“What?” she squeaked. Tristan was pleased to see her sleep-rosy cheeks pale.
She should be punished. Swiftly. Hard. His palm itched. Her curly coppery hair was braided like a schoolgirl’s, and he longed to grab one of the plaits and shake her.
Ever since he got the damned telegram, he’d spent the day rushing to get home, dying a little of impatience for every mile of countryside the train clacked through. Worrying and feeling helpless, the duke’s crumpled telegram in one pocket, the special license in another.
Tristan had imagined worse things than a beheading befalling her. A woman traveling alone with no resources? She’d been reckless in the extreme escaping like that. Absolutely anything could have happened to her, even in this quiet corner of Gloucestershire. Tristan had no great confidence in the saintliness of mankind.
With the exception of the estimable and ancient Fitzmartins, who could have dropped dead from failing to do what they perceived as their Christian duty to chaperone her. Clearly Lady Sarah had been allowed to run wild for far too long. She respected nothing, no one, not even the safety of her own person.
She needed to be tied up and isolated until she knew her proper place. Fed stale bread and water if necessary. If she thought Mrs. Grace’s cooking was bad, she hadn’t seen anything yet.
The future of Puddling was in his hands—and the thorn in its side in his bed. She was not going to run away again.
“You heard me.” Tristan barely recognized his own voice.
She pulled the covers up. “You cannot talk to me like that.”
“Really? You are in my bed. We are to be married tomorrow. I’m tired.”
She darted away as he sank into the mattress. It was a good thing her side of the bed was flush against the wall. Lady Sarah Marchmain was going nowhere unless she tried to crawl over him.
Let her try.
“I—you—”
“Shut up, Lady Sarah. Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one day? You will apologize to the Fitzmartins before the ceremony for you causing them so much distress. To poor Anstruther. To my driver and his son as well. Whichever maid you ditched, too. Was it Hannah or Audrey?” They were twins and he sometimes mixed them up.
“H-Hannah. And we are not getting married!”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. It was usually enough to strike terror in the observer’s heart. “Oh?”
“There’s no need to knuckle under to my father. I thought about his absurd demands all day. You do not have to marry me.”
She was the one being absurd. She was in his bed, in, by God, his own nightshirt, which looked much sheerer on her than it did on him. They were entirely alone in the house, with not even old irascible Anstruther for company.
Indeed he had to marry her, if only to live with his own conscience. He could see the pink of her nipples.
Quite pretty they were, too.
“I do, or he will contrive to put an end to Puddling’s success. I cannot let the village down.” Tristan blew out the candle for his own protection. If he couldn’t see her, he wouldn’t want her so badly.
In theory.
Bloody hell. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t some young Etonian looking at a naughty French photograph cadged from a wicked uncle. The madwoman should not appeal to him at all, even if she was within a foot of him, scrabbling at the covers. She was mad, after all.
And so very—singular. All that blazing red hair. Those very long legs. The odd gooseberry-colored eyes. Her impressive br—
Tristan punched his pillow down. He smelled lavender. Wasn’t that supposed to be restful? However, not an inch of him felt at peace, particularly his manhood.
Which was expanding by the second.
Men were indeed pigs, just as Lady Sarah believed.
“Lie down and go to sleep. We have a busy day tomorrow.”
“You can’t tell me what to do! And I will not sleep in here! It’s not proper.”
Tristan’s lips turned up. Imagine Lady Sarah lecturing him on propriety. She, who was infamous throughout the country for her hare-brained exploits.
“You’ve already been asleep in here,” he reminded her.
“But you weren’t home!”
He rolled onto his back. “You might as well get used to sleeping next to me.”
She gasped. “Didn’t you say just yesterday that you had no intention of consummating this marriage that is being forced upon us?”
“Did I? That was short-sighted on my part. I must not have been thinking clearly—you do seem to have that effect on me.” Tristan sighed, enjoying himself far more than he thought possible. “I’ll need an heir eventually. My duty, as it were. I may only inherit a baronetcy, but it’s very ancient, you know. Wouldn’t want to let the ancestors down.”
“Duty!” Lady Sarah uttered the word as if it were a hairy spider to be spat out. “I’m not some broodmare.”
“Didn’t you and Roderick Charlton plan on having a family?”
“We never discussed it. One doesn’t. It’s not—”
“Proper?”
She hit him on the shoulder with a pillow. “Oh, you are an awful man.”
Dear God, she wasn’t going to turn violent like Linnet, was she? He’d had enough of that in his life, thank you very much.
Apparently God had a sense of humor that Tristan didn’t share. He snatched the pillow and tossed it to the floor. “Behave yourself.”
“I don’t know how!”
And then the mattress shook. At first, Tristan thought Lady Sarah was bouncing to be annoying, but he realized she was crying. Without any sound. The bed was like a ship in a storm, heaving and rocking.
He was not going to take pity on her. She was in a coil of her own making. Everything she’d done since she came to Puddling had been meant to cause trouble, and now she was reaping what she’d sowed.
Oh, hell. He sat up and edged over to her. She was stiff and unyielding when he drew her close. Her tears were hot on his bare shoulder, and slid down his chest, little rivers of scorching despair.
“Don’t. It won’t be so bad.”
No. It probably would be worse. Tristan was not suited to be anyone’s husband, and Lady Sarah was no one’s idea of a comfortable wife. Thrown pillows would be the least of it, he was sure.
“I want H-Ham,” she stuttered.
Why was she speaking of meat at a time like this? “What?”
“H-Ham Ross. The farmer in the valley. He knows you and says you are n-n-nice,” she wailed, attempting to push him away with not very much effort.
“You are not going to Ham’s. My guess he’s asleep by now.” The old man was a wonder, running the farm with such vigor as if he were half his age. He rose before his rooster told him to. “How do you know him?” Apart from stealing the man’s prize pumpkins.
“I climbed into his wagon in Stroud.”
Tristan let out a bark of laughter. “From the frying pan into the fire. I expect you didn’t think you’d wind up back here.”
Lady Sarah shrugged in his arms. She’d stopped shaking and batting at his chest, resigned to his embrace. But he could still feel the tears flowing.
This was all kinds of wrong. She didn’t want to marry him—she didn’t want to marry, period. Her father was a buffoonish bully who had no right to manipulate their lives and threaten the livelihood of Puddling.
But Lady Sarah was in his bed, barely clothed. He’d seen more of her in the past few days than many men did of their own virtuous wives. Tristan had never seen Linnet completely nude in all their years of marriage, and now that seemed absurd. He’d been an idiot.
He was still an idiot.
He wanted to finish that kiss she had started the other evening. He’d almost returned it. True, it had been unexpected and at the time unwanted. He’d stopped following through with it when he’d come to his senses.
Oddly enough, he didn’t want to be sensible right now. But someone must be.
Gently, he set her back into the pile of pillows. “I’ll go sleep in Anstruther’s room.” He wondered what her expression was—he couldn’t see in the dark. Was she relieved? She must be.
“But you must promise me not to run away again. We’re getting married tomorrow.”
He felt the mattress shift. She was silent. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, reminding him he was not much of a nocturnal creature. He needed to sleep.
“Lady Sarah? I need your word.”
“I cannot give it.” Gone was the weepy woman. She sounded quite forthright. Determined.
Hell. So much for Morpheus turning up anytime soon.
“You would run away in the dark?” he asked, incredulous.
“If I have to. I’m only here because Mr. Ross made me come back. And I was so tired. I smelled, too.”
She didn’t smell of anything now but lavender and his own bergamot soap, a heady fragrance that was playing tricks with his senses.
“You took a bath in my tub?” Against his will, Tristan pictured her, snow-white skin, endless legs, and her breasts bobbing in the bubbles—he stifled a groan.
“I had to. There had been a goat, you see.”
Of course he didn’t see. The only thing he saw clearly was that he’d need to stay awake all night with this infuriating—and intriguing—young woman.