Tristan was being kind, and she couldn’t bear it. Sadie wanted to cry her eyes out. It was most unlike her. But really, almost everything she had done these past few days was unlike her.
Not the running away, though. She was champion at running away, even if she never got very far.
If Roddy didn’t get better, she’d have to run somewhere far, far away. The thought of jail—or hanging—was simply too awful. Being a duke’s daughter wouldn’t help her escape the noose.
If he lived—Tristan couldn’t possibly be serious about fighting a duel. If she disappeared, that would put an end to that, wouldn’t it?
She would miss Tristan and his expressive dark eyebrows. Miss his capable hands. Miss becoming his wife in truth.
Oh, Lord. What was happening to her?
She stopped kissing Tristan’s palm. It was a silly thing to do, but then she specialized in silly.
“It will be all right, Sadie.”
“You must promise me not to fight a duel. Swear it. I will never forgive you if you do.” If he died because of her, she’d never forgive herself. She would have to try to kill Charlton all over again.
“My, you look fierce. All right.”
“You’re not just saying that to fob me off?”
“I’m a man of my word. Are you?”
“What do you mean? I’m not a man, you know.”
“All too well. Yesterday we spoke vows in the chapel. I intend to honor mine as best I can. As far as you will let me. I expect the same from you.”
Ah. The obey part. Sadie swallowed, and found herself crossing her fingers behind her back. For some reason, lying outright to Tristan was unexpectedly troubling. “I’ll try.”
“That’s all I can ask.” He got up from the sofa and opened a cabinet, coming back with a deck of playing cards.
“Cards? Seriously?”
“It will pass the time.”
“I have no head for cards.”
“You know how to count, don’t you?”
“In several languages.” Miss Mac had insisted to qualify as a lady, one must have mastery of French and Italian. If that’s what it took, Sadie was all set.
“Good. We only need to count to twenty-one in English.”
“Vingt-et-un?”
“Yes. Have you played it before?”
Sadie had not. Unlike many females of her class, she was not to be found in card rooms at parties frittering away her pin money. She liked to dance instead, although most of her partners were half a head shorter and a good deal less graceful.
She and Tristan sat at the fruitwood card table. He shuffled and dealt the cards deftly. Sadie lost every hand, asking for new cards when she should have been satisfied with what she had. Rather like her approach to life in general, she realized. The grass wasn’t always greener, and the necessary card might be buried at the bottom of the deck.
“It doesn’t hurt to be conservative,” Tristan advised her, when she’d gone down to defeat yet again. “And you need to pay attention to the cards that have gone by. There are only four aces in a deck, you know.”
He might as well be speaking Greek, a language she did not know. “I told you I was no good at this. Where in blazes is Dr. Oakley?”
Tristan checked his pocket watch. “It has been a while. I’ll go check.”
Sadie bit her lip. “You’ll tell me the truth, won’t you?”
“I will.” He placed a brief kiss on the top of her head and was gone.
Sadie picked up the deck for a game of patience, something in which she was sorely lacking, but her hands shook too much to proceed. She tried to steady them, examining the uncomfortably heavy emerald ring. The square stone was substantial. Worth a lot of money. Again she tried to remove it with no success. If she had to leave, it would have to go with her.
She—didn’t want to leave.
Puddling wasn’t such an awful place. The surrounding countryside was beautiful. Sykes House and its gardens were perfectly delightful. Now that she was beginning to get to know Tristan, he was more or less delightful too.
Sadie got up and paced the length of the drawing room. She’d missed her prescribed daily walks, part of her rehabilitation plan. Her entire routine—her entire life—had been upended because of the fire. She could blame or thank Mrs. Grace, depending upon her mood.
Left, right, left, right. She spent a full five minutes going from one end of the room to another, and came no closer to finding out what was happening upstairs.
She couldn’t wait for news any longer. Sadie wasn’t sure where the footmen had carried Roddy. The house was a warren of wings and rooms which she had yet to explore. She was its mistress now, wasn’t she, with a right to climb the stairs instead of feeling useless and guilty.
Or so she thought. A tall young man in the Sykes livery was guarding the staircase, looking just a tad nervous when she sailed out of the room.
“Sorry, Lady Sarah. Mr. Tristan left strict orders for you to stay down here.”
“I beg your pardon.” She tried to look down her nose at the footman, which was difficult as he was as tall as she.
He did not wither under her gaze or freeze at the chill in her voice. Tristan had picked well.
“If you will be so kind to return to the drawing room, my lady.”
She wasn’t feeling kind. Taking another tack, she flicked her eyelashes ever so slightly. She wouldn’t want the poor boy to be overwhelmed. “What if I want to go to my room? To, um, freshen up? It has been an ever so trying day.”
“Mr. Tristan told me not to be bamboozled by your charm or beauty, Lady Sarah. But if I was to succumb to your wiles, John and Henry are stationed outside Lord Charlton’s door. You won’t get in.”
Damn Tristan for being so high-handed. But charm? Beauty? Those words were tiny sops to her irritation.
“What if you were to escort me upstairs to my room, just to prove I have no intention of trying to visit Lord Charlton? Why, I don’t even know which room he’s in.”
“And I’m not telling you. No, my lady. You are to remain downstairs until Mr. Tristan says otherwise.”
Sadie contemplated stamping her foot but knew when she had been bested. She returned to the drawing room and rang for tea. If she was stuck here, she might as well try to enjoy it. Breakfast was long ago, and she hadn’t been able to eat very much with those three men glaring at each other.
Looking harried, Mrs. Anstruther herself answered the summons. “Yes, Lady Sarah?”
“Any news? What’s happening, Mrs. Anstruther? And may I have a pot of tea?”
“Tea you shall have, but I have no idea. Dr. Oakley is taking his own sweet time.”
Dr. Oakley didn’t have much sweet time to take—he was nearly as elderly as Reverend Fitzmartin. He must have years and years dealing with Puddling’s reprobate Guests.
“What are the servants saying?”
“Nothing, if they know what’s good for them. Mr. Tristan hates gossip with a passion, especially after—” She stopped herself and colored. “We’ll protect your reputation, Lady Sarah.”
Protect her reputation? Sadie had been so worried about Tristan doing something irrational that she had quite forgotten her part in the situation. She couldn’t even reassure Mrs. Anstruther that she didn’t usually go about hitting people, because she did.
“Th-thank you.”
“Would you like some sandwiches, my lady? Biscuits?”
The thought of food now soured her stomach. “No. Just tea, please.”
According to Tristan, it worked wonders.