A Hint of Wicked Page 6

  had no idea.”

  “I realize you have been confused, and Cal has been rather tightlipped about how he’s spent the past years. I think… well, I believe he is simply struggling to absorb it all.”

  “Of course,” Sophie said.

  Mr. Fisk stepped away from the window. “Thank you for your understanding, Your Grace. Now, I have some business to attend, so I will beg your indulgence.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Fisk.”

  “Also—” He lowered his voice. “—I have need of the man posted outside your door. Cal has required him to deliver some documents to his solicitor.”

  Sophie glanced at Tristan. Only the slightest twitch in his eye gave away his dismay.

  “I trust everything will remain… calm, if I remove him from his post?”

  Sophie hoped he was only referring to her possibly attempting to escape from her room, and not to any illicit relations he thought she and Tristan might indulge in. “I shall remain here until Garrett himself tells me I can go,” she promised. Mr. Fisk smiled, and she relaxed. “Thank you, Your Grace.” He glanced at Tristan. “I’m sure the two of you have much to discuss, given this new information. But I do hope you will be patient with Cal—with the duke. As you can see, he is struggling… with everything.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I thank you again, Mr. Fisk.”

  At the door, Mr. Fisk bowed. Then he turned and stepped out, closing it softly behind him.

  Chapter Four

  Come here, Soph.”Tristan leaned back in the armchair, reaching out to her. She approached him and took his hand. He tugged her down so she sat on his lap.

  For several long minutes, she reclined against him, reveling in the hard feel of his body against hers as she slowly relaxed, her breaths evening and her heartbeat slowing. He held her pressed tightly to his side, stroking her hair, her back. She buried her face in his shoulder and breathed him in.

  “He’s ordering Ansley to take steps to have our marriage declared illegal,” he murmured finally.

  Instantly, all the tension returned to her body. A part of her wanted to pledge herself eternally to Tristan and say she’d forsake Garrett forever. A greater part of her knew she couldn’t. She was bound to two men. It had seemed natural enough when she thought one of them gone forever. But now…

  She looked up into Tristan’s tense face and passed a fingertip over a line of strain at the edge of his mouth, avoiding the garish blue and purple marks of his bruises. Garrett had always loved Tristan. He wouldn’t purposefully ruin him. This action was only pretense—

  a swift response to seeing Tristan in bed with her. It couldn’t be real. “He cares for you, Tristan.”

  Tristan gave a grim laugh. “No. Perhaps once, but he hates me now.”

  “He only thinks he hates you. It was a visceral response to seeing us together. That will fade when he realizes how absurd it is. And then he will realize how he cares for you and doesn’t want to destroy you.”

  “And when he does so, do you believe he will relinquish you to me, Soph?”

  She hesitated, her breath stalling in her throat. Suddenly, she understood the look of anguish on Tristan’s face. There was no way the three of them could be as close as they once were. Garrett wouldn’t give her up, and Tristan would fight for her. The two men would become mortal enemies, and she’d have to choose between them. She turned away from Tristan to calm her roiling stomach. The thought of losing him made her physically ill. She couldn’t let him go. She wouldn’t.

  Tristan answered for her. “He won’t relinquish you to me. And when he meets Miranda…”

  When he meets Miranda. . . The rough man and the delicate little girl. How would they react to each other? And would Garrett use his daughter as a weapon to tear Sophie and Tristan apart?

  “Tristan…” What could she say to allay his fears? It would hardly encourage him if she told him how torn she was. “We’ll find a way. We’ll survive this,” she finally finished. She reached up and brushed back a lock of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead. She slid her fingers over his temple and his high cheekbone, finally curving them around the uninjured side of his jaw and adding subtle pressure so he’d turn toward her. When he did, she kissed him softly on the lips. “I love you.”

  Tristan accepted her kisses, and his eyes drifted shut as she skimmed her lips over his, then over his unshaven jaw and down his neck. She couldn’t ignore the voice inside her telling her it could be her last chance to kiss him. To caress him. When her lips collided with the starch linen of his stock, she paused, then reached up to loosen it, suddenly desperate to see him free of clothing, to touch him skin against skin.

  “They might return,” Tristan murmured, catching her hand in his own. She glanced at the door. The duchess’s bedchamber had no bolt on it, either outside or in. If she undressed him, someone might very well interrupt. And she couldn’t fathom what Garrett might do if he caught them making love again.

  She slumped against Tristan. “I’m sorry. I—I just wanted to touch you.”

  “I know, love,” Tristan said, stroking her back. “I want to touch you, too.”

  She couldn’t say to the devil with whoever might walk in on them. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t. Instead, she simply nodded.

  “I wasn’t able to finish last night.” Tristan twined his finger in one of the curls at the side of her face and tugged gently. “I want to make love to you, Sophie.”

  One last time. The unspoken words hung in the silence between them.

  “Tonight. I’ll come to you.”

  With lowered eyes, she nodded even as guilt speared through her chest. Tristan seemed to sense it, and he pulled her more tightly against him. “You’re my wife,” he murmured.

  “Still mine.”

  He was right. She was lost in his arms, in his touch. There was no denying him. She was his, and, as always, she wanted him.

  His palm drifted down her back, curved over her bottom. She raised her mouth to his, anticipating the soft touch of his lips.

  The door swung open so forcefully it banged against the inside wall. Tristan’s arms fell. As if a bucket of cold water had been dumped over her head, Sophie leaped to her feet. Her heart pounding, she smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt before looking up. Garrett. Of course. Guilt threatened to choke her when she saw the expression of pain on his face. She’d hurt him again.

  Tristan jumped in front of her, shielding her body with his own. She peeked past his shoulder.

  Garrett stood at the threshold, his blue eyes freezing into chips of ice. Once again he wore the long, dark overcoat. The only other visible items of his clothing were his well-worn muddied leather boots. His blond hair stood out from his scalp at odd angles, as if it hadn’t been combed in weeks. The largest, most deadly-looking pistol Sophie had ever seen dangled from his fingers. The guard Mr. Fisk had taken away stood behind him, also holding a gun.

  Sophie bit back a whimper. Her knees turned into jelly, threatening to collapse beneath her.

  “Couldn’t keep your hands off my wife, even when I asked you nicely, could you, Westcliff?” Garrett’s voice was conversational, but it didn’t fool Sophie. The look on his face had transformed from pained to murderous, and the scar on his forehead was fire red and twisted with rage.

  “She’s my wife,” Tristan said evenly.

  Garrett arched an eyebrow, making the scar bulge. He raised the pistol until it was level with Tristan’s chest. “Sophie, please move away. The bullet in this weapon is capable of tearing a hole through three men, and I wouldn’t want it to go straight through him and mar your pretty skin.”

  His awful words strengthened her, brought her back to her senses.

  “What on earth are you doing?” She pushed her body in front of Tristan’s. By God, if he intended to murder Tristan, he’d have to go through her first. He ignored her, keeping his focus on the much taller figure behind her. “I did say I’d kill you if you went near her, did I not? And
now I come home to see you not only in her bedchamber but pawing her like a goddamned animal.”

  Tristan set his hands on Sophie’s shoulders and moved beside her, holding her securely to prevent her from shielding him.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked in desperation. “What do you want from us?”

  A loud click echoed through the room as Garrett cocked the pistol.

  “Garrett, please!” she cried.

  “I want my life back,” he said, still not looking at her. His eyes narrowed into slits as he took his aim.

  “Don’t be a fool,” she said desperately. “Think of Tristan, of what an important part of your life he was before you went to the Continent. Don’t you remember? If you kill him now, how could you ever expect to have your life back?”

  “I won’t allow him to touch you. You’re already a bloody bigamist. I won’t have him make you into an adulterer a second time before my eyes.”

  “She’s not your wife,” Tristan growled.

  “We’ll debate that in hell,” Garrett retorted, his eyes as sharp as shards of blue-tinged glass.

  She swallowed down her panic. “I don’t know what’s happening between all of us,” she said softly. “Do you want me to be your wife again? Is that it? Do you want us to continue where we left off so many years ago?”

  “Yes,” he blurted out.

  “Never,” Tristan muttered. She sent him a hard glance. Garrett had a pistol trained at his chest, and he was being far too reckless.

  Nonetheless, Tristan was ultimately right—things had changed too much. She was a mature woman now, different from the besotted girl Garrett had left eight years ago. She could never go back to being that girl.

  Tristan had changed, too. And Garrett was so different that she felt she scarcely knew him. And then there was Miranda… Eight years ago, Miranda had existed only as a secret promise in Sophie’s womb.

  “What of Miranda? Have you seen her?”

  Finally his gaze slid toward Sophie. “Miranda? What the hell are you talking about?”

  Emotion clogged her throat. How on earth could no one have told him about Miranda?

  “Your daughter,” she said gently. His eyes widened. “When you left for Waterloo, I was with child, though neither of us knew it at the time. I was waiting to tell you, to surprise you when you came home… but you never did.” She swallowed against the flood of memories of that terrible time.

  Garrett lowered the gun to his side, his features frozen in shock. “What?”

  “Your daughter. You have a daughter. Her name is Miranda. She’s seven years old.”

  He blinked hard at her, as if by doing so he’d certainly wake from this bizarre dream.

  “Where?”

  “She’s upstairs in the nursery, I imagine. Their governess usually takes them to the park in the afternoons, but—”

  Garrett’s lips pursed. Without another word, he turned, shoved the gun at the guard so hard it caused the man to stumble backward, and stomped away. Sophie and Tristan exchanged an alarmed glance, then she picked up her skirts and hurried down the corridor as Tristan closed in behind.

  Garrett took the stairs two at a time. Sophie rushed behind him, nearly slamming into him when he came to an abrupt halt before the door at the landing. The nursery covered the entire third level of the house—Garrett, Tristan, and Sophie had always jested that the previous Dukes of Calton must have envisioned themselves prolific breeders. Garrett was well-acquainted with the nursery, having spent many hours there with Tristan when they were children and Garrett’s father or aunt brought them to Town. The space was open, airy, and bright, always cheerful and pleasant.

  After a long pause, Garrett took a deep breath and flung open the door. The sound of childish chatter came to an abrupt halt as Miranda and Gary looked up with rounded eyes from the book of rhymes they’d been reading. Their governess, Miss Dalworthy, gasped and slapped her hand to her chest in shock. After a moment of silence, Sophie brushed past Garrett to kneel by the children. Upon seeing her, Gary released a loud sigh of relief and Miranda asked in a low voice, “Who’s that big man, Mama?”

  There was no reason to beat about the bush. No one had ever accused Sophie of being indirect. “It’s your papa, darling.”

  Miranda stared at Garrett. “It can’t be,” she said simply. “My papa’s dead. He’s with the angels.”

  “My papa’s alive, though,” Gary said, always one to jump in on a conversation whenever he could. “He’s right there.” He pointed a blunt finger at Tristan, who stood at Garrett’s shoulder.

  “We all thought he had gone to the angels, Miranda, but we were wrong. He’s alive, and he’s come back to us.” Sophie glanced at Garrett. He still stood frozen at the door. Miranda merely frowned and narrowed her blue eyes at him. Sophie’s breath caught in her throat. She’d always thought how alike Garrett and Miranda were, so tawny and bright, but the similarities between the two, now that they stood in the same room so close together, stole the breath from her lungs.

  Finding her voice, Sophie rose. “Miranda, come greet your father.”

  Miranda was obedient but hesitant as Sophie walked her toward Garrett. Little Gary pranced ahead, holding his chubby five-year-old hand out to Garrett. “I am Garrett James, the Marquis of Newbury. Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  Garrett sucked in a breath when the boy said his name. Looking bemused, he took the little hand in his much larger one and shook. He gazed at Sophie over Gary’s head.

  “Tristan and Nancy’s son.” She glanced at Tristan, who nodded. “Tristan named him to honor you.”

  Garrett’s face hardened, but Gary didn’t seem to notice. “My papa says my name comes from the bravest soldier who ever lived,” he said blithely.

  “Indeed, Gary,” Tristan said in a low voice. “And that very soldier is standing before you right now.”

  Gary’s jaw dropped. He gaped at the big man in front of him, his eyes widening as he stared at Garrett’s scar. “You? You’ve been in a real battle?”

  A muscle twitched in Garrett’s jaw, and Sophie saw his attention had moved back to Miranda, who stared up at the tall stranger before her, clinging to Sophie as if she were a lifeline.

  “Come now,” Sophie urged.

  With the help of a gentle prod to her back, Miranda stepped closer to her father and curtsied. With a dazed look on his face, Garrett looked from his daughter to Sophie.

  “She looks like you,” he murmured.

  Sophie laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. “No, Garrett. She looks like you.”

  It was too much. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t face any of them. The pretty little girl in front of him, looking up at him with big blue eyes… his daughter? No. God, could it be?

  Garrett growled an excuse and blindly made his way downstairs, locking himself in the study.

  Surrounded by brimming bookshelves and the comforting smell of leather and old books, he slid into the chair behind the desk and sat there with his head in his hands. Minutes turned into hours. Shudders rippled through his shoulders. It hardly seemed real. He had a child. A daughter. It would take some time, months maybe, for that to fully register. He hadn’t the first idea how to be a father.

  Finally he pushed his hand through his hair and stared down at the polished mahogany surface of the desk—the grandest desk he had ever seen, but he remembered it. Remembered sitting here, working on accounts, talking to people who sat in the velvetcushioned chairs on its other side. A claw-footed marble inkstand stood in one corner of the desk, bearing matching gilt inkpots, summoning bell, and pen holder. Adjacent to it sat a silver salver carrying a short stack of letters addressed to Sophie. A decidedly feminine perfume wafted from the stationery.

  This morning, Garrett had ordered the butler to hand him all of Sophie’s mail. He vaguely remembered that to read his wife’s personal correspondence was a faux pas, a terrible breach of propriety. He hated to do it, but what choice did he have? Taking her letters was the only wa
y he could learn more about her—the inner workings of her mind, who she kept as her friends, what they discussed. It also would keep him apprised of the gossip regarding his return and give him the ability to censor her communication if the need arose.

  He took the pile of letters and flipped through them. The heavy scrawl on one of the thicker envelopes looked familiar, and he took it in hand to weigh it before turning it over and breaking the wafer sealing it shut. He unfolded it and discarded several sheets of drawings and scribbled notes to get to the meat of the letter. It was a missive from his aunt, Lady Bertrice. In it, she discussed every possible aspect of

  “Becky’s” Season in great detail.

  Becky. Fisk had told him that he had a younger half sister who lived at Calton House with his aunt. Now he remembered. Rebecca was just a child of ten when he had last seen her, a small, thin, quiet creature who’d preferred to read and study over dancing and social events. Their father had died when she was just a toddler. Her mother, a lady Garrett had hardly known, died of consumption a few years later, leaving Rebecca in the care of their aunt.

  Rebecca had always behaved as if she were afraid of him—Garrett had supposed it was because she never had much male influence beyond his own infrequent visits to Calton House when he was not otherwise engaged with his military duties. When he was in his early twenties and madly in love with Sophie, he was so focused on his wife whenever he returned home that he had never found much time to spend with his sister. Sophie, however, had apparently spent a great deal of time with both Rebecca and his aunt, for they were planning to stay here when they arrived in London for the Season. Garrett quickly scanned the letter, skimming the many passages offering up excruciatingly detailed plans for shackling Becky to the most eligible bachelor in London. But could this be correct? A Season? For his little waif of a sister? He scowled at the letter, calculating her age. By God… Rebecca was eighteen now.

  He skimmed more of the letter—silks, muslins, bows, and bonnets, a page of specifics on a pair of gloves with diamond buttons that made him want to pull his hair out, names of lords and ladies that sounded completely foreign to him—ah, there it was. Rebecca and Aunt Bertrice planned to arrive in London on the twenty-third of April.