SEDUCING MR. SYKES
by
Maggie Robinson
Genre: Historical Romance
Pub
Date: 6/20/17
In Maggie Robinson’s sparkling new
series, the quaint village in Gloucestershire is where the wayward
sons and daughters of Great Britain’s finest families come for some
R&R—and good old-fashioned “rehab.” But sometimes they find
much more…
No one at Puddling-on-the-Wold ever
expected to see Sarah Marchmain enter through its doors. But after
the legendary Lady’s eleventh-hour rejection of the man she was
slated to marry, she was sent here to restore her reputation . . .
and change her mind. It amused Sadie that her father, a duke, would
use the last of his funds to lock her up in this fancy facility—she
couldn’t be happier to be away from her loathsome family and have
some time to herself. The last thing she needs is more romantic
distraction…
As a local baronet’s son, Tristan
Sykes is all too familiar with the spoiled, socialite residents of
the Puddling Rehabilitation Foundation—no matter how real their
problems may be. But all that changes when he encounters Sadie, a
brave and brazen beauty who wants nothing more than to escape the
life that’s been prescribed for her. If only Tristan could find a
way to convince the Puddling powers-that-be that Sadie is unfit for
release, he’d have a chance to explore the intense attraction that
simmers between them—and prove himself fit to make her his bride…
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Chapter 1
Puddling-on-the-Wold,
September 1882
“It’s
Lady Maribel all over again,” the grocer Frank Stanchfield
muttered
to his wife, checking the lock to his back room. “How the girl
discovered
the telegraph machine is a mystery.”
Except
it wasn’t such a mystery, really. Lady Sarah Marchmain—
“Sadie”
to her late mama and very few friends—had eyes, after all, and
there
it was behind an open alley window, gleaming on a worn oak desk.
She
had climbed in, her tartan trousers very convenient for hoisting
oneself
into the building. After being caught trying to send a message to
who
knows who, she was now unrepentantly inspecting the jars of candy
on
the shop counter.
She
might try to steal some of it, if only the shopkeepers would stop
hovering
over her.
“Bite
your tongue!” Mrs. Stanchfield whispered, looking over
nervously
at Sadie. Apparently no one wanted another Lady Maribel de
Winter
in Puddling. The first had been bad enough. Sadie had heard of
her
in snatches from the villagers, and the woman’s portrait hung in the
parish
hall. Her wicked reputation had outlived her, even if her decades
of
good works once she married had mitigated some of it. She had been
a
wild young thing who would have made Napoleon quake in his boots.
Or
take her to bed. Lady Maribel had been, according to gossip,
irresistible
to men. Fortunately her husband, a local baronet called Sir
Colin
Sykes, had taken her in hand as best he could once they were married.
Sadie
was determined never to be taken in hand.
Puddling
was known as a famous reputation-restorer, a place to
rusticate
and recalibrate. Prominent British families had sent their difficult
relatives
here for almost eighty years. Lady Maribel was among the first
to
be gently incarcerated within its limits in 1807, according to the elderly
vicar’s
wife, who seemed to know everything about everyone dating back
to
William the Conqueror.
Now
it was Sadie’s turn to be gently incarcerated, and she didn’t
like
it one bit.
The
village had a spotless reputation. It was a last resort before a
harsher
hospital, or worse, killing one’s own offspring. Or parent. Lady
Sarah
Marchmain had angered her father so thoroughly that they’d come
to
blows. When the Duke of Islesford dropped her off, he had been
sporting
a significant black eye.
Well-deserved,
in her opinion.
Sadie’s
own eyes were unbruised and light green, the color of beryl,
or
so her numerous suitors had said. Occasionally they threw in jade or
jasper—it
was all so much nonsense. Right now she was examining the
penny
candy in a glass jar, lots of shiny, jewel-like drops that looked so
very
tempting. Sweet, edible rubies and citrine, emeralds and onyx. Frank
Stanchfield
hustled over to the counter and screwed the lid on tighter.
She
licked her lips. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a penny to her name.
She
was entirely dependent on her housekeeper Mrs. Grace to dole out
a
pitiful allowance every Friday, and Friday was millions of days away.
Sadie
had spent the last of her money on a cinnamon bun earlier and had
reveled
in every bite.
Her
father’s draconian restrictions were designed to sting. Or so he
thought.
Sadie didn’t really mind being impoverished and hungry in
Puddling-on-the-Wold.
It meant she was not about to be auctioned off to
Lord
Roderick Charlton, or any other idiot her idiot father owed money to.
The
Duke of Islesford’s taste in men and luck at cards was, to put it
bluntly,
execrable.
So
far Sadie had overstayed her visit by one week. Originally consigned
to
her cottage for twenty-eight days, she had somehow not managed to be
“cured”
in that time.
Rehabilitated.
Restored.
Brought
to reason.
Knuckle
under was more like it. She was not getting
married.
In
fact, she’d like to stay in Puddling forever. It was very restful. Quiet.
The
little lending library was surprisingly well stocked, and she’d gotten
a
lot of reading done between lectures from the prosy ancient vicar who
instructed
her daily. She also helped Mrs. Grace keep the cottage up to a
ducal
daughter’s snuff.
Despite
the fact that Sadie had no interest in becoming a wife, she
was
remarkably domestic. It came of hanging about the kitchens of
Marchmain
Castle, she supposed. The servants had been her only friends
when
she was a little girl and she’d been eager to help them.
All
that had changed after she was presented to the queen at seventeen,
wearing
those ridiculous hoops and feathers that threatened to put out
someone’s
eye. Suddenly, Sadie became a commodity, a bargaining chip to
improve
her father’s ailing finances. A surprising number of gentlemen—
if
you could call them that, since most men were absolute, avaricious,
thoughtless
pigs—were interested in acquiring a tall, redheaded, blueblooded,
sharp-tongued
and two-fisted duke’s daughter as wife. For the
past
four years, she’d avoided them with alacrity, aplomb, and those
aforementioned
fists.
Needless
to say, her reputation was cemented in ruination.
It
amused Sadie that her father was using the last of his funds to lock
her
away here in this very expensive Puddling prison, hoping that she
would
change her mind, acquiesce and marry the one man who remained
steadfastly
interested.
Not
bloody likely.
She
touched the glass jar with longing.
“What
may we help you with, Lady Sarah?”
The
poor grocer sounded scared to death. His wife hid behind him.
Sadie
batted her lashes. Sometimes this feminine trick worked, although
these
Puddling people seemed remarkably impervious to charm.
They
were hardened souls, harboring the odd, uncooperative, and
unwanted
scions of society for a hefty fee, believing that being cruel to be
kind
was the only way.
“Do
forgive my transgression, Mr. Stanchfield. I so longed to
communicate
with my old governess, Miss Mackenzie. Miss Mac, as I
so
affectionately call her. I found a book on telegraphy in the library and
wondered
if I had any aptitude for it,” she lied. Science in all its forms
confounded
her. In truth, she’d read nothing but Gothic romances since
her
arrival, very much enjoying the fraying sixty-year-old books written
by
an anonymous baroness.
Moreover,
Sadie’s old governess had been dead for six years and had
been
an absolute Tartar in life. There had been little affection on her part,
4 Maggie
Robinson
Sadie
thought ruefully. The woman was at this moment no doubt giving
the
devil a lesson on evil and grading him harshly.
“You
know that’s forbidden, miss. No telegrams, no letters. Perhaps
when
you are r-r-released, you may visit with the lady. A r-reason for your
good
behavior, what?”
Goodness,
she was causing the poor fellow to stutter. She stilled her
lashes.
“Ah.”
Sadie gave a dramatic sigh. “But I just can’t seem to get the hang
of
it. Being Puddling-perfect, that is. Every time I get close, something
seems
to happen.”
Like
stealing Ham Ross’s wheelbarrow full of pumpkins. It had been
very
difficult to push her loot uphill, and so many of the bloody orange
things
chose to roll out and smash along the road.
Or
turning up in church in her tartan trousers...her stolen tartan
trousers.
Some
poor Puddlingite was foolish enough to hang them on a clothesline
to
tempt her. After some tailoring—Sadie was handy with a needle—they
fit
her slender waist and long legs as if they were made for her.
Her
father had always wanted a son. Instead her horrible cousin
George
would be the next duke, and Sadie would lose the only home—
well,
castle—she’d ever known.
It
wasn’t fair. She sighed again.
“Here,
now, Lady Sarah. I don’t suppose I’ll miss a few boiled
sweets.”
Mr. Stanchfield relented and unscrewed the jar, his wife looking
disapproving
behind him. He filled a paper twist with not nearly enough,
and
passed them to her.
Sadie
saw her opportunity for well-deserved drama. Any chance to
appear
happily unhinged must be seized with two hands, so she might
stay
here in Puddling just a little longer. Dropping to the floor on her
tartan-covered
knees, she howled.
She
had been practicing howling at night once her housekeeper Mrs.
Grace
went home. Her neighbors were under the impression a stray dog
was
in heat in the village, perhaps even a pack of them.
“Oh!
You are too good to me! I shall remember this always!”
She
snuffled and snorted, slipping a red candy into her mouth. Red
always
tasted best.
“A
polite thank you would do just as well.”
The
voice was chilly. Sadie looked up from her self-inflicted chestpounding
and
the candy fell from her open mouth.
Good heavens. She had never seen
this man before in all the walking
she
was made to do up and down the hills for her daily exercise. Where
had
he been hiding? He was beautiful.
No,
not beautiful exactly. His haughty expression was too harsh for
beauty.
Compelling, perhaps. Arresting.
But,
she reminded herself, he was a man, and therefore wanting.
Lacking.
Probably annoying. Not probably—certainly. Lady Sarah
Jane
Marchmain was twenty-one years old and had more than enough
experience
with men in her short lifetime to know the truth.
The
man reached a gloveless hand to her to help her up, but it didn’t
look
quite clean. Something green was under his fingernails—paint? Plant
material?
Sadie made a leap of faith and gripped it anyway, crunching her
candy
underfoot when he lifted her to her full height.
He
was still taller than she was.
Not
lacking there. Not lacking physically anywhere that she could see.
His
hair was brown, curly and unruly, his eyebrows darker and
formidable.
His nose was strong and straight, his lips full, his face bronzed
from
the sun. His eyes—oh, his eyes. Blue was an inadequate adjective.
Cerulean?
Sapphire? Aquamarine? She’d have to consult a thesaurus.
But
they weren’t kind.
She
found herself curtseying, her hand still firmly in his.
“Thank
you, sir, for coming to my rescue.” She fluttered her
eyelashes
again.
“You
were in no danger on the floor. Mrs. Stanchfield sweeps it thrice
a
day. One could eat off it, it’s so immaculate.” He dropped Sadie’s hand
and
kicked the crushed candy aside.
The
grocer’s wife pinked. “Thank you, Mr. Sykes.”
Sykes. That was the name of
the family the infamous Lady Maribel
married
into. Interesting.
“I
only speak the truth, madam.”
Sadie
considered whether she should fall to the floor again. It would be
fun
to gauge this Mr. Sykes’s strength if she pretended to swoon. Would
he
pick her up and hold her to his manly chest? Whisper assurances in her
ear?
Smooth loose tendrils of hair behind her pins?
But
perhaps he’d just leave her there to rot. He wasn’t even looking
at
her anymore.
Sadie
was used to being looked at. For one thing, she was hard to miss.
At
nearly six feet, she towered over most men. Her flaming hair was
another
beacon, her skin pearlescent, her ample bosom startling on such
a
slender frame.
She
had been chased by men mercilessly, even after she had made it
crystal
clear she had no interest. These past years had tested her wits and
firmed
her resolve. She was mistress of her own heart, body, and mind,
and
determined to remain so.
Mr.
Sykes probably knew that—apparently everyone in Puddling had
received
a dossier on her. She’d come across a grease-stained one at the
bakeshop
under a tray of Bakewell tarts, and had tucked it into her pocket
for
quiet perusal, along with one delicious raspberry pastry. Theft was
apparently
in her blood.
It
had been most informative. The dossier, not the tart. Sadie had been
gleeful
reading an account of her past recalcitrance. She rather admired
the
clever ways she’d gone about subverting her father’s plans for her—
she’d
forgotten half of them.
It
had meant, however, that she had to exercise creativity in Puddling
and
not repeat her previous pranks. No sheep in the dining room. No
bladder
filled with beet juice tossed out the window. No punching
fiancés
or fathers.
There
was only the one father, but Sadie had endured several fiancés.
The
latest, Lord Roderick Charlton, was getting impatient. He’d given her
father
quite a lot of money to secure her hand. To be fair, he’d tried to woo
Sadie
with credible effort.
There
wasn’t anything really wrong with Roderick, she supposed. But
there
wasn’t anything right about him either.
If
Sadie could just resist the pressure to marry, she’d come into a
substantial
fortune when she turned twenty-five. She wouldn’t have to
turn
it over to some man, and her father wouldn’t be able to touch it. She
could
live her life just as she liked. She might even buy herself a small
castle,
if one could be found. One that wouldn’t fall down around her
ears.
One that had working fireplaces and no rats.
However—and
this was a huge however—the Duke of
Islesford was
threatening
to have her declared incompetent, seize her funds, and lock
her
away in a most unpleasant private hospital. Sadie did not think it was
an
idle threat, and to some, it might look as if she deserved to be there.
She
was much too old now for the tricks she’d played, and four
years
was a very, very long time to stall. Sadie was beginning to realize
she
hadn’t done herself any favors with the pumpkins or the trousers
or
the howling.
But
she couldn’t succumb—she just couldn’t. No matter how many
times
Mr. Fitzmartin, the elderly vicar, reminded her of a proper woman’s
place—as
helper to her husband, silent in church, subordinate, obedient—
she
felt her fingers close into a fist.
Maggie Robinson didn’t know she
wanted to write until she woke up in the middle of the night once
really annoyed with her husband. Instead of smothering him with a
pillow, she decided to get up and write—to create the perfect
man—at least on a computer screen. Only to discover that fictional
males can be just as resistant to direction as her husband. The
upside is that she’s finally using her English degree and is still
married to her original, imperfect hero. Since she’s imperfect,
too, that makes them a perfect match. Until her midnight keyboarding,
she had been a teacher, librarian, newspaper reporter, administrative
assistant to two non-profits, community volunteer, and mother of four
in seven different states. Now Maggie can call herself a romance
writer in Maine. There’s nothing she likes better than writing
about people who make mistakes, but don’t let the mistakes make
them.
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