He might as well jump from the roof now. He would spare himself the next forty—or, if he was unlucky, fifty—years with his pugilist bride.
Tristan was standing on shifting ground. Quicksand. Of course he wasn’t standing on anything at present. He was still lying on the carpet trying to figure out how he could scuttle away in his tenting trousers without attracting any undue attention from his father’s housekeeper.
He waited until Sadie was seated in a chair near the fire, a branch of candles on the table. Mrs. Anstruther was bent over, examining Sadie’s cut. This was his chance. If he could only get up, he could go to the Red House and get out of his stained and rumpled clothing. Lock all the doors. Ask Anstruther to handcuff him to the bed to keep him out of harm’s way.
Everything he thought he’d known about Sadie was proving to be wrong. Except she had an impressive right hook, just as the dossier claimed. The left was allegedly its equal as well.
“You were very foolish to try to pick up broken glass with your bare hands,” Mrs. Anstruther admonished.
“I’m sorry,” Sadie said meekly. That was two apologies in two minutes, some sort of record, he was sure. “I was ashamed. I’ve let my emotions get the better of me twice today. I didn’t mean to make more work for you and the staff.”
“That’s what we’re here for. Hold still. Yes, I see a splinter of glass. Mr. Tristan, could you hold Lady Sarah’s hand still while I remove it?”
“He doesn’t have to. I won’t move.”
“Best to be safe. I think a stitch or two is in order, too.”
“Surely not.”
“Don’t argue, my lady. Injuries to the hand are tricky. So hard to heal. You wouldn’t want to lose the use of it through infection. Mr. Tristan, are you all right down there?”
He would be if someone shot him and put him out of his misery. “Just a moment, Mrs. Anstruther. I need to wash.”
Tristan escaped into Sadie’s bathroom and ran cold water, liberally splashing it all over, willing his erection to deflate. He caught sight of himself in the mirror, his curly hair on end, his wine-stained tie ruined, his waistcoat a sticky mess between the blood and honey. He removed his jacket and stripped himself of the dirty clothes and immediately felt better.
Sober too. He’d barely touched any of the wine at dinner. Tristan wished now that he’d indulged, for his conscience was stabbing at him with knitting needles. He’d been judgmental. So quick to mix up the past with the present. Sadie wasn’t Linnet, and he wasn’t the innocent young man he used to be.
Tristan knew there were two sides to every story, sometimes three. And now Sadie might never forgive him for being, as she said, an ass. He should have known that the duke and Charlton were unreliable storytellers. He’d had the presence of mind to dislike both of them on sight—why had he listened to them?
He emerged from the bathroom in a more sedate state, even if he was in his shirtsleeves. He was going to do better in the future. He had to.
“There you are. Please hold Lady Sarah’s palm open. I’ve got my tweezers ready.” Mrs. Anstruther dabbed up a glob of blood.
Sadie’s eyes were shut. Tristan had the opportunity to examine her eyelashes, copper tipped with gold. They were mercifully still—he’d seen the damage they could do as she batted them about at unsuspecting victims. One incisor nipped at her plump lower lip. She was in more pain than she would admit, stubborn wench.
“There.” Mrs. Anstruther returned the napkin to act as a temporary bandage. Tristan was shocked at the size of the glass removed from Sadie’s palm. “You’re doing well, my lady. Very brave. Mr. Tristan, this next bit will be a little more difficult, but I know I can depend on you.”
Mrs. Anstruther sat on a chair to thread a needle. Tristan continued to hold Sadie’s hand, smoothing his fingers over hers, keeping the napkin in place.
“Drat. My spectacles are downstairs, and I really should have them for this if we don’t want a scar. How silly I was to come up without them. I’ll only be a moment.”
The housekeeper left them alone. Sadie attempted to pull her hand away but Tristan was too fast for her and held tight. “It will be all right.”
“Of course it will be all right. It’s not as if I’ve been shot,” Sadie grumbled.
“I expect you’d like to be the one who did the shooting.”
“How bloodthirsty you must think I am! You don’t think much of my character.”
“That’s where you are wrong. I’ve come to—admire you. Greatly.” Much against his will, he might add, but stopped himself from saying so. He was not as much of an idiot as prideful, insufferable Mr. Darcy.
Sadie rolled her eyes. “Don’t bother to try to cozen me. An hour ago you thought I was a—”
Tristan put a finger to her mouth. “I didn’t. You misunderstood everything. I was trying to make you happy.”
“Happy!”
“To reunite you with Whatever-his-name-is. And I find I’m quite glad that you have lost interest in the fellow. That means there’s a chance for me. Even if I’m an ass.”
Sadie’s lips twitched. “You are.”
“I cannot argue. I am groveling for your good opinion. I would be on my knees, but I’ve spent most of my day in that position, and I’m not as young as I used to be.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze.
“Ouch.”
“Forgive me.”
“All right. But don’t squeeze my hand again.”
“I don’t mean about the squeezing. About me being an ass.”
Sadie flicked her eyelashes, the minx. “You are sure to be an ass again.”
“Undoubtedly. I’ve had a lot of practice.” What if he’d been more understanding with Linnet? He’d been full of wounded pride and outrage back then. She’d been so young, flirtatious, and he’d driven her into the arms of other men with his cold disapproval.
Tristan couldn’t do anything about his marital history—that story had been told, with its unhappy ending. He’d been unyielding in what he perceived as his own virtue. In his urge to be always good, always reasonable, always responsible, he’d been a dull dog for far too long.
“What are you proposing, Tristan?”
“That we start fresh. Let’s pretend I haven’t been a consummate ass, and that you never lost your temper. We are two people getting to know one another.”
“What’s the catch?”
Let me take you to bed.
“There is no catch.”
Sadie’s eyes narrowed. “There’s always a catch.”
“I will trust you. I want you to trust me. Do you think you can?”
She was spared of answering, as Mrs. Anstruther hurried into the room. Sadie shut her eyes again as the housekeeper cleaned the cut and made three neat stitches in the soft flesh of her palm. She then wrapped Sadie’s hand in a swath gauze and cotton fit for an Egyptian mummy.
“You’ll have to use your left hand only for a few days. I’m sure Mr. Tristan will help you with anything you need tonight.”
“A good thing I’m left-handed so I can at least feed myself. What about Hannah and Audrey?” Sadie asked.
“I’ve sent them to bed, Lady Sarah. I hope I did right. They were, um, tired, and it’s very late.”
Did this mean Tristan would get to undress his wife?
If she’d let him.
Sadie exchanged an odd look with Mrs. Anstruther, then nodded. “I suppose that will have to do. Thank you for your assistance, Mrs. Anstruther. You’ve been very kind.”
“Pish. You are the mistress of the house and deserve all consideration. Good night, my dear. Mr. Tristan.”
Sadie remained seated before the fire. The silk flowers in her hair were askew, and a long strand of red hair had fallen from its pins. Somehow he liked her better this way, a bit bedraggled from her sinuous trip up the staircase. She’d been far too dazzling at dinner, especially when he’d thought some other man would have the privilege of gazing upon her under the candlelight.
“Are you tired?” he asked.
“A bit. I can ring for another maid. Or Mrs. Anstruther, if you feel unequal to helping me.”
“I feel very equal.” More than equal.
“All right.”
She stood, kicked off her shoes, and turned her back to him. A thousand covered buttons—well, a hundred at least—wended their way down her spine. Tristan was methodical, his hands accustomed to delicate tasks. He could graft roses. Wield a compass. Lay brick if necessary. What were mere buttons?
If only his hands wouldn’t shake.
Her scent was subtle yet compelling. In fact, the whole room smelled like roses. He would never be able to wander in a garden again without thinking of her.
Her dress loosened and shimmered to the floor in shiny pink waves. He held her good hand while she stepped out of it, clad only in a shift, a corset with its figured cambric cover, starched petticoats, and stockings.
He untied the corset cover to reveal a truly beautiful work of art. At one point in his life, Tristan was fairly adept with corset strings. It seemed a long, long time ago. It might be easier if he attacked the corset problem from the front hooks.
“Turn around. Please.” His voice was thick.
She obliged, a pretty blush on her cheeks. “You’d better fetch my nightgown. It’s on the bed.”
The bed was turned down, and the source of the aroma in the room was solved. Rose petals were sprinkled on the bedlinens. Did Sadie sleep amidst roses every night? No wonder she smelled so delicious. The nightgown lay on the coverlet, practically transparent—he could see the embroidery right through it.
And then he noticed the wine and two glasses on the bedside table. The vases of roses. The flickering candles on all flat surfaces. The room had been set up for seduction—his, he presumed. He stifled his grin, draped the wisp of silk over his arm and set to his very pleasurable task.