A Hint of Wicked

by Jennifer Haymore

  “Mr. Fisk visited the Covent Garden theater this morning.”

  Tristan glanced sharply at Jennings’s haggard face. “Have you any idea who he saw there?”

  “No, my lord. I approached the entrance to the theater just after Mr. Fisk, but it was locked from the inside. I only saw enough to discern that the person who opened the door for Mr. Fisk was male.”

  “How long was he there?”

  “Just a half an hour, my lord.”

  Just long enough for a quick tryst with an actress, if that was what he fancied. Yet if he met with an actress, why had a man opened the door? And why would they meet at the theater rather than her lodgings?

  Or Fisk could simply have an interest in the workings of the theater. Tristan shook his head

  —he didn’t have enough information to speculate. “Where did he go afterward?”

  “He went to the solicitor’s office, where he remained for two hours’ time. Afterward, he returned to the duke’s residence.”

  The solicitor’s office. Tristan had spent the greater part of the day conferring with his own lawyers. Their first court date was set for tomorrow, and Tristan wished he could be there, but his counsel had advised against it, not only for the sake of gossip, but for the benefit of their case as a whole. He’d finally agreed, but the anticipation of the result already began to swell within him—a great knot of tension balling in his gut.

  “And what about the duke?” he asked as they swerved to avoid a man selling kidney pies and two plump ladies balancing their purchases while they dug in their reticules for coins to pay him.

  “Didn’t leave the house at all today, my lord.”

  Tristan clasped the other man’s shoulder and squeezed. “Thank you, Jennings. Keep me apprised of anything else you see, won’t you? And if Fisk should return to Covent Garden, see if you can learn more.”

  Jennings nodded his acknowledgment, and they parted ways. Tristan kept an even pace as he continued to stride down The Strand.

  Tomorrow, his advocates would argue for him in the Consistory Court of London. It might be easy, but if it was, the news wouldn’t be good for him. There was nothing simple about Tristan’s countering allegations, and he had no doubt that if the court took his claims seriously, they were in for a long, difficult battle.

  Though he’d outwardly displayed nothing but smooth confidence, inwardly he was not so calm. Panic gripped at him, leered at him, taunted him with predictions that stabbed him over and over, like tiny swords piercing his heart. It’s over. They’ll nullify your marriage to the woman you love. You’ll never touch her again…

  He walked until he could banish his fears and thrust away the panic. Finally, when quiet night blanketed the city and the only person he’d seen in several minutes was a watchman wearing an oilskin cape to shelter him from the rain that now fell in a steady sheet, Tristan turned toward home.

  Sophie lay on her side staring at the dark puffs denoting the ruffled edges of the bed curtains.

  In the morning, the court would hear Garrett’s case against the validity of her marriage to Tristan. She had never felt so impotent. This should be her decision to make. Hers and that of the men she loved. Instead, their fates would be in the hands of a court that would only look at the facts presented and then make their decision based on the law. Where were thought, feeling, and emotion—all those things that mattered most—in all this?

  Garrett had taken this step without consulting her. A thousand times in the past week she’d wondered how he could do this without talking to her, without hearing her opinion. She simply wasn’t accustomed to being treated as if her thoughts didn’t matter. Tristan was a powerful man who often made important decisions, but he always listened to her and never failed to take her thoughts into account before reaching a conclusion. Perhaps he had spoiled her.

  She shivered. She was cold. Lonely. It reminded her of those first days after Garrett had left for Waterloo and she’d found herself with child and all by herself, terrified that her husband would never return. Only now she was terrified Tristan would never return. Turning onto her back, she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. She lay there for long minutes, which eventually turned into restless hours tossing and turning, but sleep never came. Finally, she rose, shivering with a chill even the six blankets on her bed couldn’t conquer.

  She poured herself a glass of wine and drank it. The fire was cold, and she tugged a woolen cloak over her shoulders, intending to go find someone who would stoke it for her. She padded to the door, opened it, and stepped into the dark corridor. It was very late, and the house was still. No movement, no sound. The cold from the wood planks crept up the backs of her calves.

  “Sophie.”

  She gasped and spun toward the voice. Tristan stepped around the corner, looking dark and delicious. He wore a loose white shirt open at the neck and close-fitted trousers. He’d pushed his damp hair back from his face, but an errant shiny black lock fell over his brow, partially hiding one eye.

  He took another step toward her and she smelled him—exotic, spicy, male. He’d been outside in the rain, and a sheen of moisture covered his skin. If he moved another inch, he would be pressed against her from shoulder to foot. But he didn’t touch her. The distance between them aroused all her senses.

  She breathed him in. “I miss you.”

  He gazed down at her, and the wicked gleam in his chocolate eyes was impossible to misinterpret. His need rushed over her, encased her in a shell of longing. He wanted her. Silently, he placed a hand on her shoulder and, with gentle pressure, nudged her toward her bedchamber door.

  As soon as they walked through it, he closed it behind them. Then, all pretense of patience abandoned, he spun her around and pinned her against the wall, pushing the cloak from her shoulders. Finally touching her. The contact robbed her of her breath.

  “Tristan,” she gasped. “Tristan…”

  But she couldn’t say any more, because his lips were on hers. Voracious, insisting. She opened for him, eager, wanting him to be rough. Needing it. Though his clothes were damp, his skin was hot, and its heat seeped through her night rail and danced over her skin. She felt warm for the first time in days.

  She pulled his shirttails from his trousers and plunged her hands under his shirt. She pushed her palms over the smooth skin of his torso.

  He kissed her lower, down her neck, over the curve of her shoulder. She leaned into him and murmured, “I want to touch every part of you.”

  “Then do it, Sophie. Touch me.”

  She lowered her hands to his waistband and fumbled with his buttons. When they were open, she pushed the trousers down his narrow hips, and he kicked them off. She lifted off his shirt and threw it across the room. Then she tugged up her night rail and pulled it over her head. Making a low sound in his throat, he pressed her against the wall and kissed her again, his erection a rod of hot, silken steel cradled by the soft skin of her stomach. Being cold was a far distant memory. Her skin had caught on fire with the need, and the only way to douse it was to lose herself in Tristan.

  “Hold me, Sophie,” he said roughly.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers in the wisps of soft hair at the base of his skull, and clung to him as his hands slid down the sides of her waist, over the flare of her hips, over her bottom. She shuddered violently when he cupped her buttocks. He moved lower to her thighs and suddenly he lifted her clear off the floor, spreading her thighs wide as he fit his body between them.

  “Wrap your legs around me, love.”

  She locked her ankles behind his waist.

  “Now guide me in,” he whispered, supporting her against the wall. She reached between them, grasping his swollen shaft in her fist, nearly moaning at the burn of him against her palm. He sucked in a breath.

  “Now, Sophie,” he ground out.

  She maneuvered in his arms until he hovered at her entrance, but he hesitated, holding her suspended over him, his arms shaking not from he
r weight but with the effort of keeping from pounding into her without restraint.

  “Make love to me, Tristan.”

  Still, he held her suspended over him, his face a mask of restrained agony.

  “Please, Tristan. I need you. Please, please—”

  Tristan’s control snapped. Digging his fingers into her thighs, he pushed her down, eliciting a soft cry from both of them. And then he pumped into her, pinning her against the wall, his face buried in her hair. His thrusts were hard, desperate, exquisitely jarring. She was completely helpless in the steel of his arms, completely subject to the relentless, ruthless thrust of his hips.

  Heat, burning, singeing her inside and out. The small whimpers she couldn’t help but make each time he drove into her. He was spearing through her, taking her completely. Deep. Driving into her very soul.

  And then it was over. He grew stiff and shattered all around her. She burrowed her hand between them, touching herself in that secret, sensitive spot. The feel of him pulsing within her drew out her own orgasm, and she threw back her head as they pulsed together, moaning with the glory of long-denied release.

  He held still, gradually relaxing, but still holding her up as the joint contractions of their sexes continued for several long moments. Then his hands loosened and she slid down his body until her feet touched the floor.

  He still held his body against hers, both of them now slick with sweat and their combined release. He wrapped his arms around her and held her up as he pressed his forehead against the wall.

  “I’m sorry, love.”

  She only squeezed him tighter.

  “I lost control, Soph. I’m so sorry.”

  His hand cupped her cheek and she turned her head to kiss his palm. “Shhh. How can you be sorry? We both lost control.”

  In silence, they clung to each other until Tristan lifted her in his arms and carried her to the bed. There he set her down and made love to her again. This time, he was slow and silent, worshiping her body as only he could, pleasuring her with his mouth, fingers, and sex, before taking his own pleasure deep within her.

  Afterward, finally fully sated, she slipped off into a sweet, deep sleep, warm for the first time in many days.

  When she awoke, she reached for Tristan, but he was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  Tristan opened the drawing room door to find Sophie, Fisk, and Garrett drinking tea. At first glance, the atmosphere appeared relaxed and congenial, but it only took a few seconds before he sensed a thick tension in the air.The tension gripped him full force when he saw Ansley seated in the armchair with his back to the door. Ansley had already returned from court. Damn it—Tristan hadn’t received word from Griffiths yet.

  He stepped more deeply into the drawing room and paused as Fisk set his porcelain cup upon the silver tea service tray and rose. He was dressed impeccably in a cream-striped waistcoat with gold buttons, a gold watch chain looping over the front pocket, stylish pantaloons, and shiny low boots.

  Fisk offered him a congenial smile. “Ah, Lord Westcliff. Good afternoon. Mr. Ansley and I just returned from today’s court proceedings.”

  “Good morning, Fisk. Your Graces. Ansley.” Ansley refrained from meeting his gaze, but Tristan couldn’t really blame him. He’d worked side by side for the past eight years with Ansley, and now the solicitor was, by all rights, his enemy.

  “Please. Sit down.” Fisk gestured at the only empty seat in the room. Tristan stared at Fisk. The gall of the man—to invite Tristan to sit on a chair that had once belonged to him. He understood Fisk often took the reins for Garrett, who was still learning his way, but he had lived in this house for a large portion of his life and refused to be treated like a guest by any upstart newcomer.

  Tristan gave Fisk an apologetic smile. “Of course, Mr. Fisk, but would you mind moving?

  I’m afraid you’ve taken my favorite chair.”

  Tristan didn’t miss the quickly masked flash of irritation in the other man’s eyes, and it annoyed Tristan even more. Who was Fisk to have proprietary feelings over a chair in the Duke of Calton’s drawing room, for God’s sake?

  “Not at all, my lord.” Fisk retrieved his teacup and moved to the only unoccupied seat, a high-backed, uncomfortable chair upholstered in the same palm-print silk as all the other furniture in the room, but set slightly apart.

  Pushing aside his annoyance, Tristan flicked back the tails of his coat and lowered himself into the chair abandoned by Fisk. As Sophie rose to pour him a cup of tea, he turned to Ansley. As always, the man looked like a caricature—round as a cricket ball, with greased mousy hair, heavy side whiskers, and round blue eyes sunk behind heavy features. His jowls hung low enough to grab in handfuls. But he always dressed in the height of fashion, in an impeccable stiff black tailcoat that managed to cover his spectacular girth without buttons bursting. Beneath, he sported a spotted black and gray waistcoat over a crisp white shirt and cravat that merged into the pale folds of his chin. His gigantic pantaloons matched the gray of the waistcoat, tapered down his legs and strapped around the arch of his tiny feet. His black shoes were narrow at their tips and just as shiny as if he was wearing them for the first time.

  “Would you like some tea, Tristan?”

  He smiled at Sophie, who gazed at him with dark amber eyes as she offered him a cup of tea. From the corner of his eye, he saw Garrett scowling at them. She returned to sit beside him on the sofa, but Tristan was gratified to note she kept a foot of space between their bodies.

  Fisk cleared his throat. “The court certainly had strong opinions of the matter of your marriage, Your Grace.”

  Tristan took a sip of his tea and glanced at Garrett to see him studying Fisk with interest, clearly unaware where this was leading.

  Fisk continued, “The court reasoned it would be best to nip the speculation in the bud by coming to a quick resolution. The judge also said it was a clear-cut case, as I’m sure you’ll all agree.”

  “I don’t,” Tristan stated flatly.

  “Your agreement isn’t necessary,” Garrett snarled. “The court has the final say on this matter.”

  With massive palms engulfing his delicate cup, Ansley studied his tea with great interest. Sophie twisted her hands in her lap and chewed her lower lip. She looked as though she’d rather be anywhere but here.

  Tristan leveled a stare at Garrett. “On the contrary, Your Grace, my agreement is necessary, for if the court comes to a conclusion I deem unsatisfactory, I will appeal, and I will continue to appeal until I am satisfied.”

  Garrett shrugged. “The law is the law, Westcliff. And in this case, I believe the decision is obvious. You’re merely blinded by your own petulance.”

  Tristan ground his teeth.

  “Garrett,” Sophie reprimanded softly, clasping his arm. “Please.”

  As always, her touch seemed to calm him. As unwelcome jealousy surged through him, Tristan looked away. He focused once again on Fisk.

  But Sophie wasn’t finished. “I shall accept no resolution unless it is one all three of us find satisfactory.”

  Fisk, Ansley, and Garrett all stared at Sophie, mouths agape, but then the other three men didn’t know his wife as well as Tristan did. He wasn’t surprised in the least. Ansley was the first to open his mouth, instantly proving he knew Sophie least of all.

  “Your Grace, your desires will have no effect on the decision of the court. The outcome of this case is a purely legal matter.”

  He took a sip of his tea as if to wash down a terrible taste in his mouth.

  “I don’t care a whit about legalities,” Sophie said, her voice calm and clear. “I care about my family. I won’t have the people I love torn apart by discord.”

  “Unfortuately,” Fisk cut in, his tone apologetic, “I fear that has already begun to happen, Your Grace.”

  Sophie set her own teacup on the highly polished round marble side table. “Whether or not that is the case, I insist upon taking steps to solve problems rather than exacerbat
e them.”

  “Exactly.” Fisk rose and walked to a small table near the door. A sheaf of papers rested on its top, and Fisk collected them. “I do believe that is everyone’s wish, Your Grace.”

  He glanced pointedly at Ansley, who added, “Indeed. That is one of the reasons the courts came to such a rapid decision.”

  Tristan sat very still as Ansley laboriously rose. “My lord, Your Graces—the court decided this morning that Lord Westcliff’s responsive allegation was immaterial to the resolution of this case, and therefore, it was not admitted into court.”

  Tristan hissed out a breath. Damn it. He gripped the arms of his chair and braced himself as Ansley turned to him. “Given the evidence produced, the court has upheld the legality of the marriage of the Duke and Duchess of Calton and further determined that the marriage of Lord Westcliff and Her Grace is illegal. Sir Robert Islington, judge for the Consistory Court of London, has pronounced said marriage null and void.”

  Over. Their marriage was over.

  Sophie gasped. Rage buzzed in Tristan’s ears as Ansley went on, motioning to the sheaf of papers in Fisk’s hands. “These documents confirm the nullity of the marriage between Tristan James, Viscount Westcliff, and Sophie, the Duchess of Calton.”

  Fisk’s grin spread wide across his face as he gazed raptly at Sophie and Garrett. “You are legally wed once again, Your Graces. Congratulations.”

  ***

  Curled in a tight ball on the frayed armchair in the duchess’s bedchamber, Sophie dragged her heavy lids upward and nodded at Delia, who opened the door to Tristan’s insistent knock.

  He strode into the room and knelt beside her, his eyes dark with concern. “You look pale, Sophie.”

  She waved him off. In fact, her mouth was as dry as parchment, but she had no intention of admitting it to him.