Taste of Desire

chapter Thirteen



Marguerite stared at the perfectly set table and shivered. The night might be warm, but her dress held off not the slightest breeze. Violet had advised her to wear the lowest cut bodice she owned and this was certainly it. How rude was it to pop out during dinner? And she was very much afraid that you could even see the shadow of her nipples. It was not definite, but sometimes as she turned in the candlelight she thought she saw the reflection of – she was not going to think about that. Violet had said to only think about the food.

She could even pretend that Tristan was not there if she wanted. That should not be too hard, once they talked about the weather and whether they were attending the Somerton’s ball the following night silence would descend. She would ignore the tingle that ran down her spine whenever she was in her husband’s presence.

The footman swung the door open and Tristan entered. Another footman pulled out her chair, and they sat.

“The sun was quite hot today,” Tristan began.

“Yes, I found myself quite fatigued by the heat.” Marguerite fanned herself lightly as if to demonstrate. The movement pulled the fabric of her bodice tight. Tristan’s gaze locked a good twelve inches below her eyes. Her nipples prickled against the thin silk of her gown. She shifted slightly, watching his eyes track. Maybe, Violet was correct. Heat and interest were both present in his gaze. She moved slightly in the other direction. Bent forward. She watched him swallow, his Adam’s apple bob once. Her own pulse quickened in response.

Then he turned as the footman brought in the first course. He did not look back. Marguerite did not see how she might succeed if he did not even look at her for five minutes in a row. She was wearing a dress that wasn’t even decent to sleep in and her husband had no difficulty pulling his attention away.

Anger and fury began to rise within her. He had not even bothered to discuss the next day’s outings. He could not take even that away from her.

She glared at the fresh plate before her. Asparagus with lemon-vanilla sauce. It sounded odd, but Violet had been quite insistent. She would think of nothing, but the food. You could not be mad at asparagus. She cut off a tiny bite. Brought it to her lips. The smell was divine. She paused savoring the sweetness and tang. She opened her mouth slightly and let the first delicate taste overwhelm her. She licked the fork, her tongue searching between the tines for each drop of moisture.

She took another bite, thinking about nothing but the wondrous flavors and sensations. She let her eyes drift closed as she delighted in each nuance and subtlety. She took the next bit, the very tip of the stalk. Again she let her tongue dart out to lick and lave the sauce. It was too good, too delicious. She brought it to her mouth, her greedy lips eager to suck and sample the elusive essence of the sauce.

A choking sound from the end of the table drew her attention. Tristan’s eyes were fastened on her again, his face red. He shifted in his chair and again draped the napkin on his lap.

“Are you having difficulties? Is the sauce too flavorful? I find it delicious.” Marguerite licked a last drop from the corner of her mouth. Tristan choked again and took a large swallow of wine.

“No. I am fine,” he sputtered. “I simply swallowed wrong.”

“Mmmm.” Marguerite took her last bite of asparagus. Giving up her manners she dipped a finger in the sauce and brought it to her lips. Tristan could not tear his eyes away.

She paused, her finger just a hair away from her mouth. Maybe, Violet’s beliefs were correct. She opened her lips, let her tongue dart out and dab the very tip of her finger.

She peeked up at her husband. He was suffused with color and appeared to have stopped breathing. She hurriedly licked the remaining sauce of her finger and watched him recover. She shimmied slightly in her chair. Power was intoxicating and this was power.

The next course was served. Tristan swallowed again, audibly as the food was set before them.

“Should have known,” was his only comment as he stared on the oysters on the half shell.

“I considered asking Cook to try a new lobster recipe, but it actually called for having the lobsters served in the shell and then using the fingers to remove for the rest meat. Why would a recipe want you to use your fingers to probe in crevices? I am afraid I did not understand and it seemed ill mannered. What do you think?” Marguerite dropped her gaze and then peered up at Tristan from beneath her lashes. He seemed to actually be having trouble forming words. He was often quiet, but she had never seen him have an effort talking before.

She scooped up her first oyster and let it slide between her lips. Cool. Slippery. Wonderful. Think about the food. She ignored her husband’s dazed expression and savored the salty flavor. Cook had topped the oysters with soured cream and caviar and it was extraordinary. Her eyes drifted closed again. This was not hard.

She took another oyster. Relished. Enjoyed.

They were like silk upon her lips. A slow smile of satisfaction spread across her face.

There was not a single sound from across the table, not even the chink of silver on china. She raised her lids and looked at Tristan.

He was staring again, his full attention on her. He had not even picked up a single oyster.

“You are staring. Do I have a dot of cream on my nose?” She brushed it with the napkin. “I am afraid these are so good I have been ignoring you.” She circled her lips with her tongue. He was still staring without speech. She peeked down at her chest, his glance seemed to make frequent detours in that direction. Her breath grew more rapid with his every glance. She could almost feel phantom hands moving over her, pinching her like the men in the books. She knew it was what she had wanted, but she was growing hopelessly heated under his continued gaze.

She shifted in her chair, pressing her thighs tight together. He was so intense. She took a sip of water. It did not help. Tristan finally picked up an oyster of his own. She watched him place it to his lips, watched it slip between, saw the pleasure of his expression. His glance never left hers. Her breath quickened to a near pant. Was she blushing? She saw his glance travel slowly from her bodice up to her warm cheeks. Yes, she was blushing and he was watching its flow. She grew even warmer.

The next course arrived, eel in sweet pepper sauce, supposed to enrich and heat the blood. She hardly dared taste it. She was already an inferno. Tristan lifted his glass to her. She swallowed hard and nodded in return. Together they dipped forks into the sauce and brought it to their lips. Flavor exploded. Honeyed, hot, spicy, excitement. Could food really be this good? She had not even been focusing on it and still it overcame her. She shut her eyes and moaned with ecstasy.

She had not really done that, had she? Flushing even deeper with embarrassment, she opened her eyes. Tristan had a most peculiar expression, somewhere halfway between pleasure and pain. The man’s expression in the book when the woman was . . . oh dear, the asparagus. She must have looked like . . . still, Tristan did not seem at all put off by her moan or any of the rest.

She dared another bite of eel. It was so succulent, so sweet, the flesh so rich and tender. It was a forbidden taste, like nothing she had ever experienced. Her mind again filled with the images in Violet’s book. She found herself leaning towards Tristan as she sampled another bite. He had given up all pretense of eating and merely watched. She lapped a morsel from the fork, fighting to concentrate on it and not the flush that now began to color her husband’s cheeks. He leaned forward, pushing his plate aside, sipping at his wine and watching.

It took effort to bring the next bite to her mouth. It had gone dry, despite her frequent sips of wine and water. It was getting hard to breathe, each breath seemed to fill her chest, lifting it forward. Her stomach fluttered, and not with unease.

It was growing difficult to look anywhere except at her husband, his lips, his eyes, the tight damask of his jacket, those broad shoulders – there was a table between them, but she felt his every move. When he took a bite of eel her mouth watered in response.

The servants arrived to clear the half finished plates. Was it time for the sweet? She hoped so. She wiggled in her chair trying to regain her earlier comfort. She was hot and shivery all at once. Her breasts were tight her nipples peaked and she did not even dare glance down to see how the appeared against the thin fabric. She took another swallow of wine.

“What’s next?” Tristan’s voice was hoarse.

“Peaches stewed in honey, with fresh raspberries.”

“Sounds harmless enough.” He spoke quietly, as if to himself.

The plates arrived, two half peaches, globes lush and glistening in a pool of honey, the raspberries perched on top. It looked like – it looked like naked bosoms. Bosoms drenched with honey. She felt her own breasts swell and grow even tighter. Her glance shot to her husband. He had no response. He sat as if frozen. Unsure, Marguerite scooped a raspberry and honey to her mouth. A drop of honey caught, and then slid in slow motion off her lips, down her chin, and . . . she quivered as the warm sauce dribbled between her own globes.

Tristan stood with a start he took one step forward, two steps.

Stopped.

Was he going to lick it off? Was she really even imagining his cool lips moving over her heated flesh?

He stared at her for the longest moment, battle apparent in his face, then turned and marched from the room.



“It did not work. He left again.” Marguerite turned to Violet, fighting the tears that threatened to come. “I just do not understand. I think that you were right that he enjoyed the food – although he did not eat much. I was feeling the magic, I thought everything was working according to plan. I actually felt a heady power I have never felt before. Then he left.”

“I am not sure that you are right that it didn’t work. You must tell me all.” Violet patted the seat beside her and Marguerite slowly parsed out the events of the night before, ending with her alone in her bed. “I did not even look at the book again. I thought about it, but I was so miserable I could not bear to realize even more how alone I was.”

“I don’t think you will have to worry about that for long. If your husband’s attention is your goal, I think you are well on your way to achieving it. You did say he watched you last night, could not in fact take his eyes off you?”

“Yes, but he seemed almost in pain. He didn’t look much like he was enjoying it all of the time, more like he had no choice. It was as if I held him in a thrall.”

“Perfect.” Violet grinned.

“Perfect?”

“Yes, perfect.” Violent leaned back in the chair. “Tonight before dinner I want you to look at the book again.”

“I do not know if I can. Sometimes I have felt almost driven to, and then when I actually try, mortification overcomes me.”

Violet sat up straight. “Listen, this is perhaps the most important thing I will tell you. Nothing you do either by yourself or, hopefully, with your husband in the privacy of your chamber are wrong. I mean nothing. I know what they teach ladies of our position. I was taught well and it made my first marriage even more of a misery than was necessary.

“There is nothing wrong with desire, with hunger, with wanting to seek every bit of passion you can from life. That is the magic. That is what makes you alive, what makes you human. Do not be ashamed of your humanity.”

“But, Mama said –“ Marguerite twisted her hands in her lap.

“I don’t care what your mother said. Think about how you feel. Tristan is your husband. There is nothing wrong with the feelings he arouses – and I use that word deliberately – in you. The greatest gift you can give him is to simply enjoy.”

“I am still not sure. I thought men wanted their wives to be silent and still. That is one of the few things Mama told me. I must be sure not to move too much. Even before I knew what she was talking about she was telling me how to be ladylike. She said men have mistresses if they want more.”

“I told you not to care about that. Do you want your husband to take a mistress? Is that what you dream of late at night, Tristan in the arms of another?”

Even the thought of it made Marguerite’s chest draw tight. “No.”

“Then listen to me, when you go home take out that book and look at it, even if you can only manage one page. Look at the man’s expression and think about Tristan. Have you seen that look, do you want to see it again?”

She understood Violet, but did not think she could ever –-

“I see from your expression that you are giving up before you begin. I was careful to plan this in tasks you could accomplish. Look at a book. Pay attention to your food. The only added step tonight will be that if Tristan tries to leave you must delay him. Ask him to help you with something, looking over a piece of correspondence, explaining something in the newspapers, getting a book from a high shelf.”

“A book?” She could never let Tristan see that, she’d die with embarrassment first.

“Any book, you silly thing. Just so long as it’s high and you have to stretch to demonstrate where it is. Stand before the fire if you can. Do you have another dress to wear? No, then wear the same one, only pin it lower.”

“Lower? I am not sure –“

“Think about that look on your husband’s face, think of his desire. Is that not what you want?”

“Yes.” It seemed so simple when phrased like that.

Then you will do what I suggest.

“Yes.” Two yeses and Marguerite felt the power grow in her again. She could do this. She could find the magic. “What if he just tells me to ask a servant for help getting the book?”

“That’s the advantage of asking him his opinion instead of just to perform a task. Still, I think he’d enjoy watching you stretch. Drive him plum crazy, poor noble fool. He is a strange man your husband. He actually thinks with his proper head.”

Marguerite was clueless as to the meaning of this last comment. What else could a man think with besides his head? Still she began to see the glory of having Tristan watch her stretch. He did seem to enjoy looking at her. Could she manage to keep Tristan with her by doing both things? Lure him to the library to show him her correspondence and then ask for help reaching a book. It did sound possible. Still. . . “What if he still tries to leave?”

“Look at him soulfully and bite your bottom lip. Can you manage to look like you’re going to cry?”

“If he tries to leave me alone again, I do not think I will have difficulty with tears.”

“Good. One more thing. I think there’s a decent chance he will try to avoid dinner tonight. If he is determined to keep your relationship on more distant footing, he may not trust himself. If he announces he has other plans just . . .”



How had he ended up in this position, again? Tristan watched as his wife buttered a smidgeon of bread. How could bread and butter be erotic? She licked the butter from her lips. His body responded. Every time he looked at her, his mind pictured that tongue, those lips, engaged in far different activities. He watched her savor a drop of gravy on the end of her spoon, maybe not so different, after all. Every bite she took she looked like – he edged over in his chair, tenting the napkin in his lap to greater height. At least the table was not made of glass.

She picked up a tiny carrot, studying it with great attention. Gads, carrots. Who planned these menus? She brought the tip of it to her mouth, nipped it with her teeth, almost playfully. He took a large swallow of wine. He was going to explode. His whole body was burning because his wife was eating vegetables.

He’d planned on avoiding dinner altogether, but the moment he’d mentioned to Marguerite that he planned to dine at the club she’d smiled and said, “Oh dear, and I was having Cook try another new menu. Perhaps I can invite someone else. Lord Simon Moreland mentioned he would like to spend more time together. Do you think he likes pastries? I was planning on having small ones, shaped like a cheroot with the most wonderful almond cream filling. Cook thought she would serve them with warm chocolate sauce even though the recipe did not call for it. What do you think, will Simon like chocolate?”

Tristan was damned if he was going to let Moreland eat his pastries. Or more importantly, watch Marguerite eat them. No, nobody was going to watch his wife eat except him.

“Oh, do not these look wonderful?” Marguerite asked from across the table. The these to which she was referring were the pastries, long pastries, golden and flaking, the soft scent of almonds drifting off them. Marguerite described them as cheroots, but these were thicker, more like – he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, experiencing his own thickening.

He watched Marguerite place a single delicacy on her plate. She lifted a scoop of warm chocolate and started to dribble it with delicacy and care. He was never going to survive this. Never. Even as a randy schoolboy he’d never experienced this degree of delicious agony. She lifted the pastry to her mouth, not with knife and fork, but whole with her fingers. His eyes widened. No she wasn’t. My God, she was. Her tongue flicked out and caught a glob of escaping cream. She drew in her to her mouth, her eyes shining with pleasure. Her tongue darted out again. He couldn’t take it.

He stood, being sure his coat draped about him. He was definitely going to have to order looser trousers, no matter what fashion dictated.

Marguerite looked up at him with a mysterious smile. Where was she learning these things? “Are you off? I had hoped you could help me with a small matter.”

“I am sure you can manage on your own or consult with me in the morning,” he said. A tiny dab of cream clung to the corner of her mouth. Tristan fought the urge to bend over and lick it off. What would happen if he did? No, perhaps later, when this whole matter was finished they could begin again, but for now he had made a vow. He would hold strong. She wanted an independent life. He would give her that. She did not understand what she offered in her innocence. He turned to go.

“If I must,” she replied. “It was just that I received a note from Husimans asking me to an afternoon card party tomorrow. He wondered if I were fond of piquet. I have to confess to never having played the game, but I hate to display my ignorance. I am sure you must know how to play. I heard you discussing cards with him. No, matter I will simply decline the invitation. Such a pity. He appears a nice gentleman.” Marguerite put her pastry on the plate without actually taking a bite. Keeping her gaze on him she nibbled the cream off her lip.

He stopped, turned. This changed everything.



Marguerite watched Tristan pivot on his heel. He might do his best to avoid watching her, but she spent her time observing him. She had noticed his response whenever Huismans’ name was mentioned. She did not know why her husband cared about the Dutchman, but she had cast her lure well. She smiled inwardly. She wondered how Huismans would respond to her positive reply to his card party. The party was real, she had overheard him talking to Lady Harburton, but Marguerite had not received an invite. She hoped it would not create too great a situation.

Still, she had her husband’s attention. She rose from her chair, sighing as she gazed at the pastry resting on her plate. The almond cream had been delicious, but she would not risk letting Tristan escape.

“Come let us retire to the library then. I ordered your port served there. I have the cards ready for us.”

She walked from the room, ignoring Tristan’s look of surprise and suspicion. Let him be suspicious. If she could keep her courage up long enough to play this scene, he would know the truth of his suspicions anyway.

The library was prepared as she had instructed, the fire burned low and warm. She adored the luxury of the extra heat. The days might be warm, but the nights still held a chill. The port and glass had already been laid on the table, and most important a book on card games rested high on the shelf between the couch and fire. She did not quite understand why Violet had been so insistent on it, but so far Violet’s advice had led true.

“Piquet is a game for two,” Tristan stated the obvious as they took their place around the table.

“Yes, I do know that.”

“Was Huismans planning a small party?”

Was that a note of jealously she detected in her husband’s tone? Marguerite picked up the deck and ran a finger over the edge. “I do not know. He did not specify how many? Does it matter?”

Tristan sat across from her, “No, of course not. I was merely curious. I was not aware you had developed a friendship with Huismans.”

“He saw me sitting in the park one morning working on my embroidery. He was interested in the design. We started to talk. It was all light and harmless.”

“What else did you discuss?” He sounded so causal.

She watched as he divided the cards into two piles, one sixes through Aces, the other the lower cards. He set the lower cards aside and shuffled the remaining with lightening fingers.

“Nothing much, what we were doing the next few evenings, and whether I liked flowers.”

“I’ll deal until you get a feel for the game. Do you know the basic order of play?”

The question came too early. Violet had not said when she should retrieve the book, but Marguerite sensed it should be later in the evening. She hesitated, then stood and walked to the shelf. “I was reading them earlier. My mother does not believe in gambling and sees no other purpose for games whether of skill or chance.” She paused then turned to the shelf. “Will you consider it cheating if I consult the rules while we start? It is so confusing with the hands divided into the different parts.” She stretched to pull down the volume. She had placed it high on the shelf and had to stand on her toes to reach. The heat from the fire warmed her. She could feel it pierce her dress and caress her flesh. She sighed with the pleasure of the sensation and arched her back like a cat. Her fingers closed about the book and she turned to Tristan. He had not answered her question. “Do you mind if I consult the book?

He was staring, again. She would never have believed she would see him with mouth agape, but there were no other words to describe his face. He watched her as if caught by a spell. He did not move, not even breath, except for his eyes. They started at her toes and moved slowly up her body. It felt like a physical touch as she watched his gaze hover up her legs, pausing at her thighs, and again at her belly. Her knees shook at the intensity of his look. She thought she had recognized the look of desire before this, but it paled before his current heat. Her front grew warmer from his look, than her backside from the fire. Her own breath caught.

The cards slipped from his fingers and fell one by one to the floor. She swallowed, lowered herself from her toes. She stepped forward.

“No, don’t move,” Tristan whispered.

She froze, and time did too. How long could they stay trapped in this tableau? Each breath she took seemed to last a year, each blink at eternity. Her mouth grew dry, and she fought for calmness. Her whole body seemed to burn, the heat was almost unbearable.

Unable to stand it further, she stepped forward again. This time he did not demur. She paused when her knees drew near to his. She stood above. She could see his want, feel his desire. She reached out and brushed his cheek. He turned his face to her hand, but kept his gaze upon her body. So sharp was his gaze she almost thought her gown invisible. She glanced down. Violet had been right. With the fire behind and the room dim, the gown was completely translucent. She shivered then blushed. She could feel the color spreading to the tips of her toes. From the movement of his eyes he could see it to.

He moved in his chair, leaning forward, towards her, then suddenly pulling back. He started to stand. She inched forward, blocking his movement.

“You are not leaving are you? We have not begun our game.”

He looked away, finally. “I think it would be best if I went.”

“Why?” This was the moment that could decide it all. She had always wondered if generals in war, or men of science in their laboratories knew when they experienced that moment that all depended on, when victory or defeat hung in the balance. Now she knew.

She saw the struggle cross his face. His lips pursed and then released.

“It would be best,” he answered.

“You said that. I asked why?”

“Because this is not what you want.”

“How do you know what I want? Do I look like I am unhappy?” Her hand still lay against his cheek. She stroked it, reveling in the prickle of his stubble.

He moved a hand over hers, but did not stop her movement. “You said you wanted to be free. Was not that why you ran from your mother to begin with? You have made it clear that you did not seek me as a husband, that it was my decision forcing you.”

She moved her hand, her thumb stroked the firmness of his lips. They both jerked as if from shock. She moved her thumb again.

“What you say is true, but tells only part of the story. Our marriage was not of my choosing, and yet I did in some way choose you by coming to you. That showed both trust and liking. Surely those are not bad grounds for marriage.”

He opened his lips beneath her touch. She could feel the warmth and moisture of his breath. She stroked again.

He dropped his gaze, turning his face fully into her caress. “You are right in theory, but there is more to it.”

“I know. Why do you think I am here?”

“Not to play cards?”

“It is true I do not know how to play piquet. I will need lessons. Do you think you could teach me? I have always believed myself a fast learner.” The blush was back. She could feel it rising again. Did he read between the lines? She did not think she could say more.

He opened his mouth further, nipped the flesh pad of her thumb between her teeth. She jerked back, startled.

“As you have read, the first part of the hand is blanks and discards. A blank has no face cards. Personally I am partial to faces.” He nipped her thumb again, then sucked it into his mouth. It was so hot, so damp. She never realized how soft a mouth was. She remembered their kiss, his tongue dipping into her mouth. Images from the book rose before her eyes. She pulled her thumb back, he sucked it in further. She knew there was more to the gesture than she could yet understand, she could not wait to know all.

He slipped a hand behind her waist pulling her between his knees. “If you don’t have any face cards you must discard. I am afraid you have a face, two of them as you seem to have taken ownership of mine. What would you like to discard?”

She gasped as Tristan’s hand slipped beneath the hem of her gown and traced up her calf, her thigh, following the path his eyes had so recently traced. Sparks of fire shot from his fingers as they moved slowly over skin.

The magic she had sought, returned.

“What about this?” His hand reached her garter, and with a quick twist pulled it free.