Taste of Desire

chapter Eleven



Well, that had been a miserable failure. Marguerite listened to the stillness of the house. She knew that footmen still walked and maids still clattered, but all she could hear was silence. Tristan had left again. She had stayed up half the night deciding how to approach him, hoping that they could find away to muddle along together.

She glanced at the paper placed upon the desk. One corner was marked with the splatters of her solitary attempt to make a list the day before. She considered trying again.

She knew what she wanted now. She wanted the magic. She wanted to feel alive, to feel that all things were possible. But was that just a fantasy? No. Her sister Rose lived that way, her life filled with energy and vigor. Marguerite only had to look at Rose to see the zest with which she approached everything. And when she saw Rose and Wulf together . . . then there was Anna, their five year-old daughter. From her first steps, Rose had taught her to pursue life with everything she had. If a five year-old could do it, should not she be able to do the same?

Marguerite picked up the paper and wrote.

1. Find the MAGIC.



She looked at the words, considered.

1. Find the MAGIC with Tristan.

She set the paper down and stood, looked about the room, supreme in its careless masculinity. She could not think here. The library breathed of Tristan. She strode into the hall. It was better here, but hardly the spot for careful contemplation. She could go to her own chamber, but its lonely solitude felt more of a trap. The gardens? No, they prompted questions, not answers.

Maybe a walk? It was the wrong hour for a promenade through the park to be fashionable, but that would suit her purposes. Quiet and sunshine. It just might work.

She fetched a wrap and, with a few words to Winters, headed out the door. She stood on the stoop for a moment and let the sun warm her. It was not the same as magic, but she did feel alive.

She started down the steps. She might not have the answers yet, but for the first time she felt that she journeyed in the right direction. The sound of a door opening down the street drew her attention. It was a green door.

The other Lady Wimberley sallied forth. For a moment Marguerite considered drawing back into the house or even hiding behind a tree. She had not seen her mother-in-law since their disastrous first meeting and she was not sure this was the moment to try again.

Then Felicity turned and saw her. There was no hiding now. Marguerite froze for a moment, unsure of the proper response. Then with a smile so wide it could be seen from miles away, Felicity proceeded down the walk and towards her.

“I am so pleased to see you out, Marguerite. I had begun to worry.” There was nothing false in the greeting and that in itself gave Marguerite pause. “I am afraid my behavior on our previous meeting was rather poor. I do hope you will forgive me.”

Without thought Marguerite found herself smiling in response. Despite the strangeness of their first meeting, there was something very likeable about Felicity. “I am please to see you as well, Lady Wimberley.”

“Oh, stop that nonsense. We are family now. Despite all the foolishness between my son, and me you are now my daughter. You must call me Felicity.”

“If you insist.”

“I do. Now, where are you off to? I would love to talk, but don’t wish to interrupt your errands.” Felicity spoke as if they’d been friends forever.

For a moment Marguerite distrusted the gentleness, but looking into Felicity’s warm brown eyes it was impossible not to respond in kind. “I was just going to take a stroll in the park. The weather has enchanted me and I wished to stretch my legs after –“ How did she explain her mistake to Felicity?

“Peter told me about your relationship. I am sure Tristan would not have wished him to, but Peter knows how I worry. I must confess that I do not understand the situation between you and my son, but after much consideration I have realized I do not need to. I would confess I actually spoke to Lady Smythe-Burke. I wanted to be as informed as possible. Everything she said reassures me – although it was clear, if unbelievable, that there was much she did not know. She held no doubts about you.”

Marguerite could feel her color rise at the compliment. Lady Smythe-Burke had good things to say about her? She would never have expected that. “A simpering young Miss without a thought in her head” would have been the words she expected. Realizing she had been silent too long, she answered Felicity. “That is pleasant to hear and, although I must confess I know little about you, it is clear that Peter holds you in high regard and that you have raised two sons into respectable men, even if Tristan refuses to – Oh, dear. I am not sure that came out quite the way I meant it.”

Felicity patted her arm reassuringly. “I do understand. What is between Tristan and myself must be kept between the two of us. I do not know how he will take our growing acquaintance, but I am ready to risk it, are you?”

Marguerite pondered for a moment. Tristan refused to discuss his mother, had done all he could to keep them apart, but somehow she did not think she would be chastised by more than a glare for spending time with Felicity. And even if she was, it was worth such a risk to find a friend. “Yes,” she said firmly, “I am ready to brave whatever dragons he may summon.”

Felicity laughed and held out a hand. “Then come. I was heading to the park myself. You are correct, the weather is irresistible.”

Feeling encouraged, Marguerite said, “I asked you before to tell me about Tristan when he was young and you pushed aside the question. Is there not anything you can tell me that will help me understand him, without betraying whatever it is that lies between you?”

“You do ask difficult questions. I can see why my son likes you. Ah, I see the doubt in your face. He would never have married you if he didn’t. More doubt. I know that the circumstances between you were most unusual, but I do know this about my son. No matter what he may tell himself, he holds marriage sacred. He would not have married you if on some level he did not think you would make a good wife for him.”

“But, you do not understand –“

“I don’t need to. Tristan and I were the best of friends, as well as mother and son, until his father’s death. I do know my son. Despite what has happened since, I do not believe his basic character has changed.”

Marguerite shook her head slowly. “He is so confusing.”

“He always was. He thinks he is wiser than everybody else, and most of the time he happens to be right. It is a most troubling dilemma. Because he always thinks he’s right, he can have very little tolerance for others, although,” and here she grinned at Marguerite, “he is always intrigued by what he doesn’t understand. He can’t stop thinking about it. He does love a puzzle.”

“I am not sure I understand what that has to do with me.”

“I think it has everything to do with you,” Felicity replied. “I’ve yet to see you with Tristan, but my instincts are telling me you may be just what he needs.”

They crossed the street and walked into the park. For a few moments neither spoke as they gazed up at the newly budded branches. Marguerite filled her lungs and could almost smell the coming spring.

“You still haven’t told me anything that would help me understand Tristan. What was he like as a child?” Marguerite picked a leaf off a bush and twirled it between her fingers.

“He was delightful, so full of joy and quickness. He was never able to sit still for a moment and then I’d turn around and he’d be a different child, quiet and studious, his nose pressed into a book or moving chessmen about a board in patterns only he could see. Does that help?”

Marguerite snorted. “So really you are telling me he has not changed at all. It is impossible to reason what he will do next.”

“I did not say that. I said he was changeable, not unpredictable. He moves rapidly from thing to thing until one engages his mind, and then once engaged he is almost impossible to pry away.” Felicity paused and regarded Marguerite carefully. “Until he becomes bored. Then he flits and flutters until he finds another activity that fascinates him.

“I consoled myself during his wild behavior of recent years by deciding that he simply could not find anything to hold his attention and so was constantly seeking that certain something. When I first heard of his marriage, I hoped he had found it.”

“I am sorry that all was not as you expected,” Marguerite answered. She turned to stare across the park. It was difficult to meet Felicity’s gaze. A high curricle pulled up at edge of the grass. Marguerite froze as she recognized the woman seated in it. A low contralto laugh echoed through the nearly empty park.

It was the redhead, Violet, the woman she had seen on her first night in Town and then again at the ball, pulling Tristan away from the dance, and from her. Tristan’s mistress. She pressed her fingertips tight together and tried to look calm.

Felicity had also turned at the sound of the laugh. “Now there is a woman who could tell you how to understand Tristan.”

“Is she his – mistress?” Marguerite had to force the word out.

“All of London thinks so, or at least that she was. She’s rumored to be about on her own again.”

“Oh.” Marguerite did not know what else to say.

“All of London is wrong about the relationship, however.” Felicity spoke with quiet authority.

“They are?” Marguerite could not contain the note of elation that colored her reply.

“Yes. Violet, Lady Carrington, was for a long time engaged in a – shall we say – relationship with Tristan’s dearest friend. They may have parted on comfortable terms, but Tristan would still have regarded it as poaching to become involved with her. There are some things a mother does know about her son. Rather, I think, he enjoyed her company and she his. It might very well have suited them to sit and play chess late into the night, while those about them made their assumptions.

“Assumptions are easily made and hard to change.” A bitter note entered Felicity’s voice as she said this last. Marguerite was not sure she was speaking about Lady Carrington any longer.

“She is so beautiful.” Marguerite’s gaze was still fastened on Lady Carrington, who was batting at the hands of the young man who sat beside her and held the reins of the curricle. “I wager she never needed to be taught she was alive.”

“I am afraid I don’t understand.”

“Tristan is always saying that to me. I wonder sometimes if I just do not make sense.”

Felicity nodded with sympathy. “My husband was always saying the same to me. No matter how they might love us, men simply lack the capacity for understanding how we think.”

“But, it is preposterous to even think that Tristan loves me. That has never been the issue. And it was you who said you did not understand me.”

Felicity turned and stared back at Violet Carrington. “I am afraid you are going to think I am the one who lacks sense.” She took Marguerite firmly by the arm and strode off towards the curricle. “You need to meet her. If anyone can answer your questions about men, and your husband in particular, it’s Violet.”

“But – but-” Marguerite tried to plant her feet firm. “Isn’t it most improper? I did not think she was respectable. I do not see why –“

“Well, she’s not unrespectable either. She’s never actually stepped beyond the pale. She may hover at the borders and probably lacks for invitations to tea, but there are very few who would turn her from their doors. And as for being improper – I believe the word I would use is unusual. Still, I think she’s just who you need.” The last was said in an undertone as they stopped beside the carriage. “Violet, I thought that was you. It’s been too long since we’ve spoken. You’re doing well, I trust.” Felicity clearly did not lack for shyness.

Lady Carrington looked momentarily taken aback at the intrusion, her eyes growing wide as she saw Marguerite, then her gaze turned considering. She studied Marguerite from the soles of her shoes to the top of her upswept curls. “You do know how to create an interesting situation, Felicity. I’d always thought that was my function in society.” She turned and patted the leg of the gentleman beside her. “Let me introduce, Bickles, he’s Gatfield’s heir.”

The lad, now that Marguerite was this close it was clear that he was no older than she, turned almost purple with either embarrassment or pleasure, it was impossible to determine which. He stammered his greetings and then sat still, his eyes following every move that Lady Carrington made.

Felicity nodded as the introductions were completed. Then came a moment of awkward silence. Marguerite fought the urge to withdraw. She was not sure that Felicity’s plan of talking to Lady Carrington was decent or sound – and even worse, she was not convinced that there was nothing but friendship between Lady Carrington and her husband – but she had to admit there was no better source of information.

Realizing the moment was passing by, Felicity sprang into action. “Violet, I thought perhaps Marguerite, the new Lady Wimberley, and I would call tomorrow. Will you be home to us?”

Marguerite was shocked by the directness of Felicity’s approach. She admitted to a certain admiration as well.

Lady Carrington, however, took it all in stride. “May I ask the purpose of the visit? Or is it some deep secret?”

“I’ve heard you’re the one with all the secrets. Is it not enough to that we simply wish your company? I think that may be the best explanation at the moment.” Felicity’s gaze fastened on Bickles, who was following the conversation with interest.

Lady Carrington caught the glance and she waved her understanding. “Like that, is it? Then I look forward to your visit. I am sure you will satisfy my curiosity on the morrow. Come, Bickles, we must be off if you wish to show me again how well you handle the reins before the streets are crowded. I will see you tomorrow, ladies.”

The curricle drew into the street. Felicity and Marguerite stood for a moment and then turned towards home. They were quiet, but this time the silence was not awkward, but companionable.

As they drew close to Tristan’s grand house – she still worked to think of it as her own – Marguerite decided to speak. “Are you sure that was wise? I am not certain I will have the courage to speak, must less ask a question. Why would she wish to speak to me?”

Felicity lifted a brow. “Haven’t you ever realized that people simply like to talk? If you take a sincere interest almost anybody will answer a direct question. As for being wise, do you really worry about such things?”

“Of course, does not everyone?”

Felicity turned and took both her hands. “No, I don’t think either the truly wise or the truly happy spend much time at all on such thoughts.”

Marguerite did not know how to reply. She understood Felicity’s point, but still . . . And besides, Felicity might know her son, but she had not seen Tristan with Lady Carrington’s legs across his lap. Surely, that moved them beyond being friends.

“I see you are not convinced.” Felicity spoke with care. “You shouldn’t pucker your brow so. It will leave wrinkles.”

Marguerite immediately let her face smooth. “I am not certain that there is really nothing between them. It would not be a comfortable situation for her, surely, to be confronted by her lover’s wife.” There, she had said it. Marguerite had hoped that putting it into words would release the knot that held her stomach wrapped. It did not.

“You did not believe me about them. I truly do know my son. He would never betray a friend in such a fashion.”

“But, you said that his friend had already broken it off with Lady Carrington. I do not see how it would be a betrayal for –“

“Tristan has strong ideas of fidelity.” Felicity dropped Marguerite’s hands and turned away. “Nobody knows that as well as I. For most men it might not have required a second thought to act in such a manner, but Tristan would never even consider it. It is the one area in which he takes no risks.”

Marguerite sensed there was something Felicity did not say, but the knot in her belly slipped a little looser. Did she dare believe? “I will trust you enough to accompany you tomorrow. I can only hope that you are correct.”

Felicity turned back to Marguerite, and leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “You are the daughter I always dreamed of and with whom I was never blessed. I would not wish you to give in too quickly. A woman must hold fast to her convictions. It is one of the few strengths we have. Shall I tell you something? I would never have believed a few hours ago, much less a week ago, that I would feel this way – have expected you to follow me to Violet’s curricle.”

“You did have rather a firm grip on my arm. As for the other, I agree I would never have expected this morning that I would feel affection for you by mid-day, although I must say you remind me more of my sister than my mother.”

“I have met your mother so I will take that as a compliment, although being a mother myself I know it can be hard to judge another’s motivation. I am sure she only wants what is best for you.”

Marguerite was not so sure.

They said their farewells and Marguerite turned towards the house. She stopped halfway up the walk. Would it ever feel like home? It was so grand, so different from all she had known. A shadow shifted inside one of the upper windows. She looked again, but the movement was gone. She continued to the door and entered. The walk in the park had wearied her and she was glad there was time for a nap.



“I am glad there are no activities planned for tonight. It will be nice to relax and read a novel. I picked up several new ones at the lending library.” Marguerite cut into the squab with care. She pursed her lips as if pondering some great thought. She lifted her face again, the candlelight filled her hair and added mysterious depth to her eyes. “What are your plans for the evening?”

She lifted her eyes and met his gaze. She licked a stray morsel from her lower lip, unaware of the temptation.

Tristan stared down at his own dinner. This meal was the one part of each day that he often spent with his wife. He might avoid her at other times – except when it suited his purposes not to – but most evenings his feet seemed to walk to the dining room whether he willed them to or not. He knew many couples who never shared a meal. He didn’t know why these few minutes of often meaningless conversation had become so valuable. God, she was licking her lips again. “I had not yet decided.”

“You are not off with your friends then?”

Did Marguerite sound wistful? He would have thought his abrupt behavior that morning would have removed all desire for his company. He had a warm image of them sitting together in the library, her feet beneath the blanket on his lap. If she shifted her toes a little to the right – dinner may have been a mistake. He put down his fork. “I have not decided. Langdon did issue an invitation, but I delayed it for another night.” The thought of another smoky tavern held no appeal. He wanted to simply close his eyes and sleep through the night. Between his pursuit of Langdon and Moreland, and his own late-night dreams of Marguerite, slumber had not been a frequent guest recently.

“I saw your mother today.” Marguerite glanced back down at her food as she spoke, than met his glance defiantly.

Tristan picked up his fork, took a bite, chewed, took another. “I saw you.”

“I wondered if that was you I saw in the window.”

“Yes, it was.” He took another bite. He had no wish to have the discussion. He did not think of his mother. She was closed from his life. Her actions had been unforgivable.

“Do not you wish to know about it?”

“What would I wish to know?”

“I am not sure, if she was well, perhaps? Or what we talked of?”

“No, I need no knowledge of either.”

Marguerite placed her own silver on the table with care. She looked at him with a direct gaze. She opened her mouth, but no words came forth. He stared back, daring her to say something.

“She is well, but worries about you.” Marguerite found her tongue. “She told me that you had been a delightful child. That the two of you were the best of friends.”

What did his blasted wife want from him? He did not believe he could make it any clearer that he did not talk about his mother. He glared back at Marguerite, willing her to stop speaking.

“I like her and plan to spend more time with her. I hope that perhaps we can become a family, surely whatever happened between you . . .”

Tristan stood, letting his napkin drop to the floor. A footman darted forward, but Tristan raised one finger and the man returned to his spot. “I have decided to go out after all. I hope you have a lovely evening with your book.”

He stomped from the room. When he reached the hallway he stopped. Was he a child? He had certainly behaved like one. He should go back, apologize, and try to explain. He shook his head to clear it. Was he actually considering speaking of Felicity? He had never talked of what had happened to anyone. Why did he now consider telling Marguerite?

Winters appeared with his hat and stick, and Tristan grabbed both and stomped out the door. Yes, he stomped, and it felt good. Childish, or not.