Chapter 24
Tristan was almost enjoying himself. A skeleton key had been found for the handcuffs and his bride was picking at her shirred eggs with her own fork. It had been amusing to feed her at first, but the duke had been so furious it had spoiled Tristan’s appetite.
In Tristan’s opinion, the man’s concern for his daughter came far too late. The fact that he’d even considered Charlton as her life mate showed his poor judgment.
Ah, yes. The fly in the ointment, the pebble in the shoe, the unwelcome guest at the wedding banquet, such as it was. Charlton was refusing to leave without money, Sadie, or both. Damned if Tristan was going to throw more money away, although it seemed very likely he would have to. One thing he would not give up was his wife.
Charlton had been given a room in a distant wing, where he could rave to his heart’s content. Apparently the solicitor had left with his carriage, intimidated by Tristan’s burly footmen. So the viscount was temporarily stranded. Hopefully, he’d leave with the duke when the weather calmed down.
Which it showed no sign of doing. Sykes House’s walls rattled with the rumble of thunder above; bright flashes of lightning illuminated the dining room windows at regular intervals. Rain came down in sheets. Tristan hoped the gardens wouldn’t be flattened.
“Quite the storm, isn’t it?”
“You are going to talk to me about the weather?” She stabbed a sausage onto her fork. She was probably imagining it was his thigh.
Or worse.
“Why not? It’s hours before bedtime, and we must pass the time of day in some way.”
“Well, I’m not going to talk about the weather. Or go to bed with you.”
Tristan leaned back in his chair. “Surely you don’t want Charlton to have a case against us.”
“What do you mean?”
“If the marriage is not consummated, what’s to stop him from saying we’re not married at all? Claim grounds for an annulment? His solicitor could drive a carriage through some loophole or other. Would you rather go off with the viscount? I would think you’d be more discerning.” In truth, Tristan was not entirely complacent about the irregularities in the service and its legality. Or the grounds for an annulment. He certainly wasn’t going to subject himself to an examination for impotence. He might not have indulged in any recent fornication, but he remembered how to.
And was looking forward to getting back in the saddle again, as it were.
But they hadn’t signed the register yet. He wouldn’t relax until—
Well, likely he was never going to relax. Keeping up with Sadie and her antics were apt to turn his hair gray. Or make it fall out.
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. I cannot be certain, but if he keeps asserting the betrothal contract has precedence, we might be in for a wrangle.”
Sadie picked up her champagne glass and took a long swallow. “I hate you all.”
Tristan chose not to believe her. Anyone who kissed him as she did had to have some positive feelings for him.
“Have I told you how exquisite you look? My friend should be arriving any time now to take some photographs.”
“Of me in the curtains?”
“No one would ever know. Charles Worth himself could not have done better.”
“I don’t know how you’re going to get me out of them. I’m sewed in.”
Ah. So she was thinking ahead, was she? That was a hopeful sign.
“I’m very good with my hands. As you might remember.” He had plucked at her nipple until it was as hard as a cherrystone last night.
“Pah,” she dismissed.
“I am! Look at the gardens. And I build things. I’m quite a nimble creature.”
She turned to him. “Do you dance?”
“Dance?” The word felt foreign on his tongue.
“You know, the waltz. The mazurka. The gallop. I love to dance.”
Did she? He knew very little about her.
“Um. I haven’t danced in some time.”
“Why not? Don’t you go to parties? Even I’m invited to parties, though there’s no telling what I might get up to once I’m in someone’s drawing room. Filch the silver. Set the rug on fire. Kiss a footman.”
Kiss a footman? She’d better not try anything like that now they were married. Or sort of married. Really, he would need to check with the vicar first thing tomorrow morning.
“There are very few amusements in Puddling, as you know.” Puddling was designed to be as boring as it possibly could be. Most of its young people left the first chance they got, money or no money.
“But what about when you’re in London?”
She seemed genuinely curious. Did she imagine she’d spend time kicking up her heels in the city? Shopping and gossiping?
“I hardly ever go to London. I have responsibilities here.” She was one of them.
Her russet eyebrows met. “Do you mean to lock me up in this house as I was locked up in Stonecrop Cottage?”
“You weren’t locked up. You had total freedom of movement. Enough to steal trousers and pumpkins and tarts.” And raise general havoc amongst the villagers. How would they feel once they knew mad Lady Sarah Marchmain was now Mrs. Tristan Sykes? Sadie was likely to upset the calm quiet of the town, that soothing atmosphere which was so essential for their Guests’ mental health and physical well-being.
Perhaps he should take her to London and leave her there.
How had his grandfather dealt with his grandmother, another duke’s daughter who chafed against the restrictions of society? The short answer was that he hadn’t. Lady Maribel did pretty much as she pleased, and poor Grandpapa followed behind to clean up her messes and admire her backside.
Tristan had no intention of following in his grandfather’s footsteps.
“I prefer the country,” he said in a clipped voice. He’d spent enough time in London chasing after Linnet.
“How do you handle your architectural commissions?”
He was surprised that she cared. “Easily. You have heard of the post, have you not? The occasional telegram. I have trusted deputies who carry out my instructions. A very dedicated crew of workers and artisans. Every now and again I go to town for business meetings. More often, my clients come to me.”
Tristan wasn’t about to brag, but he had a sterling reputation and too little time to take on every project that came his way.
She scrunched up her nose. “So we’ll be buried here.”
“Not buried. Happily ensconced, I should say.”
“Where will we live?”
Tristan had given this matter some thought as he lay awake in the too few hours before dawn in his Red House bedroom. He gestured toward the yellow wallpaper. “I suggest you remain here at Sykes House, where there is greater space, more amenities and a full staff at your disposal. I shall, um, visit you.”
“Visit me.”
“Yes. For conjugal relations.” He cleared his throat of an enormous frog.
Her eyes were wide and rather lovely. “You don’t intend for us to live together.”
“Not at first. We are, as you have pointed out on more than one occasion, strangers. I will—ah—court you so we can get to know each other better.”
Sadie threw back her head and laughed, almost losing the tiara that glittered from her red hair. Tristan stopped it from flying backward, tangling his fingers in her hair and veil. She batted him away, still laughing until tears were coursing down her cheeks.
“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.