Taste of Desire

chapter Twelve



Was she really going to do this? Marguerite stood with Felicity before the door of the dainty townhouse. Could a townhouse be dainty? The windows were narrow, but in proportion with the home’s lean lines. It was a home. That was a strange thought, but still it was true. Violet, Lady Carrington lived in a home. Even before the door opened, Marguerite could see the love and attention to detail that shaped every corner, every flowerpot, every window dressing.

She gripped Felicity’s arm as the door opened. It was too late to run. The scent of baking cookies greeted them as they stepped into the foyer. Could one be frightened of cookies?

Felicity pulled a card from her reticule and held it out. “The Ladies Wimberley have come to call. Lady Carrington is expecting us.”

The butler nodded and disappeared. A moment later he returned and beckoned them to follow him.

They stopped at the doorway. Felicity reached over and patted Marguerite’s tight hands. She mouthed a phrase – trust me – and then sallied forth.

Lady Carrington reclined on a settee, a pot of fragrant tea and a plate of cookies beside her. A book lay across her lap. She placed the book aside and stood. “I am delighted that you have come. I must confess my curiosity kept me awake half the night. I could not imagine what need the two of you would have of me.”

Were ladies really so direct? Marguerite’s mother had always insisted on coyness – although Marguerite had never actually seen her put her words into action.

Felicity settled on a couch and spoke. “Violet, do you so doubt the merits of your company that you think we would only visit if we needed something?”

Violet gestured Marguerite to a chair. “No, I never doubt the pleasure,” she almost purred the word, “of my company. But, I don’t believe you came here seeking pleasure.” She spoke to Felicity, but her gaze was fastened on Marguerite.

“You would be wrong then. Pleasure is exactly what we’ve come about. When in doubt, consult an expert.”

“Do explain.” Violet curled along the chaise, like a cat in the midst of an endless stretch.

“Marguerite is confused by Tristan. I thought you could supply the answers.” Felicity spoke as if she were commenting on the weather.

Though Marguerite knew she had darkened by twenty shades of red, her only comfort was that Lady Carrington looked equally shocked.

“You want me to advise . . . I mean you think I can tell how to . . . ” Lady Carrington sputtered to a halt.

“Well, yes, I do.” Felicity leaned forward. “I see two extra cups. Would you like to pour the tea or should I? I know it would be unusual, but you do seem a trifle – choked at the moment.”

Was this going to be another conversation where Marguerite did not actually need to speak? For the first time this did not seem such a bad idea.

“And what of you?” Lady Carrington turned to Marguerite. “Do you also think that I can explain what – gads, I don’t even know how to say it, and I am not afraid to say anything. You do know that Tristan and I –“

Marguerite felt her flush fade as she realized what Lady Carrington was about to say. Felicity had been wrong. Lady Carrington and Tristan had been lovers.

“Oh, stop it, Violet.” Felicity interrupted both Lady Carrington’s words and Marguerite’s thoughts. “Look at the poor girl. She’s turned whiter than a ghost. There really is no need of your pretense in front of us. I’ve spoken to Lady Smythe-Burke. I know it was you who fetched her and began this whole charade. Hardly the action of a jealous mistress. Don’t torture Marguerite. You know and I know that there was never anything between you and Tristan. He told me all about you and Westlake.”

It was Lady Carrington’s turn to blush. “I can’t believe that he – “

Marguerite was still recovering from the shock that Lady Carrington had fetched Lady Smythe-Burke, the realization that Tristan’s dear friend and Lady Carrington’s past lover, was the austere Duke of Westlake was too much. She grabbed for the tea Felicity had just poured and downed it in a single gulp. It was too bad ladies did not drink whiskey.

Felicity took it all in stride. “I was surprised myself when Tristan first discussed it with me. Then I took it as a great compliment. He trusted me – then of course.” She stopped. “That really isn’t important. We have other matters to discuss.”

Marguerite was disappointed. She had wondered how many other revelations were to come her way.

Lady Carrington leaned back and stretched her arms above her head. Again, Marguerite was reminded of a contented cat. “So you do not believe Tristan and I are lovers. Don’t you think that’s a bit naïve?”

Marguerite was not sure whom she addressed.

“No.” Felicity was firm in her answer. “Are you prepared to say in definite terms that you are? You know that Tristan would no longer tell me.”

Marguerite sat upright in her chair. She could not believe this was happening. She had always heard that life in London was far different, but surely sitting with your husband’s mother, and listening to her discuss who he slept with was unthinkable and unbelievable. Only apparently it was not.

Lady Carrington let her arms drop. “No, actually I am not. You are correct. Tristan and I have never been more than friends – the best of friends, actually.” She smiled at Marguerite. “I suppose that makes me ideally suited for what you want. Would you care to tell me what exactly that is? I must confess that it is still not apparent to me.”

Felicity stood. “I think I will say my farewells, now.” Marguerite and Lady Carrington both looked at her with wonder. Marguerite had to snap her mouth shut.

Felicity laughed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Marguerite, you have not said one word beyond the greetings and even that was a mumble. If I leave, then you will be forced to speak to each other and that, I believe, is the purpose of this exercise.” She left the room with no further comment.

Marguerite and Lady Carrington looked at each other. Lady Carrington sat straighter. “Would you care for some more tea? I notice you finished yours.”

Remembering her hurried gulp, Marguerite nodded.

“You do speak, don’t you?” Lady Carrington asked.

“I am not often required to.”

“No required to? How can one not be required to speak?”

“I know it sounds strange, but it is amazing how my life has progressed without it. Up to this point in my life, others have seemed happy to manage it quite well. They never seem to require, much less desire, my input.”

Lady Carrington came over and filled her teacup, then, rather than return to the chaise, she sat beside Marguerite. “I do actually know what you mean. I ended up with two husbands over eighty that way. Being a young woman is not easy. I can only assure you it gets better as you age. There are some advantages to wrinkles.”

Marguerite did not see any sign of lines on Lady Carrington’s ivory complexion. “I thought you had three husbands. Oh dear, that was rather rude.”

“Don’t worry. You are right. I actually chose the last one myself. He needed someone to take care of him, and I, well, I’d grown used to caring for old men.” She set down her own cup of tea. “But you are not here to talk of my life. What is it I can help you with?”

“It is awkward.”

“I would be amazed if it was not. Marriage is not simple, and Tristan is certainly not a simple man.”

“You do know him well, then?”

“Yes, in truth, though I have never been his lover in a physical sense, I have been closer to him than to any of my lovers.”

“Oh.” Marguerite felt the flush rise again. Why was she plagued by such blushes? Other women did not have this problem.

Lady Carrington leaned forward. “What bothers you, that I know your husband so well or that I admit to having lovers?”

“I, well, I do not know – I mean I have never talked like this before.”

“Tristan is a wonderful man. He takes the time to really see things, see people. He observes and then acts. He does not aim to cause pain and does not hold a grudge. He understands human weakness. Is that more or less than you want to know?”

It was Marguerite’s turn to lean forward. This was her opportunity, she could not be sure she would get another one. “You say he takes the time to see things, but I do not feel he has ever really looked at me. Sometimes I think he intentionally avoids looking at me. And you say he does not hold a grudge, but what about him and his mother? I must admit I have seen no evidence of cruelty.”

“No evidence of cruelty, what faint praise. If you care so little, why do you bother with trying to know him better?” Lady Carrington leaned back, removing the intimacy of the moment.

“I express myself badly. If you were the one who summoned Lady Smythe-Burke, then you must be aware of how things stand between Tristan and myself.”

Lady Carrington moved forward a fraction of an inch. “I know more of how the situation began than perhaps anybody else, although perhaps not the very beginning. I gather you met before you arrived on his doorstep asking for help.”

“Yes.”

“And, I know that when Tristan came to see me before the wedding. He said he could not visit me any more. He would not risk hurting you by even the appearance of impropriety.”

“Oh. I did not know that. What about the ball and then the note?”

“I am not quite sure to what you refer? I attend many balls, send many notes.” Lady Carrington moved away again.

“The Winchester’s ball. I saw you call Tristan over to you and then you left, together,” Marguerite answered

“And the note?”

“You wrote and told him that he was needed. Then he disappeared for a week.”

“I did not sign it. How did you know it was from me?”

“I recognized the scent from that first night, combined with the initial . . . I must confess I was not sure until now that you had sent it.”

“Yet, you noticed the scent. That would be the move of a jealous woman. Are you jealous of your husband?”

“He is my husband. Why would I be jealous?”

Lady Carrington leaned all the way back. “Well then, why are you here?”

“Marguerite felt a damn burst within her. “Yes, I am jealous of everything. He barely speaks to me or even looks at me. He tries not to be rude, he answers my questions, carries on a polite discussion at dinner, and takes an interest in my activities and correspondence. Oh, that does not paint an accurate picture at all.”

“Explain more, then.”

“He listens to me without hearing. He looks at me without seeing. That sounds so trite, but I do not know how else to express it.”

“That does not sound like Tristan – except perhaps it does. He never hears as much as when he is pretending not to listen. And as for not looking, there is only one reason I know that a man pointedly avoids looking at a woman. He wants to look too much.”

“That sounds most unlikely.”

Lady Carrington leaned forward again. “I believe it is most likely. You are a beautiful woman. Oh, don’t look so doubting. I am sure you’ve been told that before now. Tristan appreciates beauty. There is only one reason he would not look.”

Marguerite bent forward until their faces were inches apart. “Because he wants to look too much. I still do not see that that makes sense.”

“You do not have much experience with men if you expect them to make sense. One can learn to understand how they will act, but not understand why – although in this case the why is obvious.”

“Obvious? Not to me.”

“Your husband desires you and does not wish to.”

“Why not?”

“That takes further consideration. Have marital relations not been satisfying?”

Marguerite was glad she had not taken another mouthful of tea. She would have spit it across the room. Instead she just choked.

“Oh, don’t sound so shocked.” Lady Carrington patted her knee. “You are a married woman.”

“But we have never, I mean never – why would you think –“

“Well, with men it almost always comes down to sex. And as I said you are married, how can you not have – I mean I know Tristan, and even if we were never intimate, I know he has a healthy appetite. You are his wife. Why would he not . . .?”

“You tell me. You are the one who has just said she knows him so well. At first I thought it was because of the baby, but then he kissed me, but then he left, and then there was no baby, and I thought he’d be angry, but he was not, but he stopped looking at me and when I tried to talk to him he left again, and yes, this time he was back for dinner, but then he left again and I do not even know if he came home last night, and I was awake until after three and –“

“Stop. You need to breathe. I am not sure I have ever heard such a sentence, but I do think I understand your confusion. I will not even ask about the baby that wasn’t. You will have to share that with me when we are better acquainted.”

“So what should I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

Marguerite paused. People never asked her what she wanted. She remembered her one item list. “I want the magic.”

“The magic?” Violet looked unsure.

“I want to feel as alive as I did the first time Tristan touched me, when he stroked my hand. That is what I want.”

“You felt alive when he only stroked your hand? I always suspected he was good, but never that good.” Violet lost her look of indecision and smiled like a cat at the cream.

“I am not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” said Lady Carrington airily. “You must seduce your husband.”

“Seduce my husband?”

“It is almost always the answer with men, and in this case doubly so.”

“Why doubly so?”

“Because Tristan has clearly built some scenario where he believes he is doing the right thing. That is something else to learn about your husband. He always does the right thing, only in this case I reckon he’s wrong. How delicious. You’ll have to let me know how he reacts when he realizes all his noble self-sacrifice has been for naught.” Lady Carrington stood up and walked to a cabinet. “I think this is a discussion for sherry, not tea.”

It seemed a little early for sherry to Marguerite, but she had to admit she was in need of some fortification. Tristan desired her. She did not know whether to laugh or . . . The idea seemed preposterous – and yet – could she have been so mistaken?

“Here you are. I think that looks about right. Just enough to make things easy.” Marguerite felt her eyes bulge. It was a tumbler full, not the dainty portion her mother had sometimes served when they had company. She took a sip, the sweet followed by the bite was wonderful. She took another.

Lady Carrington watched her and took a taste from her own glass. She sat back down. “So, have you ever seduced a man?”

Marguerite fought down a cough, and instead took a large gulp. “No.”

“I thought not. It would be so much easier if you knew what you were doing. You do at least know the mechanics, I hope.”

Mortification, there was no other word for it. “I believe so, but I have been known to be wrong. The physician told me something of it recently, and I,” how red could she grow, “saw some cats in the alley once. It did not look like much fun.”

“Fun, oh, it can definitely be fun, and almost any other adjective you can think of.”

“If you say so.”

“I do, most definitely. The question is how to make you believe it and how to give you the confidence to proceed. There is nothing more desirable than confidence.” Lady Carrington put her glass down and perused Marguerite. “You certainly have the necessary physical material to begin with and if Tristan already finds himself avoiding staring at you this should not be too difficult.

Marguerite was beginning to wish she could blend in with the upholstery. When Felicity had discussed learning to understand her husband Marguerite had certainly never imagined this.

“Hmmmm, where to begin.” Lady Carrington began to pace. “I know. I have some books. A few glances at them and we’ll get you turned about in no time. She slipped from the room and returned momentarily. She had several beautifully bound volumes in her arms. She placed them on the table before Marguerite and sat beside her.

Marguerite took another gulp of the sherry. This did not look too bad. The fine leather and gilt edgings were certainly fine. What could possibly be in a book?

Lady Carrington opened the first. “This has always been one of my favorites.”

Marguerite could only stare. She had never even imagined such a thing. The people in the pictures were nude. They were, they were – did people really do that? Marguerite covered her eyes. It was unbelievable that anybody would – She peeked between her fingers. The woman had her hands on the man’s – manly part. Marguerite might be working on her swearing, but still she could not say the other words for the – even in her mind.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the glass of sherry and took another large gulp. She could not pry her eyes from the page. It was so unbearably indecent. Why, it actually looked like the woman was enjoying it. Her head was thrown back, her lips parted, a look of supreme pleasure spread across her face. The artist was quite good. Maybe she could concentrate on that and ignore the content of the picture. Oh dear, look where the man’s hand was. Could the woman really enjoy that? It certainly had not been nice when the doctor had insisted on – Marguerite wasn’t sure she had even touched herself there.

She turned the page. Maybe the next one would be easier. It was not. Not hands, but mouths. Now that, she knew, could never be fun. She bent closer, trying to be sure she understood what was going on. A small flutter began in her belly at the woman’s enrapt expression. It looked so real. And the man’s expression – pain or pleasure? How would it feel to . . . she could almost imagine . . . How would Tristan react if she . . . ?

Oh, no, she could never.

“I am not sure whether to be pleased or worried by your response.” Lady Carrington ran a finger along the edge of the picture. “Your interest is clear, but I have some worries about your ability to carry it off. Why don’t you try the next page?”

Marguerite turned the page without looking at her hostess. Surely not! The man was the size of a – a horse and the woman kneeling before him – No. She closed the book with a decisive thud.

The image still played in her mind. In some ways it was worse. Without the static pictures before her, the figures began to move. She closed her eyes, trying to shut them out. It was so hot in here. She picked up her glass and downed the last sips. She squirmed in her chair. The figures moved with languid slowness, caressing, tasting, experiencing. How could she imagine things she did not even understand?

She opened her eyes. Lady Carrington was staring at her.

“This may take work,” she said tapping a finger on the cover of the book.

“But, Lady Carrington, how can you expect –“

“You really must call me Violet. We really cannot plan a seduction with you calling me Lady Carrington. It just doesn’t work.” She peered over at Marguerite. “I wager you even think of me as Lady Carrington. My God, you do. How very curious.”

Marguerite glanced at her hands, even they were red. This was unbearable. She was being laughed at. She stood with only the slightest unsteadiness – She should not have finished the sherry so quickly – and tried to maneuver around the tea table. Lady Carrington put up a hand to stop her.

“Please don’t go. I didn’t mean to upset you. In truth I find you delightful. And so, I imagine, does your husband. Please sit and we will consider this differently. I will try to slow my thoughts to a more approachable level.”

Marguerite sat. She wasn’t sure she could speak. Her mouth felt stuffed with cotton and she was still incredibly warm. It seemed impossible to sit still, her very skin felt on fire. Her legs were aware of every thread of her skirts and her breasts chafed against her bodice. Perhaps she was having a reaction to the sherry. She never had before, but how else to explain her feelings?

Lady Carrington, no, Violet was watching her again. Looking for something to focus on she reached for the plate of cookies. Raspberry jam and cream between shortbreads. It was cut in a floral design with nine petals. Covered in powdered sugar. Did they put the sugar on before baking it or after? How did they get the jam in the middle – it looked almost like . . . No, she was not going to think about the book. She edged back in her chair and brought the cookie to her mouth. Think about the cookie. It was sweet. And full of the taste of summer. She closed her eyes and thought about berries warmed in the sun. She nibbled again, thinking about nothing except the cookie. She ate it bit by bit, trying to pretend that nothing else existed. She licked the last bits of jam from her mouth and opened her eyes.

Violet was staring at her, mouth gaping slightly open. “Do you always eat like that? No wonder the man can’t keep his eyes off you.”

“I am so sorry. Was I rude? I tend to get lost in the silliest thoughts and not think about. . .”

“God, no. I’ve just never seen anything like it, even among the most accomplished courtesans and, given my position in society, I have actually met several of them. What were you thinking about as you ate, no, devoured, no, ravished, that sweet?”

Marguerite had no idea what she was talking about. She had eaten a cookie, what was the harm in that? Although, from Violet’s expression, perhaps it was not harm. “I was thinking about summer, and sunshine – and then I must confess I thought about that book. How could I not, when it is sitting there looking so innocent? And then I tried not to think about it, but the more I tried not to think, the more . . .”

“I think I understand, and, moreover, I have an idea. You did say your husband eats dinner with you?”

“Why yes, not every night, but most. Is not that what husbands do?”

The expression on Violet’s face said perhaps it was not, but she only smiled. “Excuse me a moment. I must consult with my cook. I believe she’s just received some new recipes and I believe they may be of interest to you.” She left the room.

Recipes. Why were they talking of recipes? She really must have had too much sherry. She glanced at her empty glass. The blue book lay beside it. It called to her like a lure. It would not hurt to look at it again. She would only look at the pages she had already seen – just to check that – well, just to check. She laid a hand upon it. The leather was soft, and subtle, inviting a caress. She drew her hand back. That was ridiculous – a book could not want to be touched. A book could not want anything. She reached out and stroked it again. Just one peek. Just at that last page. Nobody would ever know.

Violet reentered the room. Marguerite snatched her hand back.

Violet smiled. “You’ll have to take it with you. No, don’t refuse, I’ll win and you’ll take it regardless. Otherwise I’ll just have it delivered and you wouldn’t want the footmen seeing it, would you? Tristan might even recognize the cover. It’s a very popular volume. I wonder what he’d do if he saw you with it – might just solve all our problems. No, what I’ve thought of is just too delicious, literally.

“Now here are my favorite new recipes. Cook only just managed to procure them. Now I want you to pass them on to your cook and request them for dinner tomorrow night. Then, I want you to . . .”



Being noble was harder than he had imagined. She was only a woman. He’d had plenty of experience with women, with women he desired. He’d never had any trouble putting them out of his mind. Why was she so different?

He needed to concentrate. He stared down at the list of snippets and facts he’d laid out across his desk. None of it made sense. It was as if he looked at the pieces from a dozen puzzles, not one. It wasn’t new information, but it had always grabbed his attention before. It would serve no actual purpose to solve this puzzle now, but the mystery would not let him go.

They were the pieces that would point to a spy, to someone who had fed information to Napoleon’s forces for the last years of the war.

Once, he’d thought the pieces led to Lord Harburton. The outliers certainly pointed in that direction. A courier had been seen leaving Harburton’s house on several occasions before heading off to meet with a known French agent. Harburton’s home was never without the daintiest of tidbits and the finest of furnishings even in the midst of the blockades – smuggling could only account for so much. And much of the leaked information was information that Harburton could have found out.

The information. That was where the problem lay. It was the most scattered bits of miscellaneous detail that Tristan had ever seen and most of it had been outdated even when first passed on. Still, locked in the morass there had been a few items of value, accurate rumors of future troop movements, and detailed knowledge of the armies’ shortages – far more specific than even the quartermaster would have reported. These were pieces that Harburton could not have known.

Unless he were a true master spy with his own network. A logician so deft that he knew how to disguise the valuable in the middle of this haystack of four-month-old news and complaints of cold and mud. War was always cold and muddy.

Still, it was impossible to picture Harburton with his love of fish and game as a spy and there had never been any evidence of his gathering information. The courier had probably been sleeping with one of the housemaids and Harburton probably had a line on an extremely successful smuggler – although the quality of his brandy had certainly never reflected it. What type of man purchased curtains of the fine Belgian lace and didn’t stock up his spirits? It made no sense. No matter how he arranged the pieces the solution eluded him.

Sighing with frustration Tristan shoved the papers together, placed them in a drawer and turned the key. Some problems would need to wait for another day.

It was time for dinner, yet another type of frustration, another torture.