Her fingers stilled, then started moving again with renewed vigor. “Do you?”
“Yes. There was a difference—you were in the bathtub with me at the time.”
Heat prickled across her chest. After she had washed his hair, he’d washed hers. All the while, she touched him, and when it was over, she had crawled atop him and pushed herself down upon him. They’d made sweet, slow love in the bathtub, and afterward they had lain in each other’s arms until the water had turned tepid. Then they’d dried each other off and retired to bed, where they’d made love again.
“I remember,” she said in a low voice.
On edge, she continued washing his hair, terrified he would ask her to disrobe and join him in the bath, yet oddly disappointed when he didn’t.
And then she was angry with herself for being disappointed. The clergymen didn’t exaggerate when they spoke of how the flesh was weak. She’d vowed not to think of Garrett in a carnal way. But then again, how could she stop herself? This was the man she’d loved for most of her life. Ever since she was a young girl, she’d dreamed about taking off his clothes and touching him in secret places. This was the man who’d taken her the first time, when she married him at the age of eighteen, and countless times after. Until she was twenty-two and he left for Waterloo. Then when he was gone, he’d ruled her fantasies for years—until Tristan had taken over.
Finally, she nudged him forward and rinsed the soap from his hair and shoulders. She couldn’t stay here. She had to go, to rebuild her strength against these erotic memories.
“I’ll leave you so you can—”
“No!” When she froze, he added, “Stay with me.” And then as an afterthought, “Please.”
She ran her tongue over her bottom lip. “All right.”
She handed him the soap. The way his fingers lingered, touching hers, when he took it made her shudder all the way to her toes.
As he washed himself, she occupied herself with mundane tasks. She folded the towels and placed them close by so he could easily retrieve them as he stepped from the bath. Rummaging in the wardrobe, she found a green silk banyan she’d never seen Tristan wear and placed it beside the towels. Then she turned away once again to smooth a wrinkle from the lace tablecloth on one of the side tables.
Finally, as she repositioned the clock upon the mantel, she heard the water slosh as he stepped out. She counted the number of times she moved the clock, stepped back to observe the new placement, then stepped forward to move it again as if she sought the perfect place for it. Her senses were so attuned to Garrett that she knew his every move. He used brusque, military swipes to dry himself, then all was silent as he eyed the banyan, no doubt finding it too effeminate for his taste. Finally, he reached for it, and some wicked part of Sophie deep within her consciousness envied the silk sliding over his skin. She had repositioned the clock ten times when his big hands closed over her shoulders. She dropped her arms at her sides, staring at the clock.
His hands were warm. They covered her shoulders completely, their warmth seeping through the fabric of her dress and the short sleeves of her petticoats and chemise. It was quarter past three.
“Sophie.”
Slowly, she turned, trembling all over as he closed his strong arms around her. She simply held on, pressing her cheek against his chest, and sank into the pleasure of being held by him.
“I missed you so much,” she whispered. “So much.”
After a long moment, he pulled away slightly but didn’t let her go. He stared down at her, his eyes questioning. His arms slipped up her sides, running over the soft lawn and then down her bare forearms and shoulders. Then he cupped her cheeks in his warm, big hands. She stared up at him, entranced, in awe, terrified, guilty, as he lowered his lips to hers. Her fingers curled, gripping the silk of the banyan in her fists. His kiss was soft, hard, desperate, and gentle all at the same time.
Different from Tristan’s kisses.
She wrenched away, gasping. Stumbling backward, she shook her head. “I can’t… I can’t do this.”
She turned on her heel and fled.
Chapter Seven
There is a scarcity of legal precedent in matters such as this.” Griffiths rubbed at his temple. “Especially pertaining to the aristocracy.”The solicitor sat across from Tristan in a dark corner of the Talnut Tavern. They’d met here out on the fringes of Town due to Tristan’s desire to remain inconspicuous until the bruises on his face had healed. There was no point in fueling the scandal. The streets were already abuzz with news of Garrett’s return, and the lane outside the duke’s London estate was crowded with twice as much traffic as normal—people driving by, no doubt, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the long-lost hero. It wouldn’t help for anyone to know that Garrett had tried to kill him after discovering him in bed with Sophie. Griffiths gazed at Tristan from round, pale brown eyes. His face was almost childlike, with no hint of a shadow of an afternoon beard—rare for a man who claimed to be halfway through his third decade. Yet Tristan’s peers had claimed this man was ambitious and aggressive when it came to securing his clients’ interests.
“Your marriage to the duchess was legal, by all accounts, but upon the return of the previous husband… well, according to the laws of the kingdom, your marriage is henceforth a nullity.”
Tristan had already determined this news wasn’t as devastating as Griffiths made it sound. If there was a precedent, the case would be more solidly set in stone. If no similar situation had ever beset a member of the aristocracy before, he had a greater hope of triumphing in the end. Tristan turned his ale in his hands, swiping his thumb over the condensation on the lip of the pewter cup. “We shall endeavor to create a new precedent.”
“We can try, of course.” Deep in thought, Griffiths drummed his fingers on the table. “His Grace has already brought a suit for the nullity of your marriage to the Consistory Court. The only way I see it, the court will uphold the legality of the duke’s marriage to Her Grace, and the next step will be for the duchess to press a countersuit against the duke for a divorce. It is rare for ladies to succeed in such matters, but it might be our only hope. Is there any basis, besides desertion, upon which she might sue for divorce?”
“Such as?”
“Adultery, perhaps? If we combine it with the charge of desertion—”
Tristan held up his hand. “No.”
Even if Garrett had dallied in Belgium, Tristan suspected Sophie wouldn’t pursue an adultery charge, and if she did, no doubt Parliament would forgive him en masse due to the amnesia.
“In any case,” Tristan continued, “I would like to keep the duchess out of this completely.”
Griffiths raised a pale eyebrow. “It will make it more difficult, my lord.”
“You don’t know my wife. She won’t take sides.”
“I see.”
But by the doubtful look on his face, clearly Griffiths didn’t see. It was impossible for Tristan to explain that her inability to choose a side had little to do with weakness and everything to do with her innate strength of character and her unwillingness to cause pain to those she loved. She was struggling, because no matter what happened, either he or Garrett would lose her.
Tristan tilted his head back and finished his ale.
“Would you be caring for more, sir?”
Tristan glanced up at the barmaid and nodded. She was a slip of a girl, no more than fifteen, with dirty smudges on her cheeks and wispy reddish-brown hair that crowned her head like a halo of twigs. Beyond her, Tristan could scarcely make out the shapes of the couple sitting at a table tucked into the near corner, the smoke swirled so thickly in this place. When the barmaid finished pouring, he passed her a crown. Flushing, she bobbed a curtsy and disappeared.
Tristan returned his attention to Griffiths. “I wish to respond to the duke’s allegation of nullity with an argument for the nullity of his marriage to Her Grace.”
Griffiths frowned. “How’s that, sir?”
“I b
elieve the courts should dissolve their marriage based on the length of his absence, the legality of his death, and the good faith upon which Her Grace and I finally married—
legally married.”
“But the law in this matter—”
“You yourself said there was little legal precedent, Griffiths. I said, and I’ll say it again: We shall create a new one.”
“You realize that a nullity by definition means the marriage was void from its beginning. Is that what you’re after?”
“Of course not,” Tristan snapped. “I wouldn’t bastardize their child. No, their marriage is a nullity from the moment the duke was pronounced dead.”
Taking a deep breath, Griffiths nodded. “I see. This is…” He tapped his fingertips on the glossy table. “Well, sir, it will be a monumental task to—”
“But is it one you are willing to take on?”
Griffiths studied him, his dun-colored eyes holding a definitive gleam. “Yes, my lord. It is.”
“Good.”
“It is likely we will be forced to appeal, perhaps several times,” Griffiths said. “I doubt the lower courts will dare to touch your allegations.”
“We will do whatever needs to be done.”
Griffiths cleared his throat. “Well then. I have connections with several advocates who are authorities in the laws of marriage. They’ll research the legal ramifications of this situation more thoroughly and will plead your case expertly.”
“Excellent.”
“However, please remember Calton is a duke and a celebrated officer in His Majesty’s army, my lord, and you are not. Furthermore, London is aflutter with news of his return—
he is considered quite the hero. This puts you in a precarious situation. It is true you are popular, but the duke, I fear, has captured the emotions of the people. No one will forget the truth that the duchess was his wife first.”
“But she is my wife now,” Tristan said.
Griffiths smiled wryly. “Of course.”
“Well. Thank you for your time, Mr. Griffiths. I am sorry to have troubled you to make the drive out here. Yet—” As he rose, he motioned to his bruised face. “—as you can no doubt tell, I can hardly go about publicly in this state. I prefer to avoid causing a stir.”
“Of course, my lord. It was no trouble. No trouble at all.”
Tristan rose to shake Griffiths’s hand, and then he watched the solicitor disappear through the murk as he made his way toward the exit.
Tristan returned to his wobbly chair and drained his ale. Once his face healed, he would stand tall and return to his duties in the government. He would maintain his cool composure, and he would face the scandal with his head held high. Furthermore, he would suffer all their questions and spiteful remarks with assurance and congeniality. Tristan gathered his coat and exited the gloomy tavern. He had a few more contingencies to cover, but he intended to hurry. He hated leaving his wife alone with Garrett. Hours later, Tristan shrugged on his robe as he strode to the desk beside the hearth in the Tulip Room, where he’d laid his silver timepiece. He’d missed dinner and hadn’t been able to see the children before they were put to bed, but his day had been productive enough. After his meeting with Griffiths, he’d hired a man to keep a discreet eye on Garrett and Fisk on their affairs outside the house. Tonight, Tristan had paid quiet visits to several close friends from the House of Lords to explain the situation to them, and they’d assured him they’d keep him apprised of the talk regarding Garrett’s return. He glanced down at the timepiece and returned it to the sleek surface of the table. It was just after midnight. Sophie would most likely be asleep.
God, he missed her. It wouldn’t hurt to check on her. Perhaps he could convince that ridiculous nighttime henchman Garrett insisted on keeping at her door to allow him to say goodnight. Even if she was fast asleep, just one look at her face would bolster him. Turning the door handle, Tristan eased out, looking one way and then the other. The corridor was dark and quiet. His bare feet silent on the cool wood floor, he walked around the bend in the passage to the opposite wing of the house.
Now that was odd. The chair beside her door was empty. Perhaps her guard had gone to relieve himself.
He didn’t hesitate. He strode to her room and pushed open the door. Through the earth-colored India chintz bed curtains, a bit of her pale leg peeked from the edge of the blankets. Quietly, he closed the door and went to the bed, pushing the fabric aside to see her better.
She had curled on her side, her clasped hands resting beneath her cheek. Her honeycolored hair fanned out from her head, and her lips were parted in slumber. Her eyebrows arched over her wide-set eyes and her skin glowed incandescent in the moonlight seeping through the crack in the curtains.
In the past eight years, her face had matured from the childish innocence it had held before Garrett’s disappearance. Her round cheeks had thinned, the slanted cheekbones become more pronounced, and fine lines had appeared at the corners of her lips. A stray curl had fallen across her cheek, and Tristan reached over to push it aside. She opened her eyes and blinked up at him.
“Tristan,” she murmured sleepily.
Smiling, he lowered himself at the edge of the bed. “I missed you, love.”
She reached out to place her hand over his. “Me, too.”
His chest constricted, and his body grew warm. Being separated from her like this tore him apart. The past days had been hell, starting from the moment Garrett had ripped him off her. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she murmured.
He trailed the back of his finger down her cheek and leaned down to press his lips to hers.
“You’re so beautiful to me, Soph.”
His touch seemed to rouse her and she rose up onto her elbow, her light brown curls tumbling over her shoulders. She glanced at the door. “How were you able to pass by the man at my door?”
“I didn’t. There was no one there.”
“That’s odd.”
Tristan shrugged. “Perhaps it was time for a changing of the guard.”
Below the short ruffled sleeves of her nightdress, gooseflesh covered her arms. Tristan swung his legs up onto the narrow bed and drew her against him, running his fingers up and down her chilled skin.
“You’re so warm.” She snuggled close to his body, slid her arms around him, and squeezed. “How was your meeting with the solicitor?”
Tristan forced a smile. “He said the case will cause quite the stir in Doctors’ Commons.”
“No doubt,” she said wryly. “I’m sure we are the talk of the town, and not only amongst the lawyers.”
“Yes, we are.”
She nuzzled closer to him. “What did he say about Garrett’s suit against our marriage?”
she asked in a low voice.
Tristan paused. He hesitated to cause Sophie any additional worry, especially when she lay so comfortably, so trustingly, in his arms. He couldn’t tell her that it might be a long, difficult court battle… And God knew he didn’t want to share his biggest fear—that the judge would fail to delve into the complexities of the law, and taking it only at face value, would nullify their marriage immediately.
“Griffiths will do whatever he can to uphold our marriage,” Tristan finally said. “He intends to solicit advocates experienced in marital law who can research precedents for our situation.”
She didn’t respond, just tucked her head under his chin and fitted her body against him.
“You should leave.” She gave a low chuckle that reverberated through his chest. “Though I can’t imagine the look on that awful guard’s face should he see you walking out of here as casual as you please.”
“It might almost be worth it.” He sighed, stroking her soft, cool flesh. “Ah, Sophie. I don’t want to go.”
He knew—they both knew—that if Garrett discovered him here, violence would ensue. Still, it was impossible to walk away from her.
“I don’t want you to go.”
“I want
to make love to you.” No doubt she could feel the proof of that underneath her hip. She sighed, and the warmth of her breath washed over his neck. Her fingers slid into his hair and gently combed through it. “But you must leave, darling. I don’t want to cause trouble.”
Guilt flashed in her expression, and a sudden realization slapped him in the face. The bastard had touched her. Anger rose up from deep inside him, simmering, threatening to boil over. Every muscle in his body tensed in possessive rage. As if she read his thoughts, her arms tightened around him.
“You’re mine, Sophie,” he ground out. He bent his head to press his lips into Sophie’s hair.
“Mine,” he whispered as the silken strands brushed over his lips. She looked up at him, her eyes shining with sadness.
He couldn’t bear it. He kissed her. Hard. His fingers caught the bottom of her nightgown and hiked it up her smooth thighs. The touch of her sweet, tender skin set his own flesh on fire.
Groaning softly, she kissed him back, equally on fire. Her hands dove into the front of his robe and upon finding him bare underneath, she murmured “mmm” against his mouth. He gasped as her fingertips grazed his nipples.
He dragged his hand up her thigh until he reached her center. Then he gently parted the folds and slid his fingers into her welcoming heat.
She was slick, smooth, ready for him.
A floorboard creaked just outside the door and Sophie jerked away from his embrace. She scurried away from him, and when she reached the foot of the bed, she tossed the hair out of her face to stare at him. Her changeable eyes had darkened with hunger, need… fear. Tristan sat up, clenching handfuls of the blanket to restrain himself from following her to the foot of the bed, pushing her onto her back, and taking her there. Finally, she spoke in a whisper. “The guard’s back.”
A Hint of Wicked Page 10
