweet, almost innocent. Except they were lying down, and nature was definitely taking its course. She was trembling beneath him, and Tristan sought to soothe her. His hand slipped under the nightshirt to her satiny skin and she gave that delightful groan again.

  She was warm. Soft. Precious. And his for the rest of his life, however long that would be. She might decide to kill him in his sleep or over the breakfast table. Her temper was unpredictable.

  He’d gone through this once before. What had he done to deserve such abuse?

  He needed to stop touching her. Kissing her. Tristan needed to get control before Lady Sarah Marchmain took advantage of his state of insanity. Would the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation give him a discount?

  The handcuffs were on the floor somewhere. It was almost light enough to find them without a candle. Withdrawing gently, he gave the corner of her mouth a final lick, tasting the salt of her tears, and laid his forehead against hers. It was unfortunate he couldn’t tell what was really behind her alabaster brow, but maybe he didn’t want to know.

  He felt her eyelashes bat his cheek as he centered himself for the task ahead. And then he sprang with sudden alacrity off her supple body, snatched the cuffs from where he dropped them, and bound her wrists together in a feat of considerable skill and stealth.

  Her shriek was inevitable.

  “Hush. We are going to sleep now. In about four hours, we’ll become man and wife, and then you can yell at me all you want. I’ll need my rest to cope with it.”

  “Cope? How can you do this? It’s evil! Depraved!” She rattled the chain between her hands. He hoped she wouldn’t try to garrote him with it while he slept.

  “Not so very. It’s just a precaution. I’ll remove the manacles for the ceremony.” If he could find the key.

  The bed roiled as if they were at sea in a Shakespearean tempest. Tristan placed a hand on her shoulder and she bucked away. “Good night. Good morning, really.” He turned his back to her, taking up more than half the space on the bed. Deliberately he didn’t try to roll against any part of her body, but he could sense her heat and fury.

  Perhaps he’d bitten off more than he could chew. It was difficult to imagine sharing a bed with such a spitfire in the future, no matter how delicious her kisses were. He could buy Lady Sarah her own domicile, or better yet, build one to her specifications. He owned some land on the other side of Puddling, just waiting for improvement. She might look upon him more favorably, and one day could possibly come to some sort of affectionate accommodation toward their forced marriage.

  And...there was always divorce. He’d survived one failure. Why not another? He was older now, and his heart wasn’t engaged this time. The duke wouldn’t be pleased, but damn the duke anyway. Tristan would have lived up to his responsibilities to Puddling, and Lady Sarah would no doubt be relieved to be left alone. She’d thrived on scandal ever since her debut, hadn’t she?

  A divorce would show her true scandal.

  What a grim view of his impending nuptials, planning fo
r dissolution before the wedding day dawned. The last time, Tristan had been almost too eager, and impossibly naïve. Twenty years old. He’d been a baby. He knew better now.

  Willing his breathing to slow, he closed his eyes against the weak gray light coming from the casement window. He hoped his staff had the preparations in train. He’d left a specific set of instructions before he’d left for London. Flowers in the family chapel, a hearty wedding breakfast, a proper bouquet for his bride, which he would do up himself. It was a shame she’d found nothing to wear, but there wouldn’t be many wedding party guests to notice.

  Lady Sarah was remarkably silent behind him. The bed had ceased to pitch, too. Excellent. Tristan gave in to another yawn and tucked the blanket under his chin. Just a catnap would do the trick.

  The clock on the mantel ticked away, bringing them both closer to their fate. Tristan relaxed, and slipped away into an uncertain dream.

  Chapter 21

  Sadie had tried to sustain her anger. She’d been kissed into quasi-submission and then ignominiously shackled by the beastly baronet’s son, two good reasons to call for blood or some good old-fashioned bludgeoning. But somehow listening to the regular, lulling breaths of her captor—she wouldn’t call them snores, exactly—Sadie fell asleep.

  She woke to the gunshot of rain on the roof, a heavy downpour that was entirely suitable for her unwanted wedding day. Her wrists itched from the metal bracelets, and her temper re-flared.

  Tristan’s side of the bed was empty.

  Perfect. A little rain wouldn’t hurt her. She might not have clothes, but if she could find her shoes she would take this opportunity to flee.

  Sadie bounced out of bed. No noise came from the adjacent bathing chamber. She peeked in, pleased that she could relieve herself in private. Taking care of necessities, she splashed water on her face with her joined hands. The mirror revealed unraveled braids and a mouth that was chafed from those wretched, remarkable kisses.