Course after course arrived for hours. Although Mrs. Anstruther had outdone herself in the kitchen, everything tasted like mud to Tristan. His senses were in a total jumble.
And there were no safe places to rest his tired eyes. The silverware and glasses and gilt-trimmed plates gleamed too brightly. The table was polished to a mirror shine. The undulating yellow roses on the wallpaper seemed to be climbing up to the ceiling right in front of him. He certainly couldn’t focus attention on his wife, who was covered in roses herself.
He could smell her rose perfume from across the table, too. She was not positioned at the end of it as she should be, but at his right. She’d made every attempt to prompt conversation, asking him about his school days and his business and his hobbies. He’d been an utter churl, answering with just the barest number of words, sometimes single syllables.
She had finally given up some minutes ago, and was now pushing a scrap of fig across her dessert plate. He could see her slender hand grasp the fork out of the corner of his eye, which was about as much of her as he dared to look at.
She’d had no reaction to the mention of Suffolk. Perhaps he should have been more specific and said Newmarket. Maybe even named names.
Dermot Reid.
Might as well get it over with. She seemed impervious to his hints.
“Do you enjoy riding, Sadie?”
She lay her fork down. “I used to. But I haven’t ridden in years. Papa got rid of our horses. They were too expensive. I—I miss it.”
Horses were not all she missed, he reckoned. “Do you follow the racing circuit?” He fixed his eyes on her now. She was pale, the two faint dabs of rouge on her cheeks visible.
She shook her head, the silk rosebuds in it quivering. “Not at all. I am no gambler. Not after watching my father fling his money away.”
“You haven’t been to Newmarket lately?”
“Of course not! I’ve been here for the past thirty-odd days, as you know, getting cured of my afflictions and addictions. At least gambling is not one of them. Meets there are in May and July, are they not?”
So, she knew that much. “October, as well.”
“Are you proposing we go there together next month?” Sadie sounded almost eager.
That was all he needed, to be paraded in front of her lover. “No. I, like you, am not a gambler. I’m much too dull.”
She smiled, not one of her full-force ones, but lovely just the same. “Oh, I wouldn’t say you were dull. Just—careful. Respectable.”
He’d tried to be, but look at the mess he was in. Like Peter, Peter, pumpkin-eater, he had a wife but couldn’t keep her. A desirable wife.
Who desired another.
“I thought you might like to go. Alone. You could look at properties.”
“You seem determined to get rid of me, and stick me in Suffolk to boot. I thought you said I’d have a choice as to where I’d live.”
This was getting tiresome. “I assumed you’d want to live there.”
“Why?”
He rose. “Let’s not play games, Sadie.”
She stood too, and dropped her napkin on her plate. “I assure you, I’m not the one playing games! And if I am, I’ve obviously lost the rule book. Oh, wait—you’ve said there are no rules. I really don’t have any idea what’s come over you. Yesterday you were so—sympathetic. Kind. Chivalrous, even. You said you’d fight a duel for me. Now you are a beast!”
“Really, your performance is very impressive, but don’t bother.”
“I’m not performing! I am just being me! I’m so sorry if you hate me.”
Oh, Christ. Tears again. He squelched his impulse to take a step toward her. Hardened his heart. “I know, Sadie.”
She blinked. “Know what?”
“About Dermot Reid.”
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“I don’t blame you. But you must see it makes things impossible.”
The plate hit him square in the chest, then dropped to the thick carpet. A splash of honey dripped down his waistcoat. “What the devil! I’m trying to be understanding!” He’d done everything so far to make her future easier.
She picked up the fork. Did she plan to stab him with it? “Understanding? Suppose you tell me all about Dermot Reid so I can understand.” She stabbed the palm of her own hand instead.
He was dying inside, but forged ahead. “He is your, uh, paramour.”
Sadie raised a sculpted eyebrow. “He is?”
“You can’t deny it.” He picked up his napkin and tried to wipe the sticky blob away.
“I certainly can. Let me guess. That ass Roddy told you. And then my ass of a father told you. It would never occur to you to ask me, now, would it? Heavens, no. Two men—two asses—have got the wrong end of the stick, as usual. Three asses, if you add Dermot, that lying sack of excrement. Four asses, counting you. I suppose my father told you he bought him off to preserve the tatters of my nonexistent virtue? No matter how many times I told him—oh!” She threw the fork at the wall with such force it stuck in the paper-covered plaster. “I hate you all!”
“What was I to think?”
Sadie sat back down in her chair with a whoosh. “Oh, I don’t know. That they’re asses? That they’ve never had my best interests at heart? It’s probably my fault. After all, I was—am—a born liar. No wonder my father didn’t believe me. I was a difficult, headstrong girl. Of course I would sleep with my groom. He paid attention to me. Was nice to me. I was fifteen—”
Tristan frowned. “Fifteen?”
“Yes. Did you think all this happened just last month? I haven’t seen or heard from Dermot Reid in six years. But don’t let that stop you from jumping to conclusions. Why, I might even be pregnant! A very long gestation, mind you, like an elephant or—” She burst into tears.
“I don’t care if you’re not a virgin,” Tristan said, knowing as soon as the words were out of his mouth they were a dreadful mistake. He ducked and the wineglass shattered behind him, but not before the flying liquid splashed against his shirtfront.
She looked at him with loathing, her green eyes hazed with tears. “I am a blasted virgin, not that you’re ever going to find out. But then again, I could fake it, couldn’t I? I understand you can get a bladder of pig’s blood or something equally disgusting and smear it on the bedsheets. I might not even be intact anyway after all the riding I did with Dermot. I’m not to be trusted, correct? Roddy told you I was a whore and you believed him!”
“I never thought that! Women are not whores simply because they enjoy carnal relations with men.”
“Good! Because I haven’t enjoyed anything!”
“Ah, now who’s lying?” Sadie could not have been more responsive. But perhaps it was not judicious to bring that up at this juncture.
“Get out!”
“I’m not leaving until we get this settled.” Or she killed him with tableware.
“Oh, it’s settled. We have both made a horrible mistake. I, for thinking you might be better than the rest of your gender, more fool me, and you for getting saddled with a woman you believe the worst of. You didn’t even ask. Try to talk to me.”
“It was so embarrassing. By the way, I sacrificed my principles and would have let you live with your lover.” Oh, God. The letter. He’d deal with that tomorrow.
“That’s not a question. That’s a statement. And poor you, such noble—and misplaced—generosity. You are just too good for this world, Tristan Sykes. No wonder your wife—” Her lips snapped shut.
“Don’t.” His tone even scared himself.
“I won’t. Not to worry, there will be no honesty between us. No anything. But I’ll tell you one thing—I am not moving to bloody Suffolk!” She swept the rest of her place setting off the table.