Tristan had known Lady Sarah Marchmain was trouble from the first moment he’d clapped eyes on her on as she howled on the Stanchfields’ floor.
But he could never have anticipated precisely how much trouble, even after committing her dossier to memory, as all good Puddlingites did for every Guest.
Tristan had a newfound appreciation for the Duke of Islesford. The man was impervious to reason, facts, and emotion. The duke wanted his pound of flesh and his money, and so would he get it, no matter the effect on his only child.
And Tristan had no reason to doubt that the duke would do everything in his power to throw a spoke into Puddling-on-the-Wold’s wheel if he didn’t cooperate. Tristan was supposed to be restoring the village’s reputation as a place of sanctuary from everyday sin—instead, he found himself at the center of a potential scandal. He would deserve the uproar. He was a governor of the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation, and had taken advantage of a Guest.
Though who had taken advantage of whom was a sore point.
He would have to marry Lady Sarah, damn it. He’d seen her long naked legs and touched her soft bottom, and had been caught at it.
The duke was busy writing letters to his solicitor and the Archbishop of Canterbury in his room. Tristan was staring into the bottom of a brandy snifter.
His father might be pleased. One didn’t get a higher-placed daughter-in-law unless Tristan were to wed one of the royal princesses. Linnet had been a mere viscount’s girl.
At least there would be no legal impediment to marrying again in the church. Linnet was long dead.
Tristan had thought himself dead to the idea of becoming a husband again. He had no interest in trying to soothe the histrionics of a high-strung woman once more. It seemed the gods were having a bit of fun with him. His life was about to become a living hell.
He’d have to lay down the law. He could only imagine how receptive Lady Sarah Marchmain would be to that.
They wouldn’t have to cohabitate. He was perfectly happy in his bachelor quarters across the wide expanse of lawn. Sarah could have reign over the house, at least until his father came home from Paris. If he came home.
Tristan would have to write to him, but there was no rush. He wasn’t anxious to explain how things had advanced this far and he had put the entire operation of the village in jeopardy.
He poured himself another finger of brandy. It was early in the day for him to drink, but he didn’t usually sign his future away so soon after lunch.
There was a rattle of doorknob. Tristan had locked himself into his father’s study to sulk.
“Go away.”
“I will not! You’ve just left me to rot upstairs. What is going on?”
It was his damned fiancée. Delightful.
With great reluctance, Tristan put his brandy aside and strode across the ancient carpet. Lady Sarah—or someone—had brushed her hair and braided it in a neat crown around her head.
It seemed a pity to bind such beauty.
She entered the room in a blur of brown homespun and flash of white ankle. “Well? Is my father still here?”
“Oh, yes. He’s arranging for our wedding the day after tomorrow.”
Lady Sarah rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake. Have you no backbone? We can’t get married.”
“We must. I cannot allow our foolishness to hurt the Foundation’s mission. The entire village’s fortune depends upon our good name. Your father’s influence could ruin everything we’ve worked for since 1806.”
“Poppycock. My father hasn’t a feather to fly with.”
“It doesn’t matter. He is still a duke, and people will listen to whatever he has to say. You know what the ton is like. I cannot risk it.”
She stalked over to his desk and picked up the decanter of brandy. “Have you another glass?”
Ladies did not drink brandy. Why was Tristan even surprised at her request? He went to the cupboard and selected a glass. He knew better than to offer to pour.
She filled half the snifter and downed it in one gulp. Was the prospect of becoming Mrs. Sykes really so ghastly?
Apparently so. She set the glass down with a clunk. “You don’t have to do this. If you help me run away, my father won’t find me. I’ll need some of your grandmother’s money, though. I have nothing. Not even clothes, as you know.”
Run away? How on earth could she survive? She was for all intents and purposes practically certifiably crazy, and didn’t even have a maid.
“Out of the question.”
Her bronze brows scrunched in irritation. “Why? Because I thought of it?”
“It’s a ridiculous idea no matter who thought of it.”
“More ridiculous than attaching oneself for life to someone who is completely unsuitable?”
“My birth may not be as high as yours—”
“Oh, for God’s sake. I am not talking about our standing in society. It’s all rubbish anyway. My father doesn’t deserve his exalted status—it’s an accident of birth. He’s made a hash of everything he’s touched. If it wasn’t for what’s left of my mother’s fortune—who was the daughter of a woolen mill owner, by the way—he would be living in a hovel on the Continent to avoid his creditors.”
Ah. Tristan felt somewhat mollified. But she was right—he wasn’t suited to be anyone’s husband. His marriage to Linnet had proved that.
And the thought of Lady Sarah as a docile, compliant wife was risible.
He shook his head. “I will not help you run away. I’m sure we’ll muddle along somehow.”
“I don’t want to muddle along! You don’t want to marry me—you think I’m a disgrace.”
“You can’t deny you’ve gone out of your way to develop a difficult reputation,” Tristan reminded her. Certifiable, yes indeed.
“Yes! So no one would want to marry me!” She threw herself down on a leather chair and clenched the fabric of the ugly dress between her fists. “Really, I won’t need much money to escape. I can disguise myself as a man and wear your old clothes. Cut my hair.”
Tristan could do nothing but laugh. Anyone less masculine was hard to imagine.
“Lady Sarah, I’m afraid we’ll have to accept our fate. I cannot allow you to go racketing through the countryside in trousers. That’s how we got into this fix, if you recall.”
“Allow me? If you hadn’t been such a prig we would be in Stroud shopping right now.”
“Do not blame this predicament on me,” Tristan said, annoyed. “You’ve dug your own grave.”
“And I’ll wish I were dead, being married to a man like you! So, so judgmental. So officious. So mean!”
Unfair and untrue. Tristan knew himself to be a perfectly ordinary gentleman. He was not prone to fits or flights of fancy. He was steady. Solid. A great catch.
If he had wanted to be caught.
“There is no point to us arguing. The arrangements are being made. I have a responsibility to Puddling, and now a responsibility to you.”
She picked up the empty snifter. “I don’t want to be some sort of duty. An albatross.” She wound up her arm and smashed the glass into the fireplace.
Tristan should make her clean the mess up herself. The servants would have enough to do organizing a wedding. “Don’t be childish. Destroying things will not change our circumstances. Your father is set on this marriage, and I cannot blame him. You know we have overstepped the bounds of propriety.” You especially, he wanted to add.
“I don’t care,” she said, stubborn as usual.
“Well, I do. Though you needn’t worry I’ll expect to exert my husbandly rights. We’ll have a marriage of convenience.” Inconvenience was more like it. “You’ll have your independence—within reason.”
Her mouth opened, then snapped shut. Good. He had finally robbed her of speech. Tristan had a feeling that didn’t happen very often.