Seducing Mr. Sykes

by Maggie Robinson

  Tristan frowned. “Fifteen?”

  “Yes. Did you think all this happened just last month? I haven’t seen or heard from Dermot Reid in six years. But don’t let that stop you from jumping to conclusions. Why, I might even be pregnant! A very long gestation, mind you, like an elephant or—” She burst into tears.

  “I don’t care if you’re not a virgin,” Tristan said, knowing as soon as the words were out of his mouth they were a dreadful mistake. He ducked and the wineglass shattered behind him, but not before the flying liquid splashed against his shirtfront.

  She looked at him with loathing, her green eyes hazed with tears. “I am a blasted virgin, not that you’re ever going to find out. But then again, I could fake it, couldn’t I? I understand you can get a bladder of pig’s blood or something equally disgusting and smear it on the bedsheets. I might not even be intact anyway after all the riding I did with Dermot. I’m not to be trusted, correct? Roddy told you I was a whore and you believed him!”

  “I never thought that! Women are not whores simply because they enjoy carnal relations with men.”

  “Good! Because I haven’t enjoyed anything!”

  “Ah, now who’s lying?” Sadie could not have been more responsive. But perhaps it was not judicious to bring that up at this juncture.

  “Get out!”

  “I’m not leaving until we get this settled.” Or she killed him with tableware.

  “Oh, it’s settled. We have both made a horrible mistake. I, for thinking you might be better than the rest of your gender, more fool me, and you for getting saddled with a woman you believe the worst of. You didn’t even ask. Try to talk to me.”

  “It was so embarrassing. By the way, I sacrificed my principles and would have let you live with your lover.” Oh, God. The letter. He’d deal with that tomorrow.

  “That’s not a question. That’s a statement. And poor you, such noble—and misplaced—generosity. You are just too good for this world, Tristan Sykes. No wonder your wife—” Her lips snapped shut.

  “Don’t.” His tone even scared himself.

  “I won’t. Not to worry, there will be no honesty between us. No anything. But I’ll tell you one thing—I am not moving to bloody Suffolk!” She swept the rest of her place setting off the table.

  Chapter 39

  She had been childish. Lost her terrible temper. So much for her night of seduction. The dining room resembled a battle scene.

  Unfortunately, Tristan was still alive, redolent of wine and honey like a character from the Psalms.

  The servants, no matter how well trained, were probably right outside the doors, listening to every word. Sadie didn’t care. They should know that their master was an idiot. How could she have fallen in l—

  Oh. God. No. She’d fancied herself in love once, with Dermot Reid, of all people. And that’s how she came to be sitting amidst broken china and crystal in the middle of Nowhere, Gloucestershire, sent here for her many sins. It was ironic that the one sin she hadn’t committed had caused her over half a decade of problems.

  She’d been fifteen then. Practically a child, although she was already taller than most men at that age. Awkward as a spotted giraffe, with just as many freckles. She had been easy prey for an ambitious young man who’d abused her trust and lied to her father. Yes, Dermot had stolen kisses. Many of them. Groped her. Sadie might have gone further, because she was so, so needy. Lonely. It was rather miraculous that she’d exercised the good sense she really didn’t have and drew a wobbly line.

  But Dermot, thwarted, had gone to her father with her foolish letters and his own twisted version of the affair.

  Sadie had had six years of regrets. There had been times when she wished she’d tossed her virginity away, for she was being punished anyway. It was so unfair that a man could consort and cavort with as many women as he could get his hands on, but a woman had no such option.

  “You can’t stay here,” Tristan said, making her remember he was still standing there like a great towering handsome lump and they were still fighting.

  “I’m not leaving.” When she was calmer, she might think of a place to go, but she wasn’t calm yet.

  “No, I mean here. The servants need to clean this mess up and go to bed at a decent hour.”

  Sadie’s cheeks grew warm. It had been thoughtless to vent her spleen on forks and plates, and expect someone else to tidy up. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Tristan’s wooly eyebrow rose. “You?”

  “I can wield a broom as well as the next person.” To prove it, she got up and started picking up shards of glass with exaggerated fervor.

  Oops.

  She must have hissed, for Tristan was at her side in an instant with his dirty napkin.

  “Now see what you’ve done. You’re bleeding onto the Aubusson.”

  He would care more about the rug. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing? You probably need stitches.” He grabbed her hand and tried to wrap the napkin around it.

  “Where did you get your medical degree?” Sadie snapped. “And get that filthy thing away from me!”

  “You need carbolic. A bandage. Watch your hand—you’ll drip on your dress.”

  She could buy another dress now that she had access to her funds. A dozen dresses. Although she did like this one, even if it was four kinds of pink.

  Tristan left her and opened the sideboard drawer. He came back with a clean lace-edged, embroidered linen napkin, which Sadie pressed on her wound to stanch the bleeding.

  “We’ll get Mrs. Anstruther. She’ll know what to do,” Tristan said, throwing open the dining room doors.

  Grimsby, a footman and a maid nearly fell into the room. “Fetch Mrs. Anstruther and her medical kit. We will be up in Lady Sarah’s suite.”

  “We will not.”

  “Oh, yes we will. What if you faint on the way up the stairs?”

  “Over a drop of blood? Don’t be silly!”

  “Stranger things have happened. Don’t fight me on this.”

  “I will fight you on anything I choose!” Sadie cried.

  Tristan’s response to this statement was to sweep her and her napkin into his arms and mount the stairs.

  “I have feet!”

  “Be quiet.”

  She was jostled about like a sack of potatoes, and despite her halfhearted attempts to clout him on his ear with her good hand, he refused to put her down even when they reached her room.

  Both Hannah and Audrey were there, and their efforts were distressingly evident. Candles burned, a sheer nightgown lay across the foot of the bed, and actual rose petals had been scattered among the pillows and sheets. A bottle of wine and two glasses rested on the bedside table. Sadie wanted to curl up and die.

  Tristan didn’t seem to notice the preparations. “Where the devil is Mrs. Anstruther?”

  Both maids rushed out. Sadie would have too, if he’d only put her down. Tristan was cradling her with competence, as if she didn’t weigh more than a kitten. She had to admit it was nice to be cosseted in a strong man’s arms, no matter how stupid he was.

  “Let go of me at once!”

  “Stop squirming. I will not be responsible if I happen to drop you. You are as slippery as an eel.”

  “How you flatter me,” Sadie said through gritted teeth. Eels had fangs, didn’t they? Would she have success biting him? His chin was close.

  “I don’t want to flatter you. In fact, I’d like to spank that ruffled bustle right off your charming derriere. You have been torturing me for days. Trousers! I ask you! I’m only human. Do you never think of the consequences of your actions? You may be accustomed to Marchmain Castle serfs cleaning up after you, but the servants at Sykes House will not be treated so shabbily.”

  “There are no serfs! There are barely any servants at all.”

  “You probably drove them away with your nonsense.”

  How unfair he was being! He knew nothing of
the straightened circumstances she’d lived with for too long.

  She decided to take a different tack, and stilled her body. “Please put me down, Tristan. What will Mrs. Anstruther think?”

  “She’ll think I’ve finally come to my senses and taken control of my wife.”

  “Control?” Sadie, quite literally, saw red as she watched her bloody hand connect with Tristan Sykes’s firm jaw.

  “Yow!” They tumbled backward over a table to the floor. Sadie was unable to continue her assault as her arms were now trapped under Tristan’s heavy body. He had somehow managed to slither and maneuver himself on top of her as they fell. Who was the real eel?

  “Should I come back later?” Mrs. Anstruther stood at the door, a basket under her arm. Sadie could see she was trying very hard not to laugh.

  “Not at all,” Tristan replied, as if he spoke from the floor regularly. “Lady Sarah has need of your nursing skills. She has cut her hand. There may still be a sliver of glass in the wound.”

  “If you will just, um, release her, Mr. Tristan, I’ll take a look.”

  “In a moment.”

  Sadie looked up at Tristan’s flushed face. He shifted, and then she knew why he was not leaping straight up. She had felt that hardness before. Seen it with her own eyes.

  He was aroused. Even after she’d screamed at him and threw things and hit him. She wiggled her hips and watched the agony flash in his eyes.

  This more or less proved her supposition that men were pigs, yet she was glad she had an effect on her husband. Maybe the rose petals wouldn’t go to waste after all.

  If she decided she wasn’t furious with him.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I—I promise to never do it again.”

  “You’re probably crossing your fingers behind your back,” he said, gruff.

  “I am not. If you will just raise yourself a little, I’ll roll out. While Mrs. Anstruther attends to me, you may compose yourself.”

  “I have a feeling I’m never going to be composed again.”

  Chapter 40

  He might as well jump from the roof now. He would spare himself the next forty—or, if he was unlucky, fifty—years with his pugilist bride.

  Tristan was standing on shifting ground. Quicksand. Of course he wasn’t standing on anything at present. He was still lying on the carpet trying to figure out how he could scuttle away in his tenting trousers without attracting any undue attention from his father’s housekeeper.

  He waited until Sadie was seated in a chair near the fire, a branch of candles on the table. Mrs. Anstruther was bent over, examining Sadie’s cut. This was his chance. If he could only get up, he could go to the Red House and get out of his stained and rumpled clothing. Lock all the doors. Ask Anstruther to handcuff him to the bed to keep him out of harm’s way.

  Everything he thought he’d known about Sadie was proving to be wrong. Except she had an impressive right hook, just as the dossier claimed. The left was allegedly its equal as well.

  “You were very foolish to try to pick up broken glass with your bare hands,” Mrs. Anstruther admonished.

  “I’m sorry,” Sadie said meekly. That was two apologies in two minutes, some sort of record, he was sure. “I was ashamed. I’ve let my emotions get the better of me twice today. I didn’t mean to make more work for you and the staff.”

  “That’s what we’re here for. Hold still. Yes, I see a splinter of glass. Mr. Tristan, could you hold Lady Sarah’s hand still while I remove it?”

  “He doesn’t have to. I won’t move.”

  “Best to be safe. I think a stitch or two is in order, too.”

  “Surely not.”

  “Don’t argue, my lady. Injuries to the hand are tricky. So hard to heal. You wouldn’t want to lose the use of it through infection. Mr. Tristan, are you all right down there?”

  He would be if someone shot him and put him out of his misery. “Just a moment, Mrs. Anstruther. I need to wash.”

  Tristan escaped into Sadie’s bathroom and ran cold water, liberally splashing it all over, willing his erection to deflate. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, his curly hair on end, his wine-stained tie ruined, his waistcoat a sticky mess between the blood and honey. He removed his jacket and stripped himself of the dirty clothes and immediately felt better.

  Sober too. He’d barely touched any of the wine at dinner. Tristan wished now that he’d indulged, for his conscience was stabbing at him with knitting needles. He’d been judgmental. So quick to mix up the past with the present. Sadie wasn’t Linnet, and he wasn’t the innocent young man he used to be.

  Tristan knew there were two sides to every story, sometimes three. And now Sadie might never forgive him for being, as she said, an ass. He should have known that the duke and Charlton were unreliable storytellers. He’d had the presence of mind to dislike both of them on sight—why had he listened to them?

  He emerged from the bathroom in a more sedate state, even if he was in his shirtsleeves. He was going to do better in the future. He had to.

  “There you are. Please hold Lady Sarah’s palm open. I’ve got my tweezers ready.” Mrs. Anstruther dabbed up a glob of blood.

  Sadie’s eyes were shut. Tristan had the opportunity to examine her eyelashes, copper tipped with gold. They were mercifully still—he’d seen the damage they could do as she batted them about at unsuspecting victims. One incisor nipped at her plump lower lip. She was in more pain than she would admit, stubborn wench.

  “There.” Mrs. Anstruther returned the napkin to act as a temporary bandage. Tristan was shocked at the size of the glass removed from Sadie’s palm. “You’re doing well, my lady. Very brave. Mr. Tristan, this next bit will be a little more difficult, but I know I can depend on you.”

  Mrs. Anstruther sat on a chair to thread a needle. Tristan continued to hold Sadie’s hand, smoothing his fingers over hers, keeping the napkin in place.

  “Drat. My spectacles are downstairs, and I really should have them for this if we don’t want a scar. How silly I was to come up without them. I’ll only be a moment.”

  The housekeeper left them alone. Sadie attempted to pull her hand away but Tristan was too fast for her and held tight. “It will be all right.”

  “Of course it will be all right. It’s not as if I’ve been shot,” Sadie grumbled.

  “I expect you’d like to be the one who did the shooting.”

  “How bloodthirsty you must think I am! You don’t think much of my character.”

  “That’s where you are wrong. I’ve come to—admire you. Greatly.” Much against his will, he might add, but stopped himself from saying so. He was not as much of an idiot as prideful, insufferable Mr. Darcy.

  Sadie rolled her eyes. “Don’t bother to try to cozen me. An hour ago you thought I was a—”

  Tristan put a finger to her mouth. “I didn’t. You misunderstood everything. I was trying to make you happy.”

  “Happy!”

  “To reunite you with Whatever-his-name-is. And I find I’m quite glad that you have lost interest in the fellow. That means there’s a chance for me. Even if I’m an ass.”

  Sadie’s lips twitched. “You are.”

  “I cannot argue. I am groveling for your good opinion. I would be on my knees, but I’ve spent most of my day in that position, and I’m not as young as I used to be.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

  “Ouch.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “All right. But don’t squeeze my hand again.”

  “I don’t mean about the squeezing. About me being an ass.”

  Sadie flicked her eyelashes, the minx. “You are sure to be an ass again.”

  “Undoubtedly. I’ve had a lot of practice.” What if he’d been more understanding with Linnet? He’d been full of wounded pride and outrage back then. She’d been so young, flirtatious, and he’d driven her into the arms of other men with his cold disapproval.r />
  Tristan couldn’t do anything about his marital history—that story had been told, with its unhappy ending. He’d been unyielding in what he perceived as his own virtue. In his urge to be always good, always reasonable, always responsible, he’d been a dull dog for far too long.

  “What are you proposing, Tristan?”

  “That we start fresh. Let’s pretend I haven’t been a consummate ass, and that you never lost your temper. We are two people getting to know one another.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  Let me take you to bed.

  “There is no catch.”

  Sadie’s eyes narrowed. “There’s always a catch.”

  “I will trust you. I want you to trust me. Do you think you can?”

  She was spared of answering, as Mrs. Anstruther hurried into the room. Sadie shut her eyes again as the housekeeper cleaned the cut and made three neat stitches in the soft flesh of her palm. She then wrapped Sadie’s hand in a swath gauze and cotton fit for an Egyptian mummy.

  “You’ll have to use your left hand only for a few days. I’m sure Mr. Tristan will help you with anything you need tonight.”

  “A good thing I’m left-handed so I can at least feed myself. What about Hannah and Audrey?” Sadie asked.

  “I’ve sent them to bed, Lady Sarah. I hope I did right. They were, um, tired, and it’s very late.”

  Did this mean Tristan would get to undress his wife?

  If she’d let him.

  Sadie exchanged an odd look with Mrs. Anstruther, then nodded. “I suppose that will have to do. Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Anstruther. You’ve been very kind.”

  “Pish. You are the mistress of the house and deserve all consideration. Good night, my dear. Mr. Tristan.”

  Sadie remained seated before the fire. The silk flowers in her hair were askew, and a long strand of red hair had fallen from its pins. Somehow he liked her better this way, a bit bedraggled from her sinuous trip up the staircase. She’d been far too dazzling at dinner, especially when he’d thought some other man would have the privilege of gazing upon her under the candlelight.