“Why?”
That was indeed the question. “I have my reasons.” If only he understood what they were.
“Best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Nevertheless.”
The duke rose. “All right. I believe it’s Reid. Dermot Reid. R-E-I-D. I suppose you still want to get rid of me.”
“You are very astute, Your Grace.”
“Tell Sadie good-bye for me again, won’t you? We’ve already said it once today.”
Tristan made the arrangements to get the duke to the railway station in nearby Stroud. In a few hours, the man would be in his London residence, ready to gamble away his son-in-law’s largesse. With any luck, he wouldn’t see Islesford until Christmas, if then. Tristan was under the impression that the duke and Sadie weren’t much for playing Happy Families at the holidays.
Tristan’s own father was annoying, but he meant well. The same could not be said of Islesford. Tristan stubbed out the smoldering cigar the man had left behind, careless to the end. All he needed was this house to burn down around him. Then where would he and Sadie go? The Red House was not big enough for the two of them.
Especially if they were not to share a bed.
Chapter 35
Waiting for Tristan, Sadie had drunk four and a half cups of tea. It was eventually necessary to make discreet use of the downstairs washroom under the watchful escort of the tall young footman. It had been mortifying to have him stationed outside the door, where he could hear her every movement. Sadie’s temper had risen with every sip of tepid tea.
Where was her husband? Husband. The word had an odd cadence inside her head. She had watched Charlton get bundled out of the house almost two hours ago, so he must be well enough to travel. She hadn’t killed him, which was more or less good news. Her father had also left in a Sykes coach not much longer after.
They were now alone in the house. Well, as alone as one could be with a fleet of conscientious servants. This was the first full day of their marriage, and she felt like a prisoner, worse than when she’d been sequestered in Stonecrop Cottage. At least Mrs. Anstruther was an improvement over Mrs. Grace.
Sadie paced the room. At this point she had examined every book and bibelot on the recessed shelves and tables. Anything worth reading must be in Sir Bertram’s library. She picked up an empty candy dish, and considered aiming it at the door.
That was childish. But she felt childish. She did not feel like a married woman.
Perhaps because she wasn’t really.
Sadie threw herself down on the brocade sofa instead. She examined each fingernail, traced each gore of her borrowed skirt. Looked in vain for a loose thread on the cushions, a speck of dust on the tea table. Everything was as it should be, a testament to a well-run household. But she was not the mistress of Sykes House yet, and might never be. Her father-in-law might bring home an opera dancer from Paris for all she knew.
Sadie didn’t wish Sir Bertram ill. She did not even know the man. But his portrait hung in the library, and he looked a touch choleric. Unfriendly. Tristan had inherited his eyebrows.
Where was Tristan?
The drawing room door opened just as she was beginning to let her irritation get the better of her.
“Where have you been?”
“Attending to some family affairs. Yours, in particular.” He did not smile. Probably he hadn’t missed her as acutely as she had missed him this afternoon.
“I saw that you tossed my father out,” Sadie said. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure. I can move back to the Red House now.”
Sadie’s heart stilled. “What do you mean?”
“There’s no more need for the marital pantomime. We do not have to share the same roof. As I’ve said.”
Sadie cast her mind back to that conversation. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “You mean so you can woo me.” He’d already made a spectacular start.
“I think we’re past that point, don’t you? You may remain in Puddling until the gossip dies down, and the novelty of our marriage no longer attracts attention. Then, I suggest, I will purchase a property for you, somewhere in another part of the country. Your choice. You’ve wanted your independence all your life, and you shall have it.”
The rug was being pulled out from under her. She snagged it with a booted foot. “You don’t wish to be married to me?” She sounded so pitiful she wanted to slap herself.
“No more than you do to me. We’ve fulfilled your father’s demands, but I’ll be damned if he ruins our life permanently. If you are discreet, you may pursue other interests. I will not stand in the way of your happiness.”
Was he actually giving her permission to have affairs? Sadie, who always had the last word on everything, couldn’t not find her voice.
“You’ll understand that I’ll draw the line at raising a bastard, however. There are precautions that can be taken.”
Were there? The subject had never come up with Miss Mac.
“There is no reason we cannot be civilized about this,” Tristan continued through her silence. “You are a duke’s daughter, and will have more latitude than most women. You’ve already established a reputation for eccentricity. In any event, the conduct of our marriage is no one’s business but our own.”
“I see.” Did she? No, she did not. She thought she was warming up to the idea of spending her life with this man, and thought he was getting used to the idea too.
He was only repeating what he had said before. Separate living arrangements. But he had completely omitted the courtship. Why did she feel he had thrust a knife in her heart?
He didn’t want her.
Well, she didn’t want him, either. What he was proposing was very much along the same lines as her own pre-Puddling goals. Autonomy. Access to her money. A quiet place of her own where she could do as she pleased. And apparently sleep with as many men as she liked. Except for the one that had briefly captured her interest.
“It’s too late in the day to go shopping in Stroud,” Tristan said, all businesslike. “I’ll send a message to Madame Elyse. Perhaps she or her assistant can deliver some ready-made dresses tomorrow. Assess what you need.”
“I need everything.”
“Yes. Well.” His eyes wandered away from hers and fixed upon the sluggish fire in the fireplace. “Are you warm enough?”
No. She felt a chill which had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He had reverted to the cool, dismissive gentleman she’d first met in the Stanchfields’ grocery. The one who brooked no nonsense.
Sadie was too dispirited to even attempt any.
“I’ll see myself out then. Have a good evening.” He hesitated at the door, as if he wished to say more, but thought the better of it.
And then he was gone.
This time, she heaved the candy dish with all her might against the door he’d just closed. Sadie hoped it was a priceless antique.
She heard a knock. Had he changed his mind?
Mrs. Anstruther entered the drawing room. “Are you all right, Lady Sarah? William heard—something.” The housekeeper looked down at the shattered glass on the floor.
“Yes. I’m afraid I had an accident. I’m sorry.” She hadn’t stopped to think.
“Would you like an early supper? You’ve missed luncheon.”
“That would be nice.” Sadie had no appetite whatsoever.
“Would you like to dine downstairs, or do you want a tray in your room, my lady?”
Sadie did not relish sitting in the cavernous yellow-papered dining room alone. “A tray in my room would be just the thing, Mrs. Anstruther.”
“Very good, my lady. I’ll send a maid in here to take care of the...accident, and have your supper brought up to you in an hour.”
“I’ve caused a lot of trouble today, haven’t I? Blood and broken things. I shall try to do better.”
“You’ve been under a strain, Lady Sarah,” the woman said
with kindness. “Everything will be better in the morning.”
Would it? Somehow, Sadie had her doubts.
She crunched over the glass and went upstairs. Her bedroom was immaculate, with no sign of her wicked wedding night. A fire flickered cheerfully, and she stood before it, trying to get warm without success.
She removed her gray bodice and skirt and wrinkled kerchief, getting into her nightgown well before the sun thought to set. She should have rung for Audrey or Hannah, but didn’t want to have to pretend that everything was normal. Although she was a famous liar, Sadie felt the current circumstances were more challenging than she was used to.
She moved to the window overlooking the vast gardens. Tristan was in the distance, speaking to a pair of gardeners. He used his hands as he spoke, windmilling about. Those forceful, magical hands that had unraveled her maidenly resistance. She watched as he trudged off up the slope to the Red House and disappeared behind the hedges. Would he enjoy dining alone? No doubt he’d feel relief he was well rid of her and the pretense of their union.
Sadie supposed she could go anywhere in the house she liked—the attics or the library. Find books to read or fripperies to place about her room to make it to her own taste. It was beautifully appointed, to be sure, but too perfect. Sterile. She nearly preferred the shabbiness of Marchmain Castle.
My goodness. She was homesick for a place she’d run away from at least a dozen times. It wasn’t because she missed any of the dwindling staff—turnover was extreme due to her father’s frequent inability to meet his financial obligations. All the friendly faces of her childhood had disappeared, one by one, off to work for employers that actually paid them. Only Cook was left, too elderly for a new life adventure.
Cook’s receipts, which Sadie had copied so carefully over the years, had been lost in the fire at Stonecrop Cottage. Not that Mrs. Grace would ever use them. When Sadie had presented them in her naiveté, the woman had shoved them in the kitchen dresser drawer and forgotten all about them. Against the Puddling dietary rules, no doubt. Sadie had been beyond bored swallowing the tasteless pap she’d been served since.
She wiped a tear that seemed to be leaking from her right eye. Tears got one nowhere. She’d learned that lesson a long time ago. But neither, really, did anger.
What emotion was left in her limited arsenal?
Not fear. Sadie wasn’t afraid of anything. Well, not counting spiders. She knew rationally they were good for the garden, but she couldn’t like them. Marchmain Castle had far too many of them indoors, creeping up the curtains and bedcovers.
Was curiosity an emotion? For she was curious, and wanted to finish what Tristan had started in the bedroom. Find out what happened next. Bring things to their logical conclusion. They didn’t have to live together as husband and wife, but for Tristan to leave her in this half-awakened state was not gentlemanly at all. She would simply have to seduce Mr. Sykes, whether he liked it or not.
And then she could go on her un-merry, unmarried way.
Chapter 36
Tristan had kept busy all day. He’d been hunched over on his knees for hours in what he called the Spring Garden, high up on a rise where it was visible from the main house, planting hundreds of bulbs. From overhearing the grunts and grumbles, he knew he was in the head gardener’s black books for putting them in before the first frost. There were warnings galore—it was too soon in the season, animals would devour the bulbs in a gourmet buffet, they’d rot in the wet earth. But the work kept Tristan from going to go to Sykes House to see Sadie.
He was prepared to be generous with her, despite the repercussions to his own reputation. He’d written that letter first thing this morning, hadn’t he? One of them should be happy.
It was more than he’d been able to do with Linnet, but he was older and wiser now. He couldn’t countenance another divorce, however—he’d be ruined both socially and in business. Society would wonder how he’d gone so very wrong.
Where to start? Tristan had fallen under the spell of a woman who was not only completely unsuitable and unstable, but whose affection was fixed elsewhere. No wonder she’d rebelled, separated from the man she loved. Stuck in a crumbling castle, shunned by her feckless father who only remembered her when he needed money. He was the one who should have been sent to Puddling for rehabilitation.
Tristan was so immersed in digging a hole he failed to hear the rustle of skirts and the delicate tramp of a booted foot. The late afternoon sun disappeared all of a sudden, and he looked up into the face of his wife.
Holy God. She was not wearing trousers or servants’ clothes any more. Madame Elyse had performed a miracle. Sadie was suitably dressed for the weather in a column of deep forest-green light-weight wool, her waist nipped in, a swath of gathers falling gracefully almost to the ground. She looked even taller than she was, especially with her red hair artfully swept up with green glass-tipped pins that shimmered in the sunlight.
“Good afternoon, Tristan.”
He should have leaped up off his muddy knees, but all he could do was stare. She was magnificent.
“Your dress—” he croaked.
She smoothed a gloved hand down her skirt. “Yes, lovely, isn’t it? Plainer than I’d like, but well made. Fortunately the dressmaker had enough extra material to add six inches to the hem. One would never know the ruffle wasn’t meant to be there. Quite a needlewoman is Madame Elyse.”
Tristan nodded in agreement. Who with eyes could dispute it? The dress was severely simple, yet Sadie had never looked better.
“She left me with several dresses to choose from until she and her assistant can run up the made-to-measure ones. No more Eton suits for me.” Sadie smiled, and Tristan was nearly blinded. “There is even an evening gown. I have come to invite you to dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“You sound as if you’ve never heard of the custom. Hot food on the table. Knives, forks, and spoons.” She paused. “Wine.”
“Anstruther—” Tristan began.
“Oh, I consulted with him first. I stopped at the Red House, and he told me where you could be found. He is not pleased to have to cede his cooking duties to his wife, but I persuaded him. Do they never speak?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Anstruther hardly spoke to anyone if he could help it.
“How ridiculous. You and I may be estranged, but I do hope we can be civilized with each other. We haven’t even been married long enough to have an actual fight.”
“I don’t think dinner is a good idea.” For one thing, he might never be able to get up from the ground, slayed as he was by Sadie’s regal presence. He’d never seen her full effect as a duke’s daughter in proper clothing before, not even on their misbegotten wedding day.
“Whyever not? We both need to eat to keep body and soul together. And on the outside chance that someone is here spying for my father, it cannot hurt to share a meal, if not a bed.”
Tristan’s cheeks grew warm. “I doubt your father could suborn any of the Sykes servants.”
“One never knows. Sometimes the man can become deceptively ducal. A person of lesser fortitude might succumb.”
He supposed she might be right. And now that Islesford had a hefty purse filled with Sykes money, he could afford to bribe the entire village.
Damn.
“Shall we say half past seven? Dinner will be served at eight.”
What were they to do for those thirty minutes? Drinking was not recommended—Tristan wished to keep his wits about him.
And his hands to himself.
“I really don’t—”
“Oh, come on, Tristan. Take pity on me. There I am, in that great big house, all alone on my honeymoon. I know you don’t like me, but you don’t have to. I imagine you know how to talk to people you have no interest in. You were raised a gentleman.”
Not like? Have no interest? If only that was true.
“Very well.” He struggled to his feet and brushed the di
rt off his trousers. Now that he was closer, he could see the faint traces of lavender under her extraordinary green eyes. Had she slept as badly as he had last night?
She flicked her russet lashes at him. “Don’t be late.”
“I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.”
He watched as she sauntered down the ridge, back straight, her bustle trembling provocatively with each step. Tristan wanted her to turn and give him a wave, but she didn’t.
From his vantage point, he watched as she meandered through the gardens below, pausing to bend now and then over a flower or clump of ornamental grasses. He stood motionless for the time it took her to cross the acreage and climb the path up to Sykes House.
He was in so much trouble. He glanced at the half-empty basket of daffodil and tulip bulbs. Tristan’s back ached like the devil had trod upon it. How many had he already put in the ground for his father’s pleasure today? Would the man even be home by next spring to see them? Paris had its allure. And with the stock market crash and subsequent recession earlier this year, Tristan’s frugal father found his English pounds went a long way to keeping him comfortable.
He picked up the basket and tools and returned them to one of the garden sheds that discreetly dotted the landscape. If he was to dine with his wife, a lengthy bath was in order. It’s a wonder she hadn’t covered her nose with a handkerchief while she spoke to him. He was dirty from his uncovered head to his boots.
Anstruther met him in the hall as he came in.
“I hope I did the right thing, Mr. Tristan. I told that woman where you were.”
“That woman is my wife, Anstruther. You will treat her with every courtesy.”
Anstruther looked paler, if that was even possible. “Of course, Mr. Tristan. I know my place.”
“Oh, stubble it. You’ve been like a father to me. But your harsh judgement of Lady Sarah is unwarranted.
She’s much more than the dossier you read about her.”
Anstruther sniffed down his beaky nose. “If you say so, Mr. Tristan.”
Seducing Mr. Sykes Page 19