Tristan had never used the cuffs before. In fact, he’d forgotten all about them, bought on a lark for a fancy-dress party he couldn’t attend after all. He’d intended to go as a Regency-era Bow Street Runner, red waistcoat and all.
But the prospect of staying awake all night watching Lady Sarah Marchmain had reminded him that help was, so to speak, at hand, in case he couldn’t keep his eyes open after all.
Now where the devil had he put the keys? Anstruther might know, but the poor fellow was off on a wild goose chase.
“You cannot be serious!” The horrified look on her face was worth every moment of agony he’d experienced today.
Served her right. It was best to begin as you meant to go on. Tristan would have to assert the upper hand in this relationship or the saucy Lady Sarah would run him ragged.
Goodness, he was chock-full of hand references.
“I am. Would you prefer to be attached to the bed or my wrist?”
“Are you insane?” she spat. She was like a cat, hackles raised. Even the loose tendrils of her red hair looked like it was standing on end.
“I don’t believe so, although dealing with you might predicate the eventual loss of one’s mind. Hmm, I suppose the bedpost is a better option—it would be awkward to have company in the bathing chamber. Speaking of which, perhaps you should avail yourself of it before I limit your movement.” Surely the keys could be found tomorrow morning. If not, Tristan could take a hacksaw to the metal before the wedding ceremony.
Or not.
“I am—you are—I don’t need to go!” Lady Sarah spluttered.
Tristan shrugged. “Suit yourself. It’s practically morning anyway.”
Lady Sarah leaped out of bed, putting Tristan in mind of a gazelle he’d once seen in a zoo. “You are not to touch me! I will tell my father what you planned to do!” She backed herself into a corner, and her legs were very much in view.
“No doubt the old boy will applaud me and wonder why he never thought of it himself. Really, how else am I to get a wink of sleep?” He fought back a yawn. Perhaps just the threat of handcuffs would induce her to lie down and behave herself.
“You are barbaric! Criminal!”
“Let’s not get carried away with the name-calling.” He twirled the manacles, and they glinted in the candlelight. “Fine. What do you suggest then? Would you prefer rope? One of my neckties?”
“I would prefer my freedom! In all things. In four years I am to come into a substantial sum, and I want no husband to take my money away from me!”
“I have no interest in your money. Your father and I have already discussed that in our negotiations. You are to spend what you want, and leave the rest of it in trust for our children. If we have any, which at this point remains doubtful. The solicitors are writing up the formal contracts.”
Lady Sarah gave him a goggle-eyed stare.
“By the way, your father thinks I’m crazy,” Tristan continued. “It’s a pity I can’t take advantage of a twenty-eight-day sojourn in Puddling to cure myself of my magnanimity.”
“Oh.” There was quite a lot of emotion in that one syllable.
“Did you really think I was such a villain?”
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind an ear. She had braided her hair before bed, two long ropes that fell over her breasts and down to her waist. Tristan tried hard not to look at her ankles or her calves or any parts north. “Roderick wanted my money.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think that was all. Your father says the man loves you to distraction.” Tristan wasn’t sure why, exactly. Yes, Lady Sarah was rather glorious to look at, yes, but she wasn’t precisely lovable.
But then, he wasn’t either. He could be a right moody, dull sort of bastard, or at least Linnet had thought so.
Bah. He should not be thinking of poor Linnet hours before he was to get leg-shackled again. Maybe this time would be different.
Maybe it wouldn’t.
“So.” She paused, working her long white fingers together. “You and my father have sorted all this out?”
“I hope so. I saw my solicitor in London today. Your father has been telegraphing his.” At Tristan’s expense, no doubt. The completed paperwork was due to be delivered tomorrow—this—morning by special courier.
“And you won’t keep my money.”
“Not a farthing.” He had more than enough for his, and a wife’s, needs.
She still didn’t look happy. Maybe it wasn’t just about the money. Maybe she didn’t want to live as any man’s wife. Was she afraid of intimacy?
Tristan though back to her spontaneous kiss the other night. A grandfatherly kiss, according to her, meant for his cheek until his lips got in the way. A short while ago, she had trembled under his touch like a startled fawn.
He faced her from across the room. “Has Charlton kissed you?”
Her russet eyebrows knit. “What?”
“Have you been kissed, Lady Sarah? Do you remember my description?”
“One could hardly forget it,” she replied dryly.
“Shall we put it to the test? Seal your pledge to not run away tonight?”
Her eyes slid away from his. “My word should be good enough.”
He raised an eyebrow and she flushed. As the pink stained her cheeks, Tristan felt an unaccountable urge to trace the color to her collarbone. She looked very, very fetching in his nightshirt.
“J-just one kiss. And then you will go to sleep in Anstruther’s room like you said and leave me alone.”
Tristan didn’t want to leave her alone. The idea of securing her to the bedpost and having his wicked way with her was tempting beyond belief.
But how much better would it be if she came to him willingly? Sought her pleasure freely? He wondered if that would ever happen. If it didn’t, they were both facing a future of emptiness. A marriage in name only. Unlike her, Tristan kept his word, although it would be hell not to ever touch her. He’d only mentioned heirs to rattle her since she’d given Puddling—and by extension him—such grief today.
If he wanted her in his bed at some point in time, he would have to woo her, and frankly, that seemed like a lot of trouble. Too much trouble. Tristan was tired of jumping through hoops.
He was just plain tired.
But he walked across the room, dropping the manacles to the carpet, palms open. “See? No coercion.”
She was very still, almost rigid. He could almost hear the argument within her. She’d agreed to the kiss only to get rid of him, but there was something...
Did she find him as attractive as he found her? His physical response to her was treacherous. Surely she could see the bulge in his smalls.
Because men were pigs. Tristan was only confirming her opinion. He was at the mercy of his body because, God help him, she was a lovely disheveled vision of young womanhood. Innocence. She might have been wearing a plain man’s nightshirt, and her glorious hair was confined to two meandering braids, but he’d never seen anything lovelier in his life than his doubtful, devious fiancée.
Tristan recognized the abyss when he saw it. And he was about to jump into it, for better or worse.