Seducing Mr. Sykes

by Maggie Robinson

  “Who turned on the sun?” Tristan groaned.

  Sadie cracked an eye open. “Shall I pour you some tea?” There was only one cup on the tray, but she was willing to share.

  He sat up and stretched, his curly hair adorably disordered. “I prefer coffee in the morning.”

  Something to learn about him. As she had done most of the soul-bearing in the wee hours, she had the feeling he knew most of her secrets, while he was still somewhat of a mystery.

  “I can ring for some.”

  “No. I have other plans to start the day.” He waggled one of his formidable brows and patted the space between them. “Unless you are sore. I’ve been a bit of a beast.”

  Sadie covered her mouth. She needed to brush her teeth and make use of the bathroom before she thought of kissing or anything else. “I’m not—”

  “I understand. Slip away and make yourself presentable. I will not pounce just yet. Toss me that roll before you go, will you? I won’t eat it all.”

  Sadie pulled on a robe and left him getting crumbs in her bed. The mirror over the sink told her she suffered from an inadequate amount of sleep and too much wine. Her hair was knotted every which way. She made a halfhearted attempt to braid it, but soon gave up. She dealt with the business of freshening up, splashed water on her face and pinched her cheeks.

  Tristan showed none of the ill effects of a sleepless night. His tan face broke into a devilish smile as she reentered the room, and her heart squeezed. Would he smile like that at her every morning? She might never leave her bedroom.

  He held out the half-eaten roll in the palm of his hand. “I may have taken an extra bite.”

  She wasn’t hungry anymore. Not for a roll anyway. But did people have carnal relations in broad daylight, with the sounds of a waking house all around them?

  It seems they did. Tristan drew her down on the bed and ravished her mouth. He must have snuck into the bathroom while she was sleeping, for he tasted of tooth powder and smelled of her own rosewater. It confused her senses to be totally surrounded by roses. There were still a few rose petals trapped in the bedclothes, more underfoot.

  “Mm. I could kiss you all day,” Tristan said, un-belting her wrapper and skimming his fingertips over her skin.

  “Don’t you have work to do?”

  “My work is right here, learning to be a husband. How am I doing so far?”

  “Why, Mr. Sykes, are you fishing for compliments?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Sykes. A man wants to know that he’s ruined his woman for any others.”

  “Consider me ruined. Ooh, that tickles!”

  They stopped talking and reverted to kissing. Tristan continued to tickle and tease until Sadie took charge. Tentative, she touched Tristan’s heavy cock. She must have held it properly, for Tristan twitched in a very gratifying manner and his kiss became wilder.

  His member was so soft, yet so very hard. And large. It was difficult to imagine that it could enter her so effortlessly and cause her such exhilaration. She stroked him with increasing vigor until he shuddered and clawed her shoulder.

  She was making him lose control. How delightful to know she had the same influence on him as he had on her. Things between them were beginning to get very interesting until a sharp knock on the door interrupted them.

  “Fucking hell.” Sadie was not sure which of them had spoken. She grabbed her discarded robe as Tristan wrestled with the sheets. When they had both calmed themselves to some degree, she said, “Come.”

  A sheepish Grimsby stood at the door, twisting his gloved hands. He looked everywhere but at the two substantially naked people on the bed. “I am so sorry to disturb you, but there is an altercation in the kitchen.”

  Tristan’s eyebrows snapped together. “An altercation?”

  “I cannot seem to stop it, sir, and I assure you, I’ve tried. No one can. There is some property damage, too.”

  “What in blazes are you talking about, Grimsby?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Anstruther are having a disagreement.”

  Anstruther? Sadie knew he never spoke to his wife. The two of them reminded her of the old nursery rhyme—“Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean.” Two more physically different people could not be imagined.

  “We’ll be down in a minute, Mr. Grimsby,” Sadie said. “Stay out of the line of fire.”

  As soon as the butler left, she burst into laughter.

  Tristan was foraging around the floor for last night’s clothes, still semi-erect. “This isn’t funny, Sadie. Kitchens have knives.”

  “Oh, pooh. They aren’t going to kill each other.”

  “This is my fault. I told Anstruther to speak to her.”

  “And so he should,” Sadie replied, pulling on a modest nightgown one-handed and covering it with her robe. “Do you know what happened between them?”

  “Anstruther thinks Mrs. Anstruther is stepping out on him.”

  Now Sadie roared.

  “Just because they are not perfect physical specimens doesn’t mean they aren’t entitled to love,” Tristan snapped.

  “Oh! I didn’t mean to laugh about that. I know there’s a lid for every pot. Everyone deserves happiness. Anstruther’s just so—bloodless. He hates women. Or maybe it’s just me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you. And once he must have cared for Mrs. Anstruther, or he wouldn’t be so upset with her. Where’s my other shoe?”

  “Never mind shoes. Time is of the essence before she throws him into the soup.”

  They raced down the staircase in their jumbled and shoeless state. The clatter of thrown pots was clear from the hall as they charged toward the kitchen. A cluster of maids and footmen stood in the hall in a combination of fear and gossipy interest.

  “Jezebel!”

  “Stand still like a man so I can hit you!”

  Tristan took Sadie’s arm. “Stay here.”

  “I certainly will not!”

  “You might get hurt, Sadie. See reason.”

  “You can’t have all the fun.” A crash of china gave Sadie a pause. No. She was temporary mistress of the house, and she couldn’t have the servants fighting and breaking things. She shoved past Tristan and caught a flying wooden spoon with her good hand.

  “What is the meaning of this?” How often had she heard her father use those words? She sounded just like him—there was a benefit in being a duke’s daughter.

  The slate kitchen floor was littered with an array of cooking equipment and shattered crockery. Mrs. Anstruther’s face resembled a boiled beet, and Mr. Anstruther was glaring at her, his lantern jaw mulish.

  “I—I beg your pardon, Lady Sarah. I’ll clean the mess up at once.”

  “Never mind that. What did Mr. Anstruther do to provoke you so?”

  “This isn’t my fault,” the man muttered.

  “Oh? And whose fault is it? Bad enough you stopped speaking to me for no cause—but then, you never had much good to say anyhow. To think you believed I was carrying on with Frank Stanchfield! I should gut you like a fish.” The housekeeper eyed a block of knives, and Sadie hustled in front of it.

  “The grocer? But he’s married,” Sadie said. Although who knew what really went on in villages such as this.

  “Ask her how she got the food bills down!”

  “By negotiating, you nitwit. With Bertha Stanchfield. I traded some of our kitchen garden produce to her for their personal use. I didn’t think your father would mind, Mr. Tristan, since it saved the household money in the end. Bertha loves her fresh vegetables. And she’s too busy at the store to make her own jam and grow her own herbs.”

  “I saw you with him! You gave him a love letter!”

  “It was a packet of sage. Honestly,” she huffed in disgust.

  “He kissed you!”

  “On the cheek, Harold. I’ve known Frank all my life, and Bertha’s my best friend. I can’t believe you could think so little of me. You could have
asked what I was doing. You jumped to conclusions and we’ve wasted two years.”

  “I think there’s a lesson to be learned here,” Tristan murmured into Sadie’s ear.

  “For you.”

  “I will never accuse you of consorting with Frank Stanchfield. The man is terrified of you anyway.”

  “As he should be.” She turned and looked into Tristan’s amused blue eyes. “I will honor my vows. You needn’t ever worry.”

  A ripple of emotion crossed his face. “As will I.” He clapped his hands, interrupting the silent standoff between the Anstruthers. If looks could kill.

  “You two need to settle your differences like adults. The rest of you, please go about your business and leave the Anstruthers alone to deal with the consequences of their temper.”

  And stupidity, Sadie thought, but she didn’t say it. Two years of not speaking! There was too much pride all the way around.

  “I shall resign, Mr. Tristan,” Anstruther said.

  “The hell you will. Now, go kiss your wife and make up. Grimsby, I hope we can persuade you to come with us when we build our own house. It won’t be quite on the same scale as Sykes House, but you won’t be ashamed to work for us.”

  “We’re building a house?” Sadie asked.

  “I am an architect. We can’t stay here forever. I bought a piece of land on the other side of the village near the stream some years ago. I can show you some preliminary plans I’ve fiddled with over the years. You’ll have input, of course.”

  A house of her own. It was almost too much to hope for.

  Chapter 44

  Tristan looked up from the ledger at the rap on the doorframe. “David!” He closed the book and pushed it aside. Accounting for the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation could wait until another day.

  David Warren entered the library with a case under his arm. “I told your butler not to announce me. How is married life treating you this time around?”

  Tristan leaned back in the chair and gave his friend a rueful smile. “I don’t want to jinx anything.”

  “That sounds hopeful.”

  “I think it may be. Lady Sarah is not what I expected.”

  “And you always expect the worst as I recall.”

  “You read the newspapers.” And there had been much worse in her dossier. Unlike Tristan, David Warren didn’t live within the confines of Puddling-on-the-Wold, so was not privy to all of Sadie’s purported history.

  Tristan had read every word, and had been annoyed when he first met her. Called her a madwoman. Didn’t trust her an inch. And now—

  He felt differently.

  “Here’s hoping I read nothing scurrilous again.” David set the leather case on the desk. “I’ve brought your wedding photographs.”

  What a day that had been. “How did they turn out?”

  “Judge for yourself.” He pulled out a sheaf of photographs and spread them across the mahogany desk, and Tristan’s blinked.

  There was no denying his wife was regal, magnificent in her diamonds and lace, yet she appeared miserable. He looked little better. These pictures perfectly captured the inauspicious beginning of their new life. All that was missing was a carte de visite of Sadie with her handcuffs on.

  It was common for photographic subjects to have serious expressions on their faces, but the new Mr. and Mrs. Sykes looked doomed.

  “I think—you should burn them. We can tell Sadie they didn’t come out.”

  David shook his head. “And cast aspersions on my talent? I suppose we could retake them.”

  “I’m afraid the wedding dress has been cut to ribbons.” Noting the confusion on David’s face, he shrugged. “It’s a long, strange story. I don’t want my great-grandchildren to wonder what the hell was wrong with us. We look like we’re headed off to our executions.”

  Great-grandchildren? For that to happen, he and Sadie would have to become parents.

  The idea wasn’t really so terrible.

  “Some might say that’s what marriage is anyway—certain death. I intend to avoid it for as long as I can.”

  “It has its charms.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it. Where is your bride?”

  “I’m not sure. We don’t live in each other’s pockets, you know.” This morning he told Sadie he had work for the Foundation to do, but that wasn’t quite all. His letters had been sent, and that should be the end of his ill-conceived notion on how to make his new wife happy.

  Could he make her happy? Tristan once had as sour a view on marriage as his friend David.

  “So, what do you want me to do with them?”

  Tristan gathered the photographs up and shoved them in a desk drawer. “Nothing right now. Let me think on it.”

  “Suit yourself. Are you not going to offer me a drink?”

  “David, it’s not even noon,” Tristan laughed.

  “Well, lunch, then. Or a late breakfast. I’m not particular. I’ve come all this way.”

  Tristan realized he was very much looking forward to a private luncheon with his wife.

  “And I thank you for it. If you’d given me notice, I might have rearranged my schedule.” He patted the ledger. “Village business.”

  “When is your dear papa returning? I cannot believe you let him stick you with all this tedium.”

  “It hasn’t been so bad.” It led him to Sadie, for one thing. “But I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him lately.” The letter he sent this morning should tickle the old man. He was now the father-in-law of a duke’s daughter. Not too shabby.

  “I don’t see how you can stand it. Well, if you won’t feed me, I’m off. Going down to London on the train tomorrow for a week. May I bring you back anything? A dozen hats? An actress? A dancer?”

  “No thank you. I don’t relish the idea of getting clobbered by my wife.” And he couldn’t imagine being attracted to anyone else right at the moment.

  Would that feeling last? He hoped so.

  After David left, Tristan went back to his columns of numbers. It was almost time for the yearly payout to all the residents of Puddling. Sharing the profits of the Foundation guaranteed a nice Christmas for the villagers, and this year’s investments had been solid. Families were financially secure here, so different from other towns affected by the depressed wool market.

  Another rap. This time it wasn’t his friend.

  Wait. Did they not agree to be friends?

  “May I come in?” Sadie asked, sounding a little unsure of herself.

  “Of course! I was just about to seek you out.”

  “What did David want? I saw him on the drive when I came back from my walk.”

  Sadie was attempting to follow some of the Puddling Rehabilitation Rules. She drew the line at the bland food, however. And so far, the Reverend Fitzmartin had not visited.

  “Just to tell me he’s on his way to London.”

  “He didn’t bring the photographs?”

  They had agreed to tell each other the truth. Tristan opened the drawer. “You’re not going to like them.”

  She came around to his side of the desk. “Oh, dear.”

  “Not album-worthy?”

  Sadie picked one up and squinted. “I do look very grand, though. Grim, but grand.”

  “It was a peculiar day.”

  “Do you think we can do it again?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Get married again. In the village church. With me in a proper dress this time. And no Roddy or my father to bungle things.”

  “No fainting organists.” To his surprise, he liked the idea.

  “No absent-minded vicars who leave out half the service. Or handcuffs.”

  Tristan pulled Sadie down into his lap. “I don’t know what the church’s position is regarding duplicate ceremonies.”

  “It can be a public renewal of our vows. And we can have a reception afterwards in the garden while the weather is s
till good.”

  “It’s bound to rain again.”

  “Inside then. When was the last time Puddling had a party?”

  Tristan noted the flush on her cheeks and sparkle in her eyes. “All right. If this is what you wish, consult with Mrs. Anstruther. She’ll need a few weeks’ notice, I imagine.”

  “Thank you!” She kissed him with considerable enthusiasm, making him forget they were due at lunch in the dining room in a few minutes.

  Sadie had told him she’d never wanted to get married, and now she wanted to twice. Well, he supposed the first time didn’t really count. His heart was touched that she wished to declare her good intentions in front of the entire village.

  “If you don’t stop showing your gratitude, I will not be responsible for my actions,” he gasped. He was perilously close to throwing her on top of the desk and having his way with her as it was.

  “Be irresponsible after lunch. Please.”

  He was determined to be a dutiful husband, wasn’t he?

  Chapter 45

  The first of October brought sunshine and a bright blue sky. Tristan had left after breakfast to go into the village on Foundation business. Sadie’s empty day stretched before her. She had made her lists and ordered her clothes for the wedding. Every detail had been attended to, and she was free.

  It was strange to be mistress of Sykes House, even if it was on a temporary basis. Her father-in-law could come home from France at any time, and she knew Tristan did not want to live under the same roof as the man. She couldn’t wait for their very own house to be built.

  She didn’t feel entitled to make any changes here, and in truth, everything ran splendidly under Mrs. Anstruther’s and Grimsby’s care. The housekeeper consulted her about menus, but as she knew Tristan’s tastes better than Sadie did, her input was unnecessary.

  Sadie wanted her husband to be pleased. This was a first for her—she’d never given much thought to anyone’s wishes but her own, thwarted though they had usually been. She’d spent a great deal of her time coming up with creative ideas to annoy people, especially her father, but there was no need of that now. She didn’t want to hurt Tristan; he’d been hurt enough.