Seducing Mr. Sykes

by Maggie Robinson

  Her lips curved. “Not safe? Are there vicious animals on the property? Or are you referring to yourself?”

  “You have nothing to fear from me,” Tristan lied. He very much wanted to take her over his knee and spank her cotton-covered arse. Thoroughly. “But surely you know that you should be in bed.” Alone.

  “So early?”

  “We keep country hours here in Puddling. You have had a curfew, as you are well aware.” All Guests were to be in bed with the lights out by ten o’clock. Neighbors reported them if they weren’t.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a watch.”

  “I believe you’ll find some clocks in my father’s house, possibly even one in the guest room you’re staying in. On the mantel? Ormolu? Quite a pretty piece, as I recall. I suggest you take note of the time in the future.” Tristan knew it wasn’t anywhere near ten yet, but she didn’t, or claimed not to.

  “Even if I tried to go to sleep, I don’t think it would be a success. It was a very...trying day.” She paused in the darkness. “Everything is gone.”

  Tristan wondered what she had lost in the fire. A diary? A favorite book? Usually Guests came with a bare minimum of clothing and possessions. If she thought she would be buying a ballgown tomorrow, she was mistaken.

  “You should ask Mrs. Anstruther for a cup of hot cocoa. That should do the trick.” Tristan marched over to the bench intending to drag her up by an elbow and escort her back.

  The lantern caught a splash of silver on her cheek.

  Good lord, was she crying?

  “Are you well, Lady Sarah?”

  “Of course I am! I’m perfectly fine. It’s a lovely evening and I was enjoying it until you came along.” He heard a muffled sniff.

  A few hours ago she had sobbed like a child but only briefly. Thank heaven she had pulled herself together now. Tristan had never been much good with crying women, despite plenty of experience. His life with Linnet had left him quite cold to tears.

  “You’ll be rid of me as soon as I return you to Sykes House.”

  “I can find my way.”

  “No doubt. But allow me to be a gentleman. I also want to arrange for one of the maids to accompany you on your shopping expedition.”

  She rose from the bench. “You aren’t coming?”

  Did he detect a note of disappointment in her voice?

  He sighed, defeated. “I suppose I must, if only to protect the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation. Tomorrow is market day in Stroud, and I dread to think what you could do with all those vegetables.”

  Chapter 7

  If one were a romantic, which Sadie most definitely was not, the stroll up the terraced hill to the house would have been lovely. Her arm was tucked once again in Mr. Sykes’s—Tristan’s—and his slow pace accommodated her soft-soled bedroom slippers.

  She shouldn’t have come out in her bedclothes. But when she’d opened her window and breathed the night air, she knew she had to get outside again. She’d spotted the white garden at once, a ghostly square lit by the lights from the house. The groundskeeper at Marchmain Castle would have died with envy, since all he was employed to do was trim the patchy grass. The gardens had gone to seed soon after Sadie’s mother died and her income was held in an iron-bound trust for her daughter—the late duchess and her advisors had suspected her husband’s tendencies even before they married. There was no money for extravagant gardens or gardeners to keep them that way. The duke had done everything he could to break the financial arrangements he’d agreed to as an impoverished young bridegroom to no avail.

  A fence entwined with rustling ivy served as a buffer from the sloping land below. With her free hand, Sadie clutched at her borrowed shawl as the night air cooled. The Sykes estate was a very pretty prison, her jailer even more attractive.

  But she mustn’t let him think he had any influence on her whatsoever.

  “Do you usually roam about at night?” she asked. She’d have to be more careful in the future if he did.

  “Sometimes.”

  That told her nothing.

  “That gated garden—it’s very otherworldly, isn’t it?”

  He stopped their ascent and turned to her. “Do you think so? I planted it in honor of my younger brother. He died eight years ago.”

  “You planted it?” That explained his dirty fingernails.

  “It’s a hobby. I find gardening very restful.” He resumed the climb.

  “I’m sorry about your brother. Were you close?”

  “Not in age. I was almost five years older. But yes. He was my shadow growing up.”

  His voice was level. Steady. But Sadie heard the hurt.

  “I envy you, even if you lost him. I’m an only child.” Her childhood had been lonely, even when her mother lived.

  “And spoiled rotten, I expect.”

  What did he know? Everyone assumed, and everyone was wrong. She shrugged her arm away. “Almost here, Mr. Sykes. I can see myself in.”

  “Good evening, Lady Sarah. Pleasant dreams.”

  The shadows on his face disappeared in the bright rectangles of light from the windows. He looked down at her, a rare experience for an over-tall woman. There was assessment in his eyes. Wariness.

  Good. He should want to be careful of her.

  “And the same to you.” Impulsively, she stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips over his cheek. She meant to give him a peck only, a saucy thank you for walking her back to the house. But somehow he startled and turned his face in such a way that the light sharp bristles she’d first encountered turned to soft, sculpted lips.

  For a long second, neither of them did anything at all. They were mouth to mouth, held breath to held breath. Sadie could feel the warmth of his body, hear the silence of it. He was so still, his hands resolutely at his sides.

  Clearly, she should step back and get her lips as far away from his as she could. Yet she was as still as he, suspended in the darkness, velvet skin to velvet skin. An owl hooted in the distance, but the spell refused to be broken.

  Really, someone should do something.

  And then his mouth twitched the tiniest bit under hers. Opened the tiniest bit. Sadie felt his broad hands on her shoulders—

  And he pushed her away with such force she landed on her derriere in the dirt. The ground was exceptionally hard, and covered with tiny stones that did nothing to improve her comfort.

  “Blast—Forgive me. I didn’t intend for you to fall.” He reached a hand out and pulled her up. “What the devil did you think you were doing?” His voice was as frozen as snow. He fished out a handkerchief and was blotting his lips as if she’d contaminated him, the rotter.

  “I wasn’t thinking. Obviously. And I certainly didn’t mean to really kiss you.”

  “No? Then why did your mouth touch my face?”

  “That’s it—I only planned to kiss your cheek. A friendly gesture. As if you were my...grandfather.”

  He snorted. “I pity all the grandfathers you’ve tried to bamboozle. I know your sort, Lady Sarah. You are here on sufferance, and I’ll not be tricked by your feminine wiles.”

  Feminine wiles? How absurd. She’d not made the least effort to extract them from her arsenal. In fact, her wiles were on the dusty side, virtually atrophied. Usually she tried to repel men rather than attract them.

  “I assure you, your virtue is safe,” Sadie said with all the haughtiness one could muster after being sprawled on the ground.

  He had the grace to look embarrassed. It was too dark to see if his ears turned red again.

  Sadie knew she shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t. She gave him a push back. Hard.

  To no effect. Tristan Sykes remained standing. He was made of marble, obdurate and unyielding.

  “As I said, Lady Sarah, your tricks will not work on me. Nor your tantrums or tears.”

  Sadie had spent a good deal of her day on her knees or worse. Granted, she’d put herself in those positio
ns—she was usually fairly graceful. Something about Tristan Sykes made her feel awkward, however, and it took longer than it should have for her to meet his eyes, her spine as stiff as his.

  “You will honor your promise, won’t you?”

  “What promise?” he asked.

  “To take me shopping. I cannot continue to borrow clothes from your maids. It’s unseemly.”

  “And you’d know all about unseemliness.”

  She gave him a shove again, and it felt marvelous. “You despise me, don’t you? Well, you haven’t the right! You know nothing about me. Nothing. I don’t care what it said in that silly Foundation report.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “What do you know of that? The information about our Guests is classified. For the residents of Puddling only.”

  Sadie straightened her shoulders. “Well, that means me too, doesn’t it? I live here.”

  Unfortunately.

  “For the time being. Where did you find it?”

  He was growling. Sadie felt some sympathy for the baker, who was really quite accomplished even if he left important papers lying around beneath the Bakewell tarts.

  “I forget.”

  “Just as you forgot where you found those tartan trousers.”

  “I have a great many things to think about,” Sadie shrugged. “There are the vicar’s daily instructions. My responsibilities at the cottage.”

  “Feeding the fish and watering the ferns,” he said with disgust. “You don’t know what an honest day’s work is. Or honesty, for that matter.” He said the last words under his breath, but Sadie heard them all the same and chose to ignore them.

  “How is that my fault? Women of my class don’t go out to work.”

  “There are charities you could involve yourself with. You are a duke’s daughter with rank and privilege, and yet you are squandering your education and rather diabolical mind on childish games. Pumpkins. Petty theft. Punch-ups. Your rebelliousness is ridiculous.”

  Sadie grew quiet. To his narrow way of thinking, he was right, and surprisingly alliterative. Society would agree—she should marry. Bear children. Be kind to her husband’s tenants. Change her clothes five times a day and be ornamental.

  “I don’t wish to marry the man my father has picked for me,” she said softly. “In my experience, men are pigs. I don’t want to marry at all.”

  Mr. Sykes ran a hand through his curly hair, appearing harried. “Why not? You’d be cherished. Protected.”

  “Protected? What do you mean?”

  “Shall you argue with nature? Females are the weaker sex. It’s a man’s duty to care for a woman. See to her, um, needs.”

  Sadie rolled her eyes. The man had obviously never read Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. The book was nearly one hundred years old, for heaven’s sake!

  “Neanderthal. I imagine I can forage for and even club my own food if need be. You might be physically stronger, but I wager my diabolical mind, as you call it, can run rings around yours.”

  “It’s much too late to argue.” He touched her elbow, and Sadie felt a rather pleasant zing through the rough cotton. “Time for bed.”

  Sadie pictured Mr. Sykes in a nightshirt and night cap, and immediately undressed him. It would be a shame to hide those broad brown shoulders beneath fabric of any kind. And his unruly curls were rather intriguing as well, standing up now every which way.

  But, she reminded herself, he was a Neanderthal. And as such, would be a bloody nuisance as she enjoyed his grudging hospitality. In a scant three weeks she would have to go back to Marchmain Castle and face her father, as Mr. Sykes seemed disinclined to allow her further license to remain in Puddling.

  Unless she ran away. There were distinct disadvantages to that, but her diabolical mind would deal with them tomorrow.

  Chapter 8

  Tristan had spent a near-sleepless night. Just knowing the madwoman was across the vast lawn in one of his father’s spare bedrooms interrupted his peace. She haunted his dreams, her pink lips pursed, her amber-tipped lashes flicking with unlikely innocence, her virginal-white nightgown just a wispy trick.

  He had kissed her on the hillside path, God help him. It hadn’t been much of a kiss, but he’d been this close to sweeping his tongue over the seam of her lips and taking her in his arms. Touching her loose red curls. Pressing her against him.

  Instead, he’d flung her away like the Neanderthal she’d accused him of being.

  Her madness must be catching.

  And now, God help him again, Lady Sarah Marchmain was keeping him waiting when he didn’t want to see her to begin with.

  Tristan paced the black-and-white-tiled entry hall of Sykes House. As a boy, he’d taught Wallace how to play chess and checkers on it with paper cutouts. The usual urn of artfully disarranged flowers from the gardens stood on the center table—even in his father’s absence, the house’s habits were kept in force.

  Linnet had not cared for Sykes House or its gardens. She’d been a London girl, a social butterfly who wilted without artificial light.

  Tristan had been a fool to marry her.

  But he’d been awfully young, and thought he knew everything back then. What he’d learned in the intervening years was that married life with all its uncharming drama was not for him.

  Ha. He and Lady Sarah had something in common after all.

  Mrs. Anstruther hurried down the staircase, rubbing her hands nervously when she reached him. She bore the look of someone who’d spent time with Lady Sarah and was regretting every minute.

  Rather like himself.

  “She’s almost ready, Mr. Tristan. There was a bit of bother about what she would wear into town that would be suitable, and I’m...afraid you may not l-like what she’s chosen. She’s a very tall young lady, isn’t she?”

  Yes, she was. Too tall. Like an exotic giraffe. And her pink mouth was too wide for fashion, wasn’t it? Lady Sarah was definitely not the wayward angel of his dreams, all pink and white and supplicant.

  “What’s she wearing? The bedroom curtains?” He’d put nothing past her, swanning around like a Roman senator with a laurel wreath.

  “Oh, it’s not as b-bad as that.”

  But bad, Mrs. Anstruther left unsaid.

  He resolved not to look at his Guest when she finally made her grand entrance. Everyone, even the horses, were being inconvenienced by her.

  Spoiled brat.

  He turned to the door. “Tell Lady Sarah I’ll be in the carriage.” A housemaid recruited into chaperone duty and his driver were already there. It was almost five miles to Stroud, and the day wasn’t getting any younger.

  Tristan would have to offer Lady Sarah lunch in one of the hotels, which meant he couldn’t avoid her all day. He had no intention of accompanying her to the dressmaker, watching her agonize over lace and buttons. He planned to poke around the market to see what late-season garden plants were available for sale. He’d visit the bookshop as well, not that he would have much time to read. He’d be busy in the coming weeks overseeing the refurbishment of Stonecrop Cottage and expanding plans for the Foundation. Tristan had already met with his father’s estate manager this morning to get a work crew assembled to begin repairs. Some people started their day on time, early even.

  He ignored the clumping of feet down the stairs behind him.

  “Hey!”

  “And good morning to you too,” Tristan said, not turning. “Although it’s closer to afternoon than I’d like.”

  “Sorry.”

  She didn’t sound it. Tristan imagined she never truly apologized for anything. Like a duke, a duke’s daughter was above ordinary mortals and their concerns.

  He continued down the steps to the drive, but one look at his coachman’s astonished face made him pivot.

  What the bloody hell?

  If Tristan wasn’t very much mistaken, Lady Sarah Marchmain was wearing one of his outgrown Eton suits—striped tro
users, tails and all.

  And his old shoes, polished to a spit shine! Her hair was bound up and stuffed under his battered top hat.

  “I know black isn’t my color,” she said, hopping into the landau without assistance, and giving Tristan a very fine view of her bottom as she swept the tailcoat out of the way. “And there is a lingering aroma of camphor. But this was the only thing we could find that fit me without alteration. There are a great many women’s clothes in the attic, but I’m afraid your mother and grandmother were much shorter than I am. And of course, the fashions are completely out-of-date. I find men’s clothing stands the test of time, don’t you?”

  She was doing this on purpose, out to make him a laughingstock. Pushing him beyond endurance.

  Tristan remained rooted to the drive. “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am not going anywhere with you dressed in such an outlandish manner. Get out.”

  “My ankles are covered,” Lady Sarah objected.

  “The curtains would have been better,” Tristan grumbled. “I know what you’re doing, and I will not be a party to it.”

  “What do you mean?” She batted her lashes as he’d seen her do to poor Frank Stanchfield.

  He was made of much sterner stuff.

  “Oh, cut line, Lady Sarah. I’ll get Miss Churchill to assemble some clothes for you. Our shopping trip is canceled. I have more important things to do anyway.”

  “What is wrong with what I’m wearing? It was good enough for you twenty years ago.”

  Fifteen. Tristan felt like an ancient thirty and could practically feel his hair turning gray in Lady Sarah’s presence.

  Or falling out.

  He took her ungloved hand and pulled her from the carriage. “We’re done here.”

  “Unhand me! You are not behaving like a gentleman!”

  “How would you know how a gentleman behaves when you refuse to act like a lady?”

  Lady Sarah paled. Tristan was rather proud of his direct hit.

  “You—you pompous, insufferable prig! It’s not my fault I have nothing proper to wear!”