Waiting for Tristan, Sadie had drunk four and a half cups of tea. It was eventually necessary to make discreet use of the downstairs washroom under the watchful escort of the tall young footman. It had been mortifying to have him stationed outside the door, where he could hear her every movement. Sadie’s temper had risen with every sip of tepid tea.
Where was her husband? Husband. The word had an odd cadence inside her head. She had watched Charlton get bundled out of the house almost two hours ago, so he must be well enough to travel. She hadn’t killed him, which was more or less good news. Her father had also left in a Sykes coach not much longer after.
They were now alone in the house. Well, as alone as one could be with a fleet of conscientious servants. This was the first full day of their marriage, and she felt like a prisoner, worse than when she’d been sequestered in Stonecrop Cottage. At least Mrs. Anstruther was an improvement over Mrs. Grace.
Sadie paced the room. At this point she had examined every book and bibelot on the recessed shelves and tables. Anything worth reading must be in Sir Bertram’s library. She picked up an empty candy dish, and considered aiming it at the door.
That was childish. But she felt childish. She did not feel like a married woman.
Perhaps because she wasn’t really.
Sadie threw herself down on the brocade sofa instead. She examined each fingernail, traced each gore of her borrowed skirt. Looked in vain for a loose thread on the cushions, a speck of dust on the tea table. Everything was as it should be, a testament to a well-run household. But she was not the mistress of Sykes House yet, and might never be. Her father-in-law might bring home an opera dancer from Paris for all she knew.
Sadie didn’t wish Sir Bertram ill. She did not even know the man. But his portrait hung in the library, and he looked a touch choleric. Unfriendly. Tristan had inherited his eyebrows.
Where was Tristan?
The drawing room door opened just as she was beginning to let her irritation get the better of her.
“Where have you been?”
“Attending to some family affairs. Yours, in particular.” He did not smile. Probably he hadn’t missed her as acutely as she had missed him this afternoon.
“I saw that you tossed my father out,” Sadie said. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure. I can move back to the Red House now.”
Sadie’s heart stilled. “What do you mean?”
“There’s no more need for the marital pantomime. We do not have to share the same roof. As I’ve said.”
Sadie cast her mind back to that conversation. It seemed like a lifetime ago. “You mean so you can woo me.” He’d already made a spectacular start.
“I think we’re past that point, don’t you? You may remain in Puddling until the gossip dies down, and the novelty of our marriage no longer attracts attention. Then, I suggest, I will purchase a property for you, somewhere in another part of the country. Your choice. You’ve wanted your independence all your life, and you shall have it.”
The rug was being pulled out from under her. She snagged it with a booted foot. “You don’t wish to be married to me?” She sounded so pitiful she wanted to slap herself.
“No more than you do to me. We’ve fulfilled your father’s demands, but I’ll be damned if he ruins our life permanently. If you are discreet, you may pursue other interests. I will not stand in the way of your happiness.”
Was he actually giving her permission to have affairs? Sadie, who always had the last word on everything, couldn’t not find her voice.
“You’ll understand that I’ll draw the line at raising a bastard, however. There are precautions that can be taken.”
Were there? The subject had never come up with Miss Mac.
“There is no reason we cannot be civilized about this,” Tristan continued through her silence. “You are a duke’s daughter, and will have more latitude than most women. You’ve already established a reputation for eccentricity. In any event, the conduct of our marriage is no one’s business but our own.”
“I see.” Did she? No, she did not. She thought she was warming up to the idea of spending her life with this man, and thought he was getting used to the idea too.
He was only repeating what he had said before. Separate living arrangements. But he had completely omitted the courtship. Why did she feel he had thrust a knife in her heart?
He didn’t want her.
Well, she didn’t want him, either. What he was proposing was very much along the same lines as her own pre-Puddling goals. Autonomy. Access to her money. A quiet place of her own where she could do as she pleased. And apparently sleep with as many men as she liked. Except for the one that had briefly captured her interest.
“It’s too late in the day to go shopping in Stroud,” Tristan said, all businesslike. “I’ll send a message to Madame Elyse. Perhaps she or her assistant can deliver some ready-made dresses tomorrow. Assess what you need.”
“I need everything.”
“Yes. Well.” His eyes wandered away from hers and fixed upon the sluggish fire in the fireplace. “Are you warm enough?”
No. She felt a chill which had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. He had reverted to the cool, dismissive gentleman she’d first met in the Stanchfields’ grocery. The one who brooked no nonsense.
Sadie was too dispirited to even attempt any.
“I’ll see myself out then. Have a good evening.” He hesitated at the door, as if he wished to say more, but thought the better of it.
And then he was gone.
This time, she heaved the candy dish with all her might against the door he’d just closed. Sadie hoped it was a priceless antique.
She heard a knock. Had he changed his mind?
Mrs. Anstruther entered the drawing room. “Are you all right, Lady Sarah? William heard—something.” The housekeeper looked down at the shattered glass on the floor.
“Yes. I’m afraid I had an accident. I’m sorry.” She hadn’t stopped to think.
“Would you like an early supper? You’ve missed luncheon.”
“That would be nice.” Sadie had no appetite whatsoever.
“Would you like to dine downstairs, or do you want a tray in your room, my lady?”
Sadie did not relish sitting in the cavernous yellow-papered dining room alone. “A tray in my room would be just the thing, Mrs. Anstruther.”
“Very good, my lady. I’ll send a maid in here to take care of the...accident, and have your supper brought up to you in an hour.”
“I’ve caused a lot of trouble today, haven’t I? Blood and broken things. I shall try to do better.”
“You’ve been under a strain, Lady Sarah,” the woman said with kindness. “Everything will be better in the morning.”
Would it? Somehow, Sadie had her doubts.
She crunched over the glass and went upstairs. Her bedroom was immaculate, with no sign of her wicked wedding night. A fire flickered cheerfully, and she stood before it, trying to get warm without success.
She removed her gray bodice and skirt and wrinkled kerchief, getting into her nightgown well before the sun thought to set. She should have rung for Audrey or Hannah, but didn’t want to have to pretend that everything was normal. Although she was a famous liar, Sadie felt the current circumstances were more challenging than she was used to.
She moved to the window overlooking the vast gardens. Tristan was in the distance, speaking to a pair of gardeners. He used his hands as he spoke, windmilling about. Those forceful, magical hands that had unraveled her maidenly resistance. She watched as he trudged off up the slope to the Red House and disappeared behind the hedges. Would he enjoy dining alone? No doubt he’d feel relief he was well rid of her and the pretense of their union.
Sadie supposed she could go anywhere in the house she liked—the attics or the library. Find books to read or fripperies to place about her room to make it to her own taste. It was beautifully appointed, to be sure, but too perfect. Sterile. She nearly preferred the shabbiness of Marchmain Castle.
My goodness. She was homesick for a place she’d run away from at least a dozen times. It wasn’t because she missed any of the dwindling staff—turnover was extreme due to her father’s frequent inability to meet his financial obligations. All the friendly faces of her childhood had disappeared, one by one, off to work for employers that actually paid them. Only Cook was left, too elderly for a new life adventure.
Cook’s receipts, which Sadie had copied so carefully over the years, had been lost in the fire at Stonecrop Cottage. Not that Mrs. Grace would ever use them. When Sadie had presented them in her naiveté, the woman had shoved them in the kitchen dresser drawer and forgotten all about them. Against the Puddling dietary rules, no doubt. Sadie had been beyond bored swallowing the tasteless pap she’d been served since.
She wiped a tear that seemed to be leaking from her right eye. Tears got one nowhere. She’d learned that lesson a long time ago. But neither, really, did anger.
What emotion was left in her limited arsenal?
Not fear. Sadie wasn’t afraid of anything. Well, not counting spiders. She knew rationally they were good for the garden, but she couldn’t like them. Marchmain Castle had far too many of them indoors, creeping up the curtains and bedcovers.
Was curiosity an emotion? For she was curious, and wanted to finish what Tristan had started in the bedroom. Find out what happened next. Bring things to their logical conclusion. They didn’t have to live together as husband and wife, but for Tristan to leave her in this half-awakened state was not gentlemanly at all. She would simply have to seduce Mr. Sykes, whether he liked it or not.
And then she could go on her un-merry, unmarried way.