Seducing Mr. Sykes

by Maggie Robinson

  “What is so amusing?” he asked. He was making a good faith effort here, and bristled under her ridicule. The servants were beginning to stare, and the duke gave him a fearsome grimace from across the room.

  “I think you have the cart before the horse. One is usually courted before one is bedded.”

  “We are in unusual circumstances.”

  “I’ll say.” She wiped her cheeks with a monogrammed linen napkin. “Who is that gorgeous man who’s just come in?”

  For a moment he wondered if it was Islesford’s detective, who would come much too late to discover Lady Sarah’s whereabouts. He turned, but it was his friend. David was looking well-put-together, in a morning suit even though he’d missed the ceremony. “David Warren. I haven’t seen him in an age, but sent for him to take photographs. I mentioned him to you.”

  David knew him as well as he knew himself. Knew where all the bodies were buried. David had stuck with him through everything.

  “To c-commemorate this sterling oc-occasion.” Sadie hiccupped. Had she drunk too much champagne? She was verging on hysterics. He prayed she wouldn’t say or do anything embarrassing, although David would probably just shake it off if she did.

  “David! Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  “Is this your bride? Another beauty, you lucky bastard. No wonder you’ve been hiding her away, not letting any chaps you know of your good fortune. The stories I could tell on him, Mrs. Sykes. You never would have married the blighter!”

  “It’s Lady Sarah, actually,” Tristan said, putting a possessive hand on Sadie’s lace-clad shoulder. David had an overabundance of charm, and women were always susceptible. Even Linnet. Especially Linnet. But David, to his credit, had resisted. “That’s my father-in-law, the Duke of Islesford, down the other end of the table.” Still not far enough away, but out of hearing range at least. Tristan wished the man was in the next room. Or Jupiter.

  His friend whistled. “I’ll repeat myself, Tris. You are a lucky bastard. I’m so pleased to make you acquaintance, Lady Sarah. I say, wait a moment. Islesford! You’re Lady Sarah Marchmain? The Lady Sarah?”

  Sadie gave him a thin smile. “The very same.”

  Tristan gave his friend a sharp look, but David was not to be distracted. “Good Lord! Old Tris will have his hands full if only half the stories are true. However did you two meet? I was under the impression you were engaged to—what’s-his-name? Reggie Something?”

  “Roderick. Lord Charlton. As you can see, I changed my mind. Tristan simply swept me off my feet.”

  Tristan had never heard her sound so much like a duke’s daughter, all frozen hauteur. David was too stupid to realize he had icicles forming on his earlobes.

  “Well, my felicitations, Lady Sarah. You are obviously a woman of sound judgment.” David looked down on their empty plates. “Shall we begin the photographic process? I set my equipment up in the drawing room.”

  “There is wedding cake to come.” Sadie pointed to the three-tiered confection that Mrs. Anstruther and her kitchen staff had so painstakingly assembled under the shortest of notice.

  “Oh, by all means then. I’ll have a piece too, what? But I don’t mean to horn in. I see this wedding breakfast is very private.”

  The irate duke and the bridal couple. It was a pathetic turnout, really. Even Anstruther would be welcome to lend some support. Where was he?

  “More people were expected, but the vicar’s wife took ill,” Tristan said.

  “Bad luck. May I sit next to your wife, or are you too jealous?”

  “I trust you. I trust you both.”

  “You shouldn’t,” Sadie murmured.

  Chapter 25

  The cake had been delicious. Sadie ate four pieces, mostly to delay the photographs, which she knew would be awkward and time-consuming. She had taken an unjustified dislike to Mr. Warren, who was altogether too smooth and charming for anyone’s good. And she didn’t care for the speculative gleam in his eye now that he knew who she was. Perhaps she was justified after all.

  Like Tristan, he was untitled, but heir to the Earl of Summerton. Unlike Tristan, he had no employment. Photography was his hobby, and he seemed to be efficient at it. She had sat still as a statue, unsmiling, as he positioned his tripod. He handled the glass plates with dexterity, was clear in his instructions, didn’t hurt her eyes with his lights or offend her nose with his chemicals.

  But after half an hour, Sadie had had enough. She was tired, and the tiara weighed upon her head like a boulder. Warren’s and Tristan’s cheerful banter was more than annoying. She rose abruptly, brushing Tristan’s hand off her shoulder.

  “I think we are done.”

  “Whatever you say, my lady,” said the unctuous David Warren.

  “Right then.” Sadie hesitated. She’d expected an argument.

  “You probably want to take a rest this afternoon. I’ll have Mrs. Anstruther bring a tray to you.”

  Sadie felt like resting at least until tomorrow, possibly the day after. Alone.

  “Thank you. Would you please send either Hannah or Audrey to me?” She’d have to be cut out of the curtains before she could nap.

  “Of course.” She could tell by Tristan’s face he preferred to be the one wielding the scissors. Well, it was best to begin as she meant to go on. She’d have to lock herself in.

  Hours later, after a hot bath, a refreshing sleep and another substantial meal, Sadie heard the rattle at her door.

  She didn’t care who it was. “Go away!” She was right in the middle of a very interesting chapter of one of Baroness X’s books. The villain, a tall, dark, and handsome gentleman who reminded Sadie of her alleged husband, had just been buried in a mudslide. No one was apt to shovel him out.

  “Not bloody likely. Open the door, Sadie.”

  Sadie almost smiled. She liked to hear her nickname on Tristan’s lips. It was so much friendlier than Lady Sarah, not that she wanted to be friends with him.

  She put the book face down on a pillow and went to the door, making sure the key was firmly in its lock. “I have a headache.”

  It was almost true. The ugly tiara had been a trial to her for hours. The diamond-encrusted set was now back in its velvet case on her dresser, perfect for Sadie to pack and abscond with. It was a pity the jewelry was so old-fashioned, but she was sure she could find a jeweler who wasn’t too particular.

  “Do you remember what we talked about?” Tristan wasn’t shouting, but his words were very clear and measured through the wood.

  How would old Roddy ever know what transpired on their wedding night? Were they expected to display the bloody sheets out of a Sykes House window?

  “We don’t have to do anything,” Tristan said, his voice softer. “But for appearances sake, we need to spend the night together.”

  “I suppose that’s what you say to all your wives.”

  There was utter silence from the hall. Sadie had forgotten the man had been married before.

  Oops.

  “We may not even be married.” Sadie added. She really wasn’t quite sure, or so she told herself.

  “I’m not going to fight with you. Or beg.”

  “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.” Hopefully the rain would stop by then and she could make her escape. She had diamonds to bargain with now.

  But then the key in the lock clattered to her feet and the doorknob turned. It was too late to push a chair in front of the door, or scream her head off.

  Who would come anyway? The staff was loyal to Tristan.

  He waggled a ring of keys at her. “I came prepared.”

  He was wearing a striped silk robe in masculine shades of brown and navy. His feet were bare, and Sadie suspected he wasn’t wearing anything on any other part of him either beneath the robe.

  “You can’t just sally in here!” she hissed.

  “Oh, I think I can.” He bent to pick up the key and turned it back in the loc
k. “Now we won’t be disturbed.”

  Sadie was disturbed already. “I don’t want you in here!”

  “Why not? The bed is big enough for two. Possibly three, although that sort of thing has never been of interest to me. I guess I’m too old-fashioned.” He gave her a lopsided grin that should not have the effect it had on her, and proceeded to sit down in a wing chair in front of the fireplace.

  Her chest felt tight. “You promise not to touch me?”

  He shrugged. “If I must. I admit the prospect of ravishing you has its appeal. We are married. I’d be within my rights to insist.”

  Let him see how far he’d get insisting.

  “Has your friend gone?”

  “Yes. Hours ago. We’re down to your father and your ex-fiancé. Oh, and some inquiry agent who practically swam here this afternoon. He was supposed to find you, but here you are. You should have joined us for dinner. Jolly good fun.” His expression told her otherwise.

  “Ugh. Poor you.” Not that she really had much sympathy.

  “The only thing that could have made it worse would have been my father returning home from Paris. Not that he’d object to you as a daughter-in-law—”

  “I should hope not!” Duke’s daughters didn’t fall out of the sky and into baronets’ sons’ laps every day.

  “But he wouldn’t care for the commotion. My father is a stickler for propriety. He’s got quite a stick up his, um, anyway, he likes things to be calm. Settled. The ceremony would have made him break out in hives. And the dinner company—let’s just say Paris or perhaps Patagonia would have been preferable.”

  “Was Roddy still an ass?”

  “The man refuses to see the writing on the wall.”

  Or the writing in the parish register. If Sadie legged it tomorrow, her marriage would certainly be invalid without her signature.

  Would the de Winter diamonds still belong to her? They were his “wedding gift.” Tristan might have her prosecuted for theft.

  Maybe she shouldn’t run away.

  The idea was such a revelation she had to sit down on the bed.

  Tristan brightened at her new position. “Tired? It has been a long day.”

  “I am wide awake.” She picked up her book but couldn’t understand a word. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tristan rise from the chair and stretch, his robe gaping open.

  His thighs looked very strong.

  Oh, merciful God. She shut her eyes and now she really couldn’t read.

  “Scoot over. You may want to burn the midnight oil, but I confess I’m exhausted.”

  She heard the robe slither to the floor. What a conundrum. Should she open her eyes now, or wait until he was under the covers?

  By the time she rolled to the side and decided to look, he was safe under the matelassé coverlet, punching a pillow into submission. All she saw was a brown shoulder and the curl of the shaggy dark hair on the back of his head.

  So, clearly no pajamas or nightshirt. She was wearing her usual maid’s hand-me-down, billowing rough cotton and very un-wedding nightlike. Sadie realized she still did not have clothes of her own.

  Something must be done.

  She put the book aside. “Could you turn down the lamp, please?”

  “Certainly.” He reached over, and the room was cloaked in darkness. Much better. She didn’t want to see brown shoulders or curly hair.

  Oh, who was she kidding? She wanted to see it all.

  Chapter 26

  Tristan had taken a risk coming to her in nothing but his robe and smalls. She might decide to bash him with her book. He was almost too tired to fight back.

  Last night he’d been wearing his smalls too, and it had been a near thing not to strip and have her right then and there. For too brief a time, she had been soft. Approachable. But he hadn’t lied—he was old-fashioned. He hadn’t wanted to take advantage of her distress, or the kiss that had been so cataclysmic.

  Most men of his acquaintance would encourage him to storm Sadie’s castle. He was her husband, was he not? Entitled to exercise his rights and appetites.

  And God knows, Tristan wanted her despite knowing that his lust was likely to be his downfall.

  There was a great deal riding on their marriage—Puddling’s security, for one. He didn’t trust the Duke of Islesford farther than he could throw him, and throwing the old geezer was very tempting at this moment. The man had almost ruined Sadie, made her obstinate. Oppositional. Obdurate. If he weren’t so sleep deprived, he could probably think of more words.

  He and Sadie had to make this marriage look real to her blasted father and that idiot Charlton. It was a compromise to come here tonight with no intention of taking her innocence.

  No. Wrong word. Sadie was not innocent, but a sly, conniving imp. He could feel her breathing at his back, stirring his loins like they hadn’t been stirred in ages.

  Tristan was just a man, after all. He punched the pillow again.

  “Do you plan to spend the whole night here?” his nemesis asked.

  “I think it best. I know people like us do not traditionally share a bedroom with a spouse, but my parents did. One of the few ways my father ever broke a rule. If we are to silence gossiping tongues, you’ll have to put up with me.”

  “I don’t care about gossip.”

  “No, you actually enjoy it, don’t you? I’ve had quite enough of it in my life, thank you very much.” How he had hated to read all the blind—and not so blind—items about Linnet in the gutter press. Their divorce had splashed his misery all over the front pages. His architectural practice had suffered until poor Linnet had conveniently died. He was no longer a divorcé; he was a widower to those who believed that man and law courts could not dissolve a marriage.

  “You? I’ve never met such a proper man. A proper stick-in-the-mud,” she added loud enough for him to hear.

  He rolled onto his back. “Yes. I expect my placid, boring nature is no virtue to someone like you. Would you like it better if I throttled you when you misbehaved?”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “It would be out of character, but you might drive me to it.” Tristan did not believe in physical brutality toward women, or even men. He saw himself as a reasonable, cerebral man. But Sadie made him lose his reason. He could easily see spanking Sadie’s lovely bare bottom.

  At least he assumed it was lovely. All signs pointed in that direction, and he’d like to see if for himself.

  “One can never blame another person when one loses one’s temper,” she said tartly.

  “Really? So then your entire life has been predicated on your own lack of control. Your weakness.”

  Sadie bolted up. “I am not weak! And I’ve always been in control! I did things—planned things—so I would not—” she trailed off.

  “Would not what? Be considered normal?”

  Sadie smacked his arm. “What is normal for a woman? How would you know?”

  “I had a mother.” And a wife, but he didn’t say it. Linnet was hardly normal anyway.

  “Was your mother forced to marry your father?”

  “Good gracious, no. It was a love match, although I’ve never been precisely sure what she saw in him. My father can be difficult. Not as difficult as yours, obviously. But he’s stiff, I suppose you would say. Full of his own and the family’s consequence.”

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Sadie said too sweetly.

  Tristan bristled. Just because he had standards of acceptable behavior didn’t mean that he was like his father.

  “I admit I observe the conventions. I find life to be easier that way.”

  “Well, you would, wouldn’t you? Nobody’s making you get mar—” She stuttered to a stop, realizing how very wrong she was. Tristan had been maneuvered into this mésalliance as much as she had.

  He found her fist on the coverlet and gave it a squeeze. “Look, I’ve said it before. We must make the
best of this for our own sanity. I choose happiness, Sadie, or at least some pleasant accommodation. We don’t have to live in each other’s pockets. I won’t ask to hear your every thought.” In fact, her thoughts were apt to be pretty hair-raising, if her past was anything to go by. “And you know I won’t touch your money,” he added for good measure.

  “It all sounds too good to be true,” she said, the doubt thick in her voice.

  Tristan chuckled. “That’s me. The paragon of manly virtue and understanding.”

  Suddenly, he wasn’t so tired anymore. He continued to hold Sadie’s hand in his, and could feel it tremble. Tristan had an overwhelming urge to soothe away her fears.

  A kiss was called for. It was their wedding night, wasn’t it?

  He drew her fingertips to his lips.

  “What are you doing?” she squealed.

  “Tasting you.” He licked the next digit, and inserted her forefinger in his mouth, sucking on it at first with gentleness, then more determination.

  “Stop it. That’s disgusting.” She made a halfhearted effort to pull her hand away.

  “Every inch of you was made to be kissed.”

  “D-don’t be silly.”

  “Do you doubt me?” He nuzzled her palm. “Your throat. Your earlobes—perhaps even inside the shells of your ears. Your eyelids. Your shoulders. Your beautiful breasts.”

  “Aha! You felt no need for any adjectives before when naming my other body parts. You men are all alike.”

  “Guilty. Probably. No man could withstand your glorious bosom, madam. It was one of the first things I noticed about you, apart from your noisy histrionics on the Stanchfields’ floor. I would very much like to see those breasts when they’re not corseted or covered in white cotton.”

  “Well, I have no intention of showing them to you.”

  “Pity. I’ll have to use my imagination then.” He thought back to the afternoon in the attic as she stood in a shaft of sunlight wearing little more than a scarf, her white skin glowing with tiny golden spangles. Last night at the Red House when he had touched her, the exquisite fullness of her breast filling his hand. Tristan sighed, and licked a finger again.