“I do. Most emphatically. She’s had complications in her life. You met the duke. You should understand.”
“But he’s a duke!”
“An accident of birth. The man’s a menace. I would think you to be more of a democrat.”
The butler shrugged. “It’s true, the world is changing faster than I can keep up with, but I know my place.”
Doubtful. Tristan had been genially bullied by his butler for years. “I will be dining at Sykes House. Why don’t you come with me?”
“I?”
“You might have a word with Mrs. Anstruther.”
Anstruther straightened to his already imposing height. “I have nothing to say to her.”
Tristan sat down on the hall chair and removed his mucky boots. “Surely whatever quarrel you had is in the past.”
“Not far enough in the past for me,” Anstruther replied.
“I don’t mean to pry”—well, yes he did—“but what was the nature of your difficulty?”
“I have reason to believe Mrs. Anstruther’s affections are engaged elsewhere,” Anstruther said, picking up the boots and dropping them in a newspaper-lined box. Tristan’s gloves followed, and he knew before tomorrow all traces of his day’s labor would be removed.
He thought of his father’s housekeeper, a rather rotund, wrinkled, gray-haired lady who must be every day of sixty. She was no femme fatale.
Nothing like Sadie. But he supposed love didn’t discriminate.
“Was this affair of recent vintage?”
“A few years back. I was grateful of your offer to serve you here. Things were awkward.”
Anstruther and his wife had served as butler and housekeeper-cook for his father as long as Tristan could remember. It was a traditional sort of arrangement, and Tristan wondered who the fly in their ointment had been. A fellow servant? A tradesman? It was all rather incomprehensible.
“Did you hash it out with her?”
“I wouldn’t lower myself. She knows what she did. I shall run your bath now.”
“You could be mistaken. Perhaps you should talk to her.”
Anstruther sniffed and stalked off.
It was more conversation than the two of them had ever had in the months they’d lived in the Red House together. It was a pity that a marriage of such long standing had failed. But as Tristan knew well, marriage was not for everyone.
Especially him.
Chapter 37
Both Hannah and Audrey had been called in to assist Sadie with her toilette. There was no room for error. Nothing was left to chance.
Except for the evening gown. That couldn’t be helped. Madame Elyse—whose name was really Eliza Smith—had made it for a young woman who had passed away, but Sadie was determined not to feel it was cursed. Or so pink.
It was very pink, a froth of moiré silk and lace in four different shades ranging from baby’s bottom to its radish-colored trim. It fit her as if it had been cut specifically for her; nothing had been necessary but to add a lace flounce at the bottom to lengthen it. Deep pink satin roses and green leaves hovered over Sadie’s bosom and at her waist and bared shoulders, which seemed a bit much after the austere green dress she’d worn earlier.
“Let’s take these off,” she said, pointing to the clump at her tightly-laced waist.
“We can put them in your hair,” Audrey suggested.
Fine. She’d look like a rose bush. No, a rose tree, since she was so damned tall. “And take the flowers off the sleeves, too. Let’s not gild the lily. Or the rose.”
The girls giggled. Sadie was getting along with them better now that she was no longer running away or getting married against her will in handcuffs. Was that only two days ago? How time flew.
Once Sadie had seen the rose-studded confection of a dress, she knew what she had to do. Between fittings with the dressmaker, she had consulted Mrs. Anstruther about the menu. Perhaps it was too obvious. The oysters and truffles had been difficult to obtain, but even with Sadie’s limited knowledge, she knew they were considered to be aphrodisiacs. There were figs and apricots in honey for pudding. Rich pot de chocolates, too. Mr. Grimsby, the butler who had replaced Mr. Anstruther some months back, had been dispatched to Sir Bertram’s wine cellar to bring up the very best vintages.
The prime difficulty was getting Tristan to agree to come, but she’d managed it somehow. Now all she had to do was feed and flatter him into bed.
She’d said the words at the wedding ceremony. Well, some of them. Signed the register. If she truly was married, it was time she ceased being a virgin.
“You look a treat, Lady Sarah. Just lovely,” Hannah said, stepping back to admire her handiwork.
“I feel lovely. Thank you both.”
Sadie remembered to stand tall as she descended the stairs at seven twenty-five that evening. She need not hunch over and try to hide herself—that was impossible anyway. She allowed Grimsby to pour her a glass of champagne, and drank it rather too quickly in her nervousness. Then she sat on the blue drawing room sofa, folded her hands, and waited. Her wedding ring sparkled under the lights.
The hall clock chimed the half hour, and a rap at the front door echoed it shortly thereafter. Tristan was on time to the minute. Surely that boded well, didn’t it?
He bent to kiss her hand as she greeted him, except his lips didn’t quite connect. He was resplendent in his black and white evening clothes. His hair, which had been so disheveled this afternoon, had been partially tamed with a fragrant oil. All of him, frankly, smelled delicious. Clean and woodsy and grassy. He could be a Green Man come to life, minus the ferocious beard.
“Good evening, Lady Sarah.”
“So formal, Tristan? You know I prefer Sadie. It was my mother’s nickname for me.”
“Sadie, then.” His blue eyes raked over her briefly. Too briefly, after all the trouble she had taken. “You are looking well. That dress is very becoming. But I thought you had an aversion to pink.”
“It’s this or nothing. Any port in a storm.” But not the tight pink-and-white striped dress from the attic that she had torn. Although she supposed she owed her marriage to it. It was what she had been wearing when her father discovered them in their not-terribly compromising position. “Grimsby, you may leave us.”
The butler nodded and left the drawing room, shutting the doors behind him. Sadie waved toward the champagne resting in a standing ice bucket. “Will you do the honors, Tristan?”
“I see you’ve started without me.”
“One glass only. I am as sober as a judge.” Even if her heartbeat was erratic.
He refilled her glass and joined her on the sofa, sitting on its edge as if he would jump up any second and flee.
“None for you?”
“I’ve had an exhausting day. One drink, and I might fall asleep at the dining table. I’m sure you don’t want that.”
No. But she wanted him a bit looser. Playful. Right now, he was Tristan the Stiff. Her lips quirked, wondering if he was stiff in more interesting places than his spine.
Likely not. He’d made it plain he had no interest in her. Why had he changed so markedly from the other night?
“You worked in the garden?”
“Yes.”
Sadie was pulling up one weed at a time. “What were you doing?”
“Planting bulbs.”
Two weeds. “Isn’t it too warm for that? It’s only September.” And he was supposed to be a great garden expert! Even Sadie knew better than to put bulbs in at this time of the year. The temperate weather might confuse them into blooming too early, only to get their new shoots frostbitten. True, it had been a little cooler today, and the scent of autumn had been in the air.
“Do you garden, Lady Sa—um, Sadie?”
“Not really. Marchmain Castle’s gardens went to rack and ruin years ago. It’s a shame.”
“Perhaps your father will improve the property now.”
Sadie snorted. “The only green my father is interested in is the baize on a card table. I expect you to discover that whatever amount of money you gave him, it will never be enough.”
“We’ll see.” No doubt Tristan would stand up to her father better than Roddy had.
“I—I want to thank you for yesterday. For supporting me when I, uh, had the altercation with Lord Charlton.”
“You are my wife.”
Sadie leaned over the sofa cushion ever so slightly, pleased to see Tristan’s eyes drop to her décolletage and then find their way back to her face. Normally, she didn’t care for such inspection, but tonight was different. This man was different. “Am I?”
“You were in the chapel the other day, weren’t you?” Tristan asked dryly.
“Under duress.”
“There will be no more of that. No coercion. As I said, you are free to—do as you please.” He was definitely not looking at her bosom now, but examining his hands. Sadie noticed they were reddened from scrubbing.
What if doing as she pleased involved kissing a man who wouldn’t meet her eyes? It was too soon in the evening to pounce. The oysters needed to be given their chance to work, too.
“What exactly do you mean by that?”
“Don’t make me spell it out.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to. I find I’m all at sea regarding the rules of this marriage.”
“There are no rules.”
“No honoring or obeying?” She tried to flick her lashes, but he wasn’t looking anymore.
“As if you would. I’m a practical man. I know when to give up.”
Give up? Already? They’d barely had time to learn each other’s middle names.
Tristan popped up off the sofa and went to the fireplace. A substantial fire was roaring to prevent Sadie from taking a chill—her bodice covered very little of her torso. Her shoulders and chest were exposed, the whole thing held up by boning and strips of fabric over her upper arms which really had no right to call themselves sleeves. However, it was so well-constructed it probably wouldn’t slip down, which was a pity.
To think she’d spent most of her life trying to appear dowdy so she wouldn’t attract the enemy. Well, here was one adversary she wished to entice, and he was back-to, his broad shoulders limned by the firelight.
Turn around. Turn around. Look at me.
Her directions did not manage to penetrate his cranium. He picked up the poker and stabbed at the logs, causing sparks to fly up the chimney. Glum, Sadie swallowed the rest of her champagne. The bubbles failed to ignite any sparks within her.
“I didn’t mean to trap you,” she said, her voice soft.
Tristan returned the poker to its stand but came no closer. “I know you didn’t. This is your father’s doing. But I promise I will not try to restrain you. It’s time you have what you’ve longed for all these years.”
Freedom. But somehow the word didn’t resonate as it once did.
“Must I leave Puddling? I’ve come to like it.” The mellow gold-gray stones, the hills dotted with sheep, the steep winding streets—they were all home now. Sykes House was beautiful and comfortable, and its gardens spectacular. She could see herself growing old here, like Lady Maribel de Winter.
“I can’t have that,” Tristan said flatly. “I’m not a saint.”
Was she so offensive to his sensibilities? He’d liked her well enough when she was chained in his bed.
But he had disliked her at the beginning. Tristan had been cold. Dismissive. Too damned acute and on to her tricks. The futility of her intimate dinner was suddenly ridiculously clear. She’d been so naïve. Tristan wasn’t going to be lured. He couldn’t even be bothered to face her.
She wasn’t going to beg to stay where she was not wanted.
“Where shall I go?”
“I rather thought Suffolk.”
Sadie looked at him blankly. She didn’t know a soul in Suffolk, but that was more or less the point, wasn’t it?
“Close enough to London. Some sixty-odd miles, I think. I presume I’d be allowed to visit.”
Tristan sighed with impatience. “Why don’t you understand? I will not place any restrictions on your movements. You’ll have all the money you’ll ever need. Just don’t—” He paused, disturbing his curls as he raked a hand through them.
“Don’t what?”
“Make a spectacle of yourself.”
She tamped down the flush of anger. “But that’s what I do.”
“Please stop.” It wasn’t an order. There was a hint of—desperation? He looked miserable.
So he should. She’d been ready to make the best of this marriage, and he was driving her away to Suffolk or somewhere for no clear reason that she could see.
Before she could ask him about his change of heart, Grimsby entered and announced dinner. Sadie wasn’t hungry at all.
Chapter 38
Course after course arrived for hours. Although Mrs. Anstruther had outdone herself in the kitchen, everything tasted like mud to Tristan. His senses were in a total jumble.
And there were no safe places to rest his tired eyes. The silverware and glasses and gilt-trimmed plates gleamed too brightly. The table was polished to a mirror shine. The undulating yellow roses on the wallpaper seemed to be climbing up to the ceiling right in front of him. He certainly couldn’t focus attention on his wife, who was covered in roses herself.
He could smell her rose perfume from across the table, too. She was not positioned at the end of it as she should be, but at his right. She’d made every attempt to prompt conversation, asking him about his school days and his business and his hobbies. He’d been an utter churl, answering with just the barest number of words, sometimes single syllables.
She had finally given up some minutes ago, and was now pushing a scrap of fig across her dessert plate. He could see her slender hand grasp the fork out of the corner of his eye, which was about as much of her as he dared to look at.
She’d had no reaction to the mention of Suffolk. Perhaps he should have been more specific and said Newmarket. Maybe even named names.
Dermot Reid.
Might as well get it over with. She seemed impervious to his hints.
“Do you enjoy riding, Sadie?”
She lay her fork down. “I used to. But I haven’t ridden in years. Papa got rid of our horses. They were too expensive. I—I miss it.”
Horses were not all she missed, he reckoned. “Do you follow the racing circuit?” He fixed his eyes on her now. She was pale, the two faint dabs of rouge on her cheeks visible.
She shook her head, the silk rosebuds in it quivering. “Not at all. I am no gambler. Not after watching my father fling his money away.”
“You haven’t been to Newmarket lately?”
“Of course not! I’ve been here for the past thirty-odd days, as you know, getting cured of my afflictions and addictions. At least gambling is not one of them. Meets there are in May and July, are they not?”
So, she knew that much. “October, as well.”
“Are you proposing we go there together next month?” Sadie sounded almost eager.
That was all he needed, to be paraded in front of her lover. “No. I, like you, am not a gambler. I’m much too dull.”
She smiled, not one of her full-force ones, but lovely just the same. “Oh, I wouldn’t say you were dull. Just—careful. Respectable.”
He’d tried to be, but look at the mess he was in. Like Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater, he had a wife but couldn’t keep her. A desirable wife.
Who desired another.
“I thought you might like to go. Alone. You could look at properties.”
“You seem determined to get rid of me, and stick me in Suffolk to boot. I thought you said I’d have a choice as to where I’d live.”
This was getting tiresome. “I assumed you’d want to live there.”
“Why?”
He rose. “Let’
s not play games, Sadie.”
She stood too, and dropped her napkin on her plate. “I assure you, I’m not the one playing games! And if I am, I’ve obviously lost the rule book. Oh, wait—you’ve said there are no rules. I really don’t have any idea what’s come over you. Yesterday you were so—sympathetic. Kind. Chivalrous, even. You said you’d fight a duel for me. Now you are a beast!”
“Really, your performance is very impressive, but don’t bother.”
“I’m not performing! I am just being me! I’m so sorry if you hate me.”
Oh, Christ. Tears again. He squelched his impulse to take a step toward her. Hardened his heart. “I know, Sadie.”
She blinked. “Know what?”
“About Dermot Reid.”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“I don’t blame you. But you must see it makes things impossible.”
The plate hit him square in the chest, then dropped to the thick carpet. A splash of honey dripped down his waistcoat. “What the devil! I’m trying to be understanding!” He’d done everything so far to make her future easier.
She picked up the fork. Did she plan to stab him with it? “Understanding? Suppose you tell me all about Dermot Reid so I can understand.” She stabbed the palm of her own hand instead.
He was dying inside, but forged ahead. “He is your, uh, paramour.”
Sadie raised a sculpted eyebrow. “He is?”
“You can’t deny it.” He picked up his napkin and tried to wipe the sticky blob away.
“I certainly can. Let me guess. That ass Roddy told you. And then my ass of a father told you. It would never occur to you to ask me, now, would it? Heavens, no. Two men—two asses—have got the wrong end of the stick, as usual. Three asses, if you add Dermot, that lying sack of excrement. Four asses, counting you. I suppose my father told you he bought him off to preserve the tatters of my nonexistent virtue? No matter how many times I told him—oh!” She threw the fork at the wall with such force it stuck in the paper-covered plaster. “I hate you all!”
“What was I to think?”
Sadie sat back down in her chair with a whoosh. “Oh, I don’t know. That they’re asses? That they’ve never had my best interests at heart? It’s probably my fault. After all, I was—am—a born liar. No wonder my father didn’t believe me. I was a difficult, headstrong girl. Of course I would sleep with my groom. He paid attention to me. Was nice to me. I was fifteen—”
Seducing Mr. Sykes Page 20
