A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  Seeing all of them settled without any blood shed, Fisk smiled, his cherubic cheeks glowing pink. He lowered himself into the adjacent silk-covered armchair. Tristan nodded to Tom, who slipped out the door, shutting it softly behind him. Tristan trusted him to stay close in the event of any further trouble.

  He glanced at Fisk. “I wish to offer my thanks for your assistance earlier. However, this is a private matter between—”

  “Fisk stays,” Garrett growled.

  A muscle spasmed in Tristan’s jaw, but he kept his face and voice blank. He’d humor the man. For now. Tristan met Garrett’s gaze evenly, absorbing the vitriol in his expression and reflecting no visible effect in his own. “Very well. Explain yourself. If you please.”

  Garrett didn’t respond. Instead his lip curled in a snarl. “What were you doing in my bedchamber, Westcliff?”

  Garrett had always called him by his Christian name, so the use of his old title was unsettling. Tristan’s father had been granted the viscountcy for services to the crown, and orphaned as a young boy, Tristan had been known by acquaintances as Lord Westcliff for the greater part of his life. Until he’d become the Duke of Calton ten months ago. Through his tight jaw, Tristan spoke the truth, not caring that he goaded the other man.

  “What do you think I was doing in your bedchamber? I was making love to my wife.”

  Garrett shot up, hands clenched, ready to brawl again, but Sophie was just as fast. She took his balled hand in her own. Her delicate fingers didn’t cover his big fist, but her will was strong. “Please don’t. Not again.”

  She stroked his knuckles, and Tristan’s lip curled at the intimacy of the gesture. This was the first time Sophie had touched Garrett, and by the expression on her face as she stared up at him, it was clear she didn’t want to let him go.

  Garrett’s arms relaxed, but he didn’t sit down. Tristan wasn’t about to be cowed. Rage threatened to boil up through his chest, but he fiercely tamped it down. He remained in his seat, keeping his unflinching gaze on Garrett. “In the event you haven’t heard, we married last year. Really, man. Do you think you can barrel back into our lives after nearly eight years and expect to find everything as you left it?”

  Garrett’s breath came out in a hiss. “You’re not married. It’s impossible. And illegal. You’re already married.” He looked from Tristan to Sophie. “Both of you.”

  For a long moment, Tristan stared at him in shock. Hell. Garrett still wanted her. Tristan’s pulse ratcheted upward, and his heart thudded against his ribcage. Sophie shook her head. “No, Garrett. Nancy died five years ago. And you…”

  “. . . were officially confirmed dead a year ago,” Tristan finished, pushing the words through his dry throat. “Your estate has been distributed according to your will. Sophie was a widow when I married her.” He forced a smile. “I could provide proof, if you wish.”

  Fisk coughed behind his hand, and his eyebrows drew together in distress. “I’m so sorry, Cal—” this was directed to Garrett, “—I have been on the Continent this past year. You know how I feel about London gossip—I avoid it like the plague. I didn’t know. Last I heard, evidence of your death on the field was inadequate, and you were still legally alive.”

  “The courts came to a decision.” Tristan kept his focus on Garrett, taking deep, even breaths to stay calm. “You were officially declared dead six and a half years after the battle of Waterloo.”

  “No.” Expressions of shock and rage streamed over Garrett’s face. His lips twisted and his forehead creased, causing the big scar to appear even more lumpy and mottled. His pupils dilated, making his eyes look black rather than their normal light blue. “God, it can’t be true.” He raked his hand through his long hair and turned on Sophie. “Sophie… ?”

  Tristan watched them both, fighting the impression that the solid walls of the life he’d built with Sophie and their children was crumbling into dust, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  How was she feeling? He knew she’d always loved Garrett, and he understood her fond memories of what they’d shared. He’d been beside her through her mourning, the birth of her daughter, the subsequent years of struggle. He’d missed Garrett nearly as much as she did.

  Despite her continuing affection for Garrett, she’d fallen madly in love with Tristan. They shared a connection he doubted she’d ever felt with Garrett. Her love for Garrett centered on sweet memories of them together, of gentle love, of mutual discovery. From childhood, she had hero-worshiped Garrett. But she loved Tristan passionately, unconditionally, in bed and out. They shared more than he’d thought possible between a man and a woman. Their love was mature, and their souls were irrevocably connected. All of that wouldn’t just disappear because Garrett had reappeared. Would it?

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered to Garrett, her expression filled with pain. “You were gone so long. We went to the Continent, and we searched for you everywhere… we were certain you’d been lost to us forever.” She blinked hard. “Where have you been, Garrett?”

  He ignored the question and turned back to Tristan, speaking through bared teeth. “Why?”

  Tristan knew the strength of Garrett’s feelings for Sophie—he had grown up with both of them and served as Garrett’s best man on their wedding day. Since they were children, Garrett’s love for her had run deep. That was why Tristan hadn’t fought for her then. Garrett claimed her first. He was older. He had much more to offer her. It was clear to all that she loved him in return.

  But that was many years ago, before Garrett had abandoned her, abandoned them both. It took Tristan five years after Waterloo to realize how wrong he was to have given her up. Sophie was his life.

  Tristan took a deep breath before answering. “I love her. You were long gone. I did what I’ve always wanted to do—I made her mine.”

  Garrett shook his head as if to clear it. When he spoke, his voice was staccato, filled with emotion. “You were like a brother to me. I come home… for my wife…” His fingers curled at his sides. “For the people who once brought me happiness… to regain the happiness I once possessed, to reclaim my life… only to discover you have…” Again he pushed his hand through his tangled hair. “. . . betrayed me.”

  As suddenly as it appeared, the emotion bled from his eyes, leaving them as stark as blue steel when they refocused on Tristan. His tone hardened, and he threw Sophie’s hand from his own. “No. I won’t let you do this. I won’t let you take everything from me. Not after

  —” He shook his head and snapped his mouth shut.

  Tristan stared at him. How dare he? After leaving them alone for so long, condemning them to live with the grief of losing him, forcing them to rebuild their lives? The way his

  “death” had affected Sophie, the way she’d suffered for him. Only in the past year had Tristan witnessed the gradual reemergence of the bright, joyful smiles of her youth. Only recently had they both begun to heal.

  Tristan released a tempered breath and reined in his anger. “Of course you will have your title and lands, Your Grace. Nobody can take those from you as long as you are alive. But Sophie is mine now.”

  Sophie let out a little gasp, but Tristan ignored it, thinking quickly. “We are legally wed. Nothing can tear that asunder.” He lied. He could only hope Garrett had never paid attention to the law regarding marital matters. “We will gather our belongings and leave London.”

  Garrett merely snorted. “Like hell.”

  “Try to stop us,” Tristan said calmly.

  Fisk cleared his throat, directing his words to Tristan and Sophie. “I’m certain you have many questions, Your Graces.”

  Tristan swung his head toward Fisk. I’m not a “Your Grace” anymore, he wanted to say. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sophie studying the gentleman curiously, a hint of a flush adding color to her pale cheeks.

  “I do have questions. Hundreds of damn questions,” he pushed out. God, this was a fine mess. “First and foremost, who the hell are you?” />
  His demand didn’t seem to ruffle Fisk in the least. “I was a young lieutenant of eighteen in His Grace’s regiment of guards. I saw the duke fall on the field at Waterloo,” he said pleasantly. “I wasn’t one of the closest to the scene, which is why I assumed they never called me to testify in any of the hearings regarding the colonel’s… status. Suffice it to say I saw him wounded, and I saw him fall. I was among the search parties scouring the field for him in the days following. As you know, we never found a trace of the colonel. It turns out last month I was on the Continent, and… well, I went back to the area, to revisit the scene for the first time in so many years…” His voice faded as he seemed to fall into a memory.

  “And?” Sophie sank onto the sofa, clutching its arm so hard her knuckles whitened. Fisk gave her a sad smile. “Well, I found Cal—His Grace—hearty and hale.”

  Tristan glanced at Garrett, who watched Sophie. Sophie’s lips parted, mirroring Tristan’s amazement. Seven years in Belgium? So close to France? What on God’s green earth could Garrett have been doing there for seven years? And why hadn’t they found him when they’d scoured every inch within a hundred-mile radius of the battlefield?

  And why didn’t the blasted man talk? Garrett had never been a man of many words, but it was about time he explained himself.

  Sophie pressed her trembling hand to her breast.

  Garrett’s voice was hollow. “I’d forgotten you, Sophie.”

  “Well, that much is clear.” Her voice shook as much as her hand. She blinked hard, visibly struggling to contain her emotions.

  Damn Garrett to hell. Tristan flexed his fingers. Had he abandoned Sophie only to return to renew her suffering?

  “Why did you come back then?” he ground out.

  “This is my home,” Garrett muttered, looking around the room frowning, as if it were the first time he’d ever seen it.

  “After all the grief you have caused, you come back now? To what end?” Tristan asked.

  “To cause us more pain?”

  Garrett looked away. “You don’t understand pain.”

  Sophie gasped, her eyes wide with shock. “How could you say such a thing?”

  “Christ. You married Tristan.”

  Tristan couldn’t stop the primal sound that emerged from his throat, but Garrett paid no attention to him. His voice sounded as if it was being raked over hot coals. “Do you know what it feels like to see your wife tied to your bed, being—hell, there’s no other appropriate word—being tupped by your closest friend? Hell, Sophie, do you know what that feels like? He was raping you, hurting you—”

  “He wasn’t,” she said shortly. She faced forward, her posture rigid, her hands clasped in her lap. She flicked a glance at Fisk, then said in a low voice, “I wanted it.”

  A long, thick silence blanketed the room. Fisk lowered his head and fidgeted with the carved wooden armrest of his chair. The fire crackled. Wax popped in one of the candles, casting a flickering shadow over one of the walls. Tristan had to push each shallow, tight breath from his lungs. His gut clenched for his wife. Forced to discuss such a personal topic in front of a stranger. How dare Garrett humiliate her like this?

  Finally Garrett spoke, his voice glacial. “You wanted it, did you?” His lips thinned. “Well. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

  After all she had suffered for the man. Tristan could kill him now. In cold blood. “So,” he said flatly, “after abandoning her for nearly eight years, you would not wish her happiness.”

  Garrett’s eyes snapped to his, his blue gaze as frosty as his voice. “Before I left for Waterloo, she said she loved me. That she’d love me forever, no matter what. If that were true, she would have waited. Forever, if necessary. Since I came home to find her playing the part of your whore, I can only assume she lied.”

  Tristan jumped to his feet and lunged at Garrett. If he’d had a sword, he would have run the bastard through right then and there. Sophie didn’t move—she gaped at Garrett, too shocked to react. Next thing Tristan knew, Fisk had grabbed his arms and pulled him back. Tom must have heard the scuffle, because he leaped into the room and already had one burly arm locked over Garrett’s chest.

  “Let me go, goddamn it.” Garrett threw Tom off, his expression like stone, as if he had gone past rage, past the urge to kill, and was now in a far more dangerous place. The coldness in his voice prickled the hair on the back of Tristan’s neck. “You will be out of my home by the end of the week, Westcliff.”

  “Gladly,” Tristan shot back. “But Sophie is coming with me.”

  Garrett snorted. “We’ll see about that.”

  Chapter Three

  Garrett barreled out of the room, nearly knocking Tom over in his haste, leaving Tristan, Sophie, and Fisk staring after him in shock. After a long moment of silence, Fisk cleared his throat.“Perhaps we all ought to go to bed.”

  Tristan and Sophie swung round to face him, blinking in surprise. He met their gazes evenly. “I think it would be best—for all of us—if you were to sleep in separate rooms tonight, Your Graces.”

  Tristan bared his teeth and was about to say Fisk and Garrett could both rot in hell, because nobody was going to forcefully separate him from his wife, when Sophie nodded. “It is probably for the best,” she agreed. “I’ll sleep in the duchess’s chambers.” She glanced at Tristan, then swiftly away. “Tristan, will you sleep in the Tulip Room?”

  Tristan’s jaw dropped in shock. Downgraded so swiftly to a guest bedchamber?

  “He is the duke now,” she murmured. As if he required a reminder of that fact. He couldn’t argue with her. And yet… “Sophie—” he began, but stopped himself when he studied her face. Her skin had lost all color, leaving her pale and sallow, and her lips were thin and blanched.

  “Please, Tristan… I can’t—” She shook her head. “Please.”

  She’d reached the end of her endurance, and it would be brutal of him to push her. He reached out and drew her against him. Pressing his lips to her hair, he whispered, “It’s going to be all right, love,” as he felt her body quake in his embrace. She clung to him for a long moment then abruptly pulled away. Tristan’s chest tightened, and he simply watched as she shuffled out of the drawing room, her head bowed. God, she didn’t even want to talk to him.

  He resolved not to panic. Sophie was overwhelmed and overwrought. Maybe she was right

  —maybe it would be better if they addressed this in the morning. Numbly, he walked to the room Sophie had assigned him, removed his clothes, slid under the lace-fringed quilt, and dropped into a fitful sleep.

  Sophie.

  Tristan awoke with a jolt to a bleak daylight filtering in through a crack in the lacy yellow curtains.

  He tossed off the blankets and strode across the cold wooden floor planks to the door. He turned the knob and pulled, but the door didn’t budge. It was locked from the outside. Tristan yanked harder, to no avail.

  Tristan curled his fingers into a fist over the smooth white paint of the door. Taking deep breaths to calm himself, he turned to stare at the portrait over the mantel. The Tulip Room was named for this likeness of the first duke’s children frolicking in a field of red and yellow tulips.

  Once upon a time, Tristan would have been cowed by Garrett’s extreme methods. Not anymore. He’d suffered through the death of his closest friend and his wife. He’d fathered a child. He’d taken his seat in the House of Lords and had calmly won arguments that made lesser men recoil in fear. He would not be locked in his own house like a common criminal.

  He had to get out of here. Once he did, he would find Sophie. And once he found her, he’d take her and the children somewhere safe.

  Just as he turned back to study the lock, it turned and clicked, and Tristan stepped back as the door was flung open. Garrett loomed on the threshold, still dressed in the long, black overcoat, his face haggard, and dark circles ringed his eyes as if he hadn’t slept a wink. The two men glared at each another in silence, until final
ly Garrett spoke. “I insist you remain here until I return, Westcliff.”

  With effort, Tristan schooled his expression. “Why is that… Your Grace?”

  Garrett’s eyes flickered away briefly before returning to him. “I am to see Ansley.”

  Tristan lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Of course. You will request that our solicitor clear up the matter of the titles and land as quickly as possible.”

  “No.”

  Tristan raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “I don’t care about the blasted lands or the damned title.”

  “Oh?” Tristan inquired politely. Funny, neither did he. “Then why are you so eager to see Ansley?”

  “Ansley will go to Doctors’ Commons with a suit to declare the nullity of your marriage to Sophie.”

  Garrett’s words hit him like a blow burying into his lungs. For a long moment, he couldn’t speak.

  “I thought you should know,” Garrett added.

  Tristan stared at him. For once, words failed him. God, it was impossible—Sophie had married Garrett first, and if Garrett wanted her, nothing in the law said he couldn’t have her. Tristan would lose.

  No, he wouldn’t accept that, damn it. He scrambled for a retort while his mind engaged, planning his counterattack. First of all, he would need a new solicitor. Together they’d find a loophole in the law, something that would prevent Garrett from dissolving his marriage.

  “I insist you remain here until I return,” Garrett said. “If all goes well, by the end of the day, we will have begun to clear up this matter.”

  As Garrett made to leave, Tristan spoke softly. “I’ll fight you for her.”

  Garrett slowly turned around, his blue eyes narrow. “You will lose.”

  “No. I will use every resource at my disposal, and I will have her.” Tristan had only a shaky legal leg to stand on—if that—but the first rule of defeating your opponent was to make him believe you had the stronger case.

  “You may try, Westcliff. But she is mine. She always has been.”

  Tristan stared at him unflinchingly. “She won’t leave me. Not willingly.”