Seducing Mr. Sykes

by Maggie Robinson

  She couldn’t do anything about her hair with her hands in their current state, but out of spite she used Tristan’s damp toothbrush and splashed a little of his bergamot cologne on her neck to freshen up.

  The house was silent apart from the beating rain. Sadie didn’t trust her luck, so time was of the essence. She managed to fish out her half-boots from the pile of goat-scented clothes and stole a frockcoat from Tristan’s wardrobe to toss over her shoulders. If she could manage to do up some buttons, it would keep the worst of the weather off her unbound breasts. There was no question of tying corset strings.

  Sadie felt no guilt whatsoever stealing from Tristan Sykes. She found a silver-backed brush and comb set, scissors and a pair of onyx cufflinks lying carelessly on the dresser, and stuffed them into a coat pocket. Even if she looked like a tramp, she would have something to barter with. Somehow, she’d get the handcuffs removed, too, even if she had to bite them off herself.

  She turned the bedroom door handle, but nothing happened. She was locked in!

  Ooh! Once she got her hands on him, he would be sorry for the rest of his miserable, manacle-loving life.

  Sadie sat back on the bed, her mind whirring. If she stood on a chair, she could climb out the window. It would be tricky to fit through it, but she was thin enough.

  Her stomach rumbled. Too thin at the moment. She was starving. Ham Ross’s scones and jam were ancient history as far as her stomach remembered.

  She needed to get of here first before she worried about breakfast. Sadie shoved a worn leather chair beneath the window, hopped up and opened the latch. A blast of rain hit her in the eye, and she blinked.

  It certainly was coming down. Anyone mad enough to be out in this would be soaked to the skin in an instant. Sadie hoped Tristan was off drowning somewhere.

  No. Not really drowning. Maybe floating in a torrent of wild water, being swept out to sea where he couldn’t kiss or confine anyone else for a long, long time. If he wound up on a deserted island with rotten coconuts, it would serve him right.

  Someone knocked on the door, and she heard the rattle of keys. Jumping from the chair, she prepared to give her jailer a very large piece of her mind.

  It wasn’t Tristan, but the twin maids Audrey and Hannah, who were very wet indeed. Sadie had given Hannah the slip yesterday, and had the grace to blush at both of them, since she wasn’t sure which was which.

  “We’ve come to help you get ready, my lady,” one of them said with some firmness, putting a case and a basket on the bed. Sadie could smell coffee. She would have preferred tea.

  “Ready for what?” Sadie cracked.

  “Your wedding,” said the other. “Mr. Tristan’s in the chapel waiting, since it’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the ceremony. The carriage is outside to bring you to the chapel. Young Fred and Old Fred are in the parlor, and you’re, um, not to get any funny ideas about running away, because Mr. Tristan has authorized them to take any measures necessary for your safe delivery.”

  “Like tie me up and spank me?” Sadie asked, incredulous.

  “Whatever it takes. Oh, and he apologizes, but he did not find the key to the handcuffs.”

  Sadie was appalled. “I am to be escorted to my wedding like a convict?”

  “Yes, my lady. I’m sorry.” This must be Hannah. She didn’t sound sorry at all. “You are to eat a bite of breakfast. There are fresh rolls.”

  Sadie raised her arms. “And how am I supposed to eat and get dressed? I can’t marry in a nightshirt!”

  “No, indeed, my lady. We’re going to feed you, and then cut off Mr. Tristan’s, um, nightshirt.” She pulled a pair of evil-looking scissors out of her apron pocket. They could easily double as a weapon, and were far superior to the scissors she had stolen.

  Sadie realized her proposed flight and entire arsenal of over-reaction was useless in the face of the determination of the twin maids. Tristan had obviously warned them to beware. Audrey held a roll to her lips and Sadie took a vicious bite, just missing the maid’s fingers. A sip of hot coffee from a jar came next.

  Everything tasted like lead. She shook her head when offered more, and the twins shrugged.

  “Get on with it.”

  Sadie was silent while the garment was sliced off her. She should not feel embarrassment to be naked before staff; she’d spent most her life relying on others to help her get dressed and undressed, even when her father couldn’t afford to hire proper maids. But she knew her face was red, mostly from anger.

  “What’s in the case then?” she asked. Hopefully not any of the tiny outdated garments from the attic.

  “Some lace curtains, my lady. Audrey is clever with a needle and will fashion something suitable.”

  Curtains? Yellowing lace curtains. Unbelievable! Dusty, too. Sadie coughed as the maids shook the fabric with vigor.

  The twins sliced up a plain shift and sewed her into it. Then came a pretty corset, a corset cover, stockings, and too-tight satin slippers. A cage bustle petticoat was tied around her waist. My word! They though to make her a fashionable bride in used curtains? It was too absurd.

  She held her cuffed hands out straight in front of her and they cut and pinned fabric on her as if she was a dressmaker’s dummy. Sadie was afraid to say a word they stitched, half-expecting Hannah to poke her with a needle to get back at her for ditching her yesterday.

  Audrey stepped back after a half hour of hard labor. Her forehead was damp, and she spat the pins out of her mouth into her hand. “Not bad, considering.”

  “It’s brilliant, Audrey, and you know it! Now for the hair.”

  Hannah was none too gentle as she pressed Sadie down into a chair and dragged a brush through her tangles. In the meantime, Audrey attached a swath of lace to tarnished diamante combs. They had thought of everything.

  Hannah brought a large velvet box from the case. “The deWinter diamonds. Mr. Tristan insists that you wear them. They belonged to his grandmother, and are his wedding gift to you.”

  And were ancient and ugly, Sadie decided. The necklace felt heavy and cold on her throat, the ear drops threatened to pull her earlobes to her shoulders, and the tiara gave her an instant headache. She supposed all the glittering diamonds were well enough, but the jewels would benefit from a new setting.

  “This is ridiculous,” Sadie complained.

  “Do you think so?” Hannah pushed her toward the mirror on the back of Tristan’s bedroom door.

  Well. Perhaps not so very ridiculous. It was not immediately obvious that she was wearing curtains, and not even her father could sniff at the large diamonds she was decked out in. She looked good. Beautiful even, with the irritated flush of color bright on her cheeks.

  She rattled the chains between her wrists. “What about these, then?”

  “The bouquet will cover your hands. Mr. Tristan made it himself.”

  He did, did he? He’d been a busy boy this morning.

  The maids escorted her from the bedroom to the parlor, where the Freds were keeping watch over an enormous spray of fragrant white flowers lying on the sofa. Sadie recognized them at once. They were from the garden Tristan had created for his dead brother, and she felt something turn in her heart. He must have picked every one.

  “Lively now,” the older man said, opening an umbrella in the entryway.

  “Bad luck, Pa. You shouldn’t open an umbrella indoors,” his son said.

  “Old wives’ tale. We don’t want Lady Sarah to get wet now, do we? Anyhow, rain on the wedding day means fertility.” Old Fred gave her a wink.

  “Talk about an old wives’ tale!” Young Fred said.

  “You’d better stop arguing, or there will be no young wife,” Sadie said acerbically.

  They hustled her into the carriage, the twins holding her train aloft from the sodden grass. The vehicle squeezed through the garden paths, which had been designed for foot traffic only. The rain pummeled on the carriage roof, branches
tapped against the windows, and a bright bolt of lightning landed quite near. Sadie felt as if she was in the middle of a Gothic novel and expected Frankenstein to jump out of the bushes at any moment.

  Instead, it was Mrs. Anstruther who greeted her on the steps of Sykes House, with two footmen racing down with more umbrellas.

  “You look lovely, Lady Sarah,” the housekeeper shouted over the wind. Hannah—or Audrey—caught the veil before it could get stuck on the potted boxwood topiary at the door.

  Sadie noticed the fresh flowers in the front hall, the gleaming black and white tiles. Her every sense was alert, smelling beeswax and furniture polish and rain. Her pulse was erratic, and her breathing tight.

  She realized she was afraid.

  According to Tristan, her money would remain her own, so it wasn’t that. He’d promised her independence. Within reason. Whatever that meant.

  Sadie didn’t want to marry a stranger, even if he kissed like an angel. Or, more accurately, a devil. So she would not say “I will” when the time came, no matter how much her father raved in the Sykes family chapel. No one could make her change her mind or open her mouth.

  Chapter 22

  Considering the last-minute nature of his nuptials, the servants had made a concerted effort toward perfection. The house was always well-run, but everything seemed to have an added sheen today. The chapel itself, even with all the gloom of the heavy rain outside, was alight with candles and lamps, and the altar was covered in flowers.

  Mr. Fitzmartin stood before the altar in his cassock, looking a touch anxious. But Lady Sarah wouldn’t be running away from him today. Mrs. Fitzmartin was there too to serve as organist and witness. Tristan’s childhood friend David Warren, whose hobby was photography, would arrive later to immortalize the occasion.

  Tristan wondered if, when he was old and gray, he and his wife might sit of an evening and admire photographs of themselves and their wedding day finery. If the old drawing room curtains could be considered adequate dress material. He’d thought them inspired when he’d hit upon the idea, but perhaps Lady Sarah was not in agreement. He himself was in a proper morning suit, complete with top hat.

  The rest of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation governors had not been invited. The Duke of Islesford sat in the front pew, checking his timepiece for the eightieth time. He had been relieved to discover this morning that his daughter had been found, but not even curious where. “What’s keeping her?”

  Tristan had watched the carriage make its laborious journey through the gardens. Did she notice the horses’ bridles were tied with soaked white ribbons? He’d tried to make this day tolerable, despite his own reservations.

  “They should be arriving any minute, Your Grace. Perhaps you’d like to wait in the vestibule to walk her in.”

  The duke grumbled something but got up.

  The air in the chapel seemed lighter without him. Tristan stuck a hand in his waistcoat pocket, feeling for his grandmother’s wedding band. Gold, with a square emerald surrounded by diamonds. Lady Sarah might think it was a reference to her eyes. If she didn’t like it, he was prepared to buy her something she would. He was perfectly ready to compromise on some things—within reason.

  Tristan considered himself to be a modern man. He had no interest in tying a wife down to cater to his every whim, which was fortunate. Lady Sarah seemed unlikely to cater to anyone.

  But tying her down might be fun. Tristan was beginning to worry at the direction his mind was taking regarding Lady Sarah, and tried to think of something else instead.

  He heard the scuffle outside, then the duke’s yelp.

  The man should have ducked.

  Lady Sarah marched in without him, cheeks crimson and eyes sparking. Mrs. Fitzmartin had no hope of accelerating the music to match her stride. After a few discordant notes, the woman gave up.

  His bride was magnificent. Hannah and Audrey had achieved the unachievable. No one would ever guess the bride was wearing the old drawing-room drapes. The dress conformed to every inch of her body, with puffy sleeves and a low but not immodest neckline. Tristan looked forward to removing it as soon as it was possible.

  The duke dashed after her, rubbing the scratches on his cheek, putting a halt to Tristan’s daydream.

  “Sadie, you hellion!”

  Tristan’s future wife ignored her father and stopped in front of Tristan. Sadie. The name suited her far better than the staid “Lady Sarah.” The bouquet he’d made her with such care trembled, although one side was somewhat squashed where she’d clubbed her father with it.

  She was nervous. And angry. Well, so was he.

  “We’ll have none of that nonsense, now, shall we? We must begin as we mean to go on.” He spoke quietly. Firmly. And gave her that Sykes look that usually quelled rebellion.

  “What the devil does that mean?” Lady Sarah—Sadie—asked, not bothering to lower her voice.

  He took her elbow, wishing he were not wearing gloves. “It means we will approach this thing calmly. Like adults, not recalcitrant children. No tantrums. Definitely no fisticuffs.”

  “Calmly? Have you forgotten I am shackled like I’m a murderess?” she hissed.

  She looked completely capable of doing him in with whatever was handy. The altar cross? The silver chalice of Communion wine? Best she was unable to get to them, and held fast to her elbow. Preventive measures.

  “Hush. I’m sorry about the key. When Anstruther gets back, I’m sure it will be located. Or—we’ll find a hacksaw,” Tristan said, somewhat desperate. She looked as if she’d hit him with the bouquet next. It had once looked lovely, one of his best efforts. Flower arranging was women’s work, but Tristan enjoyed it anyhow. “Your father doesn’t know of that unfortunate state of affairs. He promises to leave before the wedding breakfast.”

  “In this weather? Dream on. You won’t be rid of him for days. He’ll want to stay and celebrate that he’s gotten his way. Drink every bottle of expensive wine in your cellar. Eat every scrap of food that’s in the larder.”

  “Then you won’t want to give him any additional reasons for celebrating and drinking and eating. Wouldn’t he think it was a lark knowing your movements were hindered? He would have saved himself many a clout over the years when you lost your temper if only your hands had been tied.”

  “If I lose my temper, I am always justified.” There was a martial glint in her eye.

  “Well, I wish you wouldn’t lose it today. Let’s think happy thoughts.”

  Sadie snorted, and the vicar cleared his throat. “Ahem. Are you two ready to begin? This conversation is very irregular.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Fitzmartin. I’m afraid all of this is very irregular.” And a far cry from his first wedding ceremony, with St. George’s in London full of well-wishers, and his young bride in a Worth gown.

  But Sadie was much more breathtaking than any bride Tristan had ever seen.

  Begin as you mean to go on. Concentrate on the future, not the past. Make the best of this “irregular” situation. Find common ground.

  A kiss would be a good first start. Tristan knew that was how some wedding ceremonies ended, although not usually with people in his class. One didn’t display one’s affection in public.

  If one had any.

  He thought he...might, confusing as it was. A sliver of affection, only. One had to admire Sadie to some degree. He was a mere mortal, and she was beautiful.

  Why wait to kiss her until the very end?

  He caught her by surprise, steering her toward him. Bending, he covered her lips with his, stealing her breath, tasting her sweetness. She kissed him back with no hesitation, surprising him.

  This attraction between them was more than pleasant. It promised something rather spectacular if they didn’t ruin it. Tristan resolved to do his best to be patient. Understanding. Sadie was still under the care of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation, and deserved every consideration.

  Like kissi
ng. Even if she was a hellion.

  Tristan heard the duke sputter behind him, and a mild clucking from Reverend Fitzmartin.

  “Yes, we definitely should begin before—well, before.” The vicar rapidly rattled off a few of the requirements of the prayer book. The duke agreed to give his daughter away with unseemly alacrity. Tristan and Sadie murmured their assent to everything, although she did not meet Tristan’s eyes. The ceremony was seconds from being over—and another kiss—when the doors of the chapel burst open.

  Tristan turned to the red-bearded stranger. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “I might ask you the same question, you bounder! I object!”

  “Too late for that,” Fitzmartin said, thumbing through his book. “We’re a few pages past that point. Oh, dear. I’ve lost my place now.”

  “I don’t care! Lady Sarah is my fiancée, and I do not release her from her obligations!”

  “Honestly, Roddy, you’re making a fuss over nothing,” Sadie said, looking pale, her every facial freckle visible. “You’re better off without me.”

  Roddy? Ah, Lord Roderick Charlton, the spurned suitor. Was Sadie Tristan’s wife yet, or did they have to go through this rigmarole all over again? He hadn’t gotten much sleep, and was tired of standing up when he’d much rather lie down in a soft bed with his new wife.

  If she was his new wife. Come to think of it, he still had the ring in his pocket, even after promising to cherish, etcetera.

  Hah. Old Fitzmartin might be past a lot of points.

  “Duke, I thought you notified him of the change of circumstances,” Tristan said, drawing Sadie closer to him.

  “And so he did, by a bloody telegram, but he neglected to pay me back all the money he owes me!”

  The slippery devil. Tristan thought of all the funds he’d just poured into the duke’s bank. “This is about money?”