Taste of Desire

chapter Fourteen



He had given in too easily. Where was honor when it was so easily lost? She was so soft, so sleek, a goddess come to life. And he was mortal. How could a man resist when a goddess summoned? He let his hand drift up her other leg. He caught the bow of the other garter and pulled it loose. “You still have a face. You must discard again.” He let the garter drop to the floor.

Her hand slipped from his face, to catch the knot of cravat. She hesitated.

“Ah, to shy too tell me that I must discard also.” His words whispered across her belly, he could see it quiver in response.

“I do not remember the rules calling for this, this is more disrobe than discard.” She blushed at her own quip, but let her fingers creep between the fine cloth and his neck.

It was the blush that had done him in. He’d watched the color and heat move up her body and known he was lost. The sophisticated women of his acquaintance were masters of the subtle art of flirting, but no calculated gesture had ever captured him as powerfully as her innocent flush.

He slid his hands down her legs, pulling the stockings with them. He lifted a hand to his neck and untied his cravat with a single tug. He held it out. “The next part of the hand is called Ruffs. As neither of us has a ruff this will have to do.” He dropped it to the floor.

He quickly unfastened the buttons of his shirt. Her thumb still rested against his lips. He gave it another quick nip. She caught her breath, held it. He placed his hands about her waist again and pulled her close. He could feel her stomach through the thin fabric of her gown, firm velvet beneath its silken covering. The scent of her surrounded him, clean lemon, the sweet almond from the dessert filling, and a deep musky scent that could only be woman. Desire ate him, wrapped him tight in its web. He fought the desire to tear at her gown, pull her down, bury himself within her.

“Your breath tickles. I never imagined breath could tickle.” She gasped as he pressed a kiss tight against her belly. Her hands were tangled in his hair now. He could feel them struggle and strain as they caressed, clenched and released. She pulled him tighter against him, almost smothering him against her flesh.

She was as caught in the web as he.

He pressed her back so he could stare up into her face, be sure it held no doubt. His demons were fighting to be loose, and he needed to be sure. He grabbed her hands in his and rose to stand beside her. Now it was her breath that tickled him, moving over his bare chest in gentle puffs. He took the hands he held and placed them above his heart. He let his arms drop to his sides.

“It is your play. I had no Ruff,” he said.

She looked up at him, her eyes deep and clear. She spread her fingers across his skin. Then she dropped her gaze and examined his flesh. The same intensity of expression that she’d focused on the pastry overcame her. Her lips parted and her fingers started to travel. They passed over the sprinkling of hairs on his chest, once softly and then with greater pressure. She moved her face forward and rubbed a velvet cheek against him. He could see each sensation she experienced mirrored in her features. His sense of wonder grew as he watched her learn.

That was what she was doing, examining, studying – learning. She memorized him with each sweep of her fingers, each brush of her cheek. He caught his breath as her attention moved to one of his nipples. She passed the tip of a finger over it, then twirled around it. She moved closer, watching as it grew hard and peaked. One of his hands surrounded her breast. He swallowed hard as she caught her nipple between her fingers. She squeezed slightly, his and then her own tight bud. God, the sensation was exquisite. Did she feel what he felt? He fought back the urge to pull her tight to him, to push down her bodice and replace her hand with his own greedy lips, to show her how great pleasure could be.

As if reading his mind she moved forward and her tongue darted out and she touched the tip to his nipple. His whole body jerked and pulled tight. She pulled back, then with a slow cat’s smile moved forward and pressed her lips around the entire rosy peak, her tongue tracing the circles her finger had previously drawn.

He needed to move. He was going to die. He had barely touched her and yet passion burned higher than it ever had before. He needed to move, but dared hardly to breath. He truly would die if she withdrew.

Her mouth, so warm, so hot, traced wet kisses across his flesh until she reached her goal – his other breast. She repeated her slow, careful tending of that neglected flesh.

With one last lingering kiss and suck, she stepped back. “Am I moving right? I do have a trouble remembering the order of play, but realize I have no Ruff either.” Her fingers went to the single tie that held her fragile bodice tight. Was she going to? Good God, she was. Her dress slipped from her shoulders, caught for a minute on the fullness of her breasts, then fell to the floor. She stood before him clad only in the thinnest of chemises, and a corset cut so low that the deep rose of her nipples was clear. He could even make out the faint outline of a mark on the lower side of her breast. Was this the butterfly mole she had mentioned, before? He could not wait to explore for himself.

That enchanting flush rose again under his gaze. He watched as her skin turned from ivory to peach to berry. He stood frozen. She was so beautiful, so perfect, he had thought her a goddess and the truth was even greater. How could she shine with such innocence while her eyes cried the secrets of seduction?



He was so beautiful, so perfect. Once she had seen such glory, pieces of Roman statuary in a garden, flawless precision in cold stone. But Tristan was warm flesh. She had tasted just how warm. She licked her lips, tasting the salty sweat of his skin, the sweat sandalwood and heady musk.

She should be burning with mortification as she stood before him only partially clothed. It had been years since any but a maid or a modiste had seen her in such a state, and a man never had. She blocked the memory of Clark’s soiree from her mind – she did not remember clearly, if at all, and besides that had no place here.

She had worried that Violet had given her so little advice beyond the setting of the scene, but now she understood – once the carriage was set in motion there was no stopping.

It took only the look in his eyes to pull her forward, to capture her for eternity. She took the step towards him, then turned, preserving the space between their bodies. “I cannot undo my laces. With no ruffs do we move on to Sequences. I believe that is the next in order.”

“I thought you did not know how to play.” Tristan’s hands rested lightly on her shoulders, rubbed softly, then slid down to her laces. He unfastened them with a practiced hand. He held her chemise caught in his hand and pulled it lower as her corset loosened. As he pulled the cord through each loop he placed a kiss on the flesh revealed. She shivered and shook with each touch. She was far beyond the world she knew and could only trust where he would lead.

When the last remnants of her clothing fell to the floor he pulled her tight against him. She could feel the moisture of his bare flesh against her own. He slipped his arms around her and cupped her breasts. “The second to last play of the hand is Sets. I think these will do.”

She gasped as he flicked his thumbs across her nipples. The nubs drew to ever tighter peaks. The sensations far surpassed her earlier self-exploration. Her head fell back against him and he nuzzled at her neck.

He caressed her again and again, she moved against him helplessly, her body his to control. When one of his hands slipped lower, skimming through her blond fuzz, she jerked, startled. Her buttocks pressed firm against his hardness. She moved, pressed them further against him, feeling his length, his breadth with her body. His hand moved further, sliding between her legs. She jerked again. She had never felt such a thing. It was pain. It was pleasure. It was more than she had ever imagined. She tightened her thighs. It was too much. She would never bear it. She tried to pull away, to find a way to breathe.

“Shh, relax. I would never hurt you. You do know that, don’t you?” He whispered the words into her hair, caught her ear between his teeth, nipped, laved. The fingers between her legs moved again. A moan tore from her. Her legs were collapsing from under her.

He turned her then, bringing her full against him. His arousal rose firm and proud against her belly. She had yet to see him, but the velvet of his skin covered steel beneath. She moved slowly, luxuriating in the sensation. She closed her eyes and only felt. He pressed her back, and she groaned at the separation between them.

“Sets are all about seeking equal size. Do you think we are equal?” His voice teased against her ear.

She opened her eyes then, and gasped. No, never. There was no way. She had been sure the book exaggerated. It was one thing to feel pressed against her, but to imagine it in her. “No,” she squeaked. “I do not think so. You win.”

He stopped. He did not move at all, but simply looked deep into her eyes. She looked back and saw desire, but also warmth and care. Something deep within her core melted. Fear could not win against such odds. She inched closer, pressing their bodies tight again.

He swallowed, she could feel the movement where her breast lay pressed deep tight against his chest. She pressed a kiss just above his heart.

He swallowed again. His body strained against her. “The loser has the right to examine the winning set, to be sure. Is this your wish?”

She slipped her hand between them, took him in her palm. He was as soft as she had dreamed, and as hard. She swallowed, herself, as she took his full measure. His whole body was pulled tight, the sting of a bow, the arrow ready to fly. She moved her hand again, felt the tension her action wrought, understood her power. She clasped her fingers tight about him. His lips pressed tight, whitening as if with pain, but he made no further movement. She felt a tiny bead of moisture against her palm.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he croaked.

She ran her fingers up his length again. His whole body shuddered. “I am not sure what comes next. I think you win, you hold the greater size, but I do no know how to tell for sure. Will you teach me?”

His hands grasped her then, sliding down her shoulders, her back, cupping beneath her buttocks. He lifted her, her legs separating and wrapping around him. He shifted her higher, positioning her until he pressed against the very heart of her.

“Are you sure? There is only one way to declare a winner. There will be no going back,” he gasped the words, one by one, as he moved her up and down. The sensation of the pressure between them built within her. She could only nod her agreement against his chest.

He turned, lowering her to the couch. When she rested fully on the couch he ran his hands down the inside of her thighs, nearing, but not touching. He ran them back, exquisite sensation flowing with the contact. She turned, twisted – she needed more. He held firm, when his hands reached her knees he lifted her legs, drawing them over his shoulders. She felt him prod against her, seeking the entrance to very core.

There was a single prick of pain.

Her body tensed. He stopped held still, then slid in further. She shifted, unsure, flexed her hips beneath him.

He thrust in, pulled out. Again.

She moved seeking. The pain was gone, but not the agony of need. She gripped with her thighs – more she needed more, wanted more. What was missing?

Then she felt it, a slow burn that started low between her legs, at the spot of their joining, then spread, growing greater, drawing her deeper into a world that was only feeling and sensation. Nothing existed except that magic spot between them. It grew tighter, became unbearable. She knew she cried, she twisted, she fought for release.

And then exploded.

Her whole body spasmed with the pleasure of it and then fell back to earth, exhausted. He dove in deep then, deeper than he had before, burying himself within her. She could feel the shudders take him, grip him. He head strained back as a single great cry left him.

He collapsed, heavy upon her.



What had happened? He’d been with many women, experienced many forms of pleasure, but this – this had been beyond all measure. Had he died? What else could explain such ecstasy? He rolled to the side, wrapping his arms about her and taking her with him until she lay cradled on his chest.

She was so small, so delicate. He hoped he had not hurt her. He had lost control there at the end. He opened his eyes and stared up at her. She gazed back at him with languid eyes, a look of womanly satisfaction clear upon her face.

“I do declare, I think we are equal. It must be a tie,” he said.

She pushed up on her elbows and surveyed him. “That was wonderful, but I believe the last part of the hand is still to be played. Tricks, is not it? Do you know any?”

He grinned. “I do, but perhaps we should go up to bed first. It may take a while to explain them all and I’d hate to startle the maids when they come in to bank the fire.”



Morning peaked through the cracks in the bed curtains as Marguerite opened her eyes. Tristan’s arm lay across her chest and one of his legs lay sprawled across her own. She let her head rest back against the pillows, savoring the sensation, the very weight of him was dear to her. For a moment she knew only joy, she had fought for her magic and won true to the end.

Then she frowned, uncertainty filling her.

Had everything been as it was supposed to? She had no way of knowing. It had been wonderful, but was it all that he expected? She needed to be sure. She eased out from beneath Tristan and slipped from the bed. He stirred, his arms moved, seeking her – or somebody.

She closed the bed curtain behind her. Her chemise and dress lay scattered on the floor. She picked them up and glanced about. It was Tristan’s chamber. She had never been in it before. The furniture was old and heavy. She could sense the generations that had treasured it. She ran a hand over the bureau, picked up the silver brush. A few light hairs lay trapped in the bristles, the color so similar to her own. She placed it back on the dresser.

A closed door was to her right. It must be the door to her own chamber. She padded over. The key was in the lock, but had not been turned. Had she lain so many nights alone, an unlocked door between them? She opened the door with hardly a creak and slipped to her own room.

Her maid was sitting stiffly in a corner. She did not say a word, but shot Marguerite a glance full of curiosity and speculation.

Marguerite ignored the look and murmured a few directions. She needed to be out of here before Tristan awoke. She needed time to understand what had happened.

She had won. She had found the magic.

But, what did that mean?

Her body still hummed with pleasure, but her emotions stirred with uncertainty.

She let her maid dress her and then took a hurried sip of cooling chocolate from the tray by the bed.

If anybody could help her Violet could. She set the cup back on the saucer with a clatter and asked for her gloves. She needed understanding before she saw her husband again.



The porter looked decidedly disconcerted as he opened the door, Marguerite not certain whether it was merely the unsuitableness of the hour or her own apparent agitation. It was hard to stand still when her whole world stood at a pinnacle.

The porter took her card and scurried up the stairs. There was the sound of a knock and then the whisper of voices, one decidedly gruff and masculine. She had come at an inopportune time. She thought of slipping back out the door. Maybe a walk in the park would give her the chance to think? She did not need to bother Violet. Her hand closed on the door handle.

“What has that blasted man done now?” Violet came floating down the stairs, a gauzy wrapper trailing behind. “Do forgive my lack of dress. My servants are used to my informality. I couldn’t wait to hear what has you about at this hour. Come to the parlor and I will send for chocolate and pastries.”

Marguerite’s jaw dropped. But, it was not at Violets disarray. A man’s face had peered around the corner after Violet. A face Marguerite knew well.

What was Peter doing here?

Oh, that was a stupid question. It was obvious. She looked at Violet again, the mussed hair and swollen lips. Were her own lips as red and obvious?

But, if Peter was here that meant. . . She had seen the closeness between the brothers. They might bicker and the disagreement with their mother might stand between them, but they were brothers to the core. Peter would not be here now, with Violet, if Tristan had ever been.

Violet turned and caught her still looking up the stairs. “Oh dear, did you see something you shouldn’t? I have tried to be discreet, but he is like a brand new puppy. His nose must poke into every corner.” Violet turned and stepped forward catching Marguerite’s hands in her own. “I don’t think Tristan knows, although it is always hard to be sure with him. He always seems aware of everything.”

“Yes.” The one word was all that Marguerite could manage. She was still trying to understand all the repercussions of what she had seen.

“I won’t ask you to lie. I don’t think you’d be very good at it, but can you manage not to say anything unless asked?” Violet dropped one of Marguerite’s hands and holding tight to the other led her to the parlor. “It wasn’t something I ever intended, but well – he’s irresistible. There is something about the way he looks at a woman from under those shaggy brows that just makes it impossible to say ‘no.’ He is so filled with delight at every smile. Don’t you agree?”

Marguerite did not see the attraction that Violet spoke of. It was not like Peter had his brother’s penetrating silver glance that could see into a woman’s very soul, but Marguerite could see the glazed look in Violet’s eyes and knew that no comment would make a difference. She nodded.

Violet gave herself a little shake and sat, pouring out cups of chocolate for each of them. “But enough of my secrets, tell me yours. What has brought you calling at such an early hour?” She put down her cup and perused Marguerite. “You do look different, so something must have happened.” Violet stared at Marguerite’s lips and then touched her own swollen ones. “Yes, something must have happened.”

Marguerite was not sure what to say. She had come here intending to tell Violet all and then to ask her further advice, but when confronted with the moment words failed her. How did a woman speak of such things?

Violet sat, sipping her chocolate, and waited.

“He fell asleep,” Marguerite managed to spit the phrase out.

“Oh, that is most unexpected. I would not have expected it from what I had heard.” Violet put her cup down with care. She tapped a finger on the edge of the cup. “Did you do everything as planned?”

“Yes, and it seemed to be working. But then he fell asleep without saying anything.”

“You must tell me more. Had he had much to drink?”

“Two glasses of wine with dinner. He was in his study before that with the accounts. He does not normally indulge then. And after dinner – when we went to the library, he did not even touch the port or brandy.”

“So, not too much.” Violet stood and began to pace the room, trailing her fingers along the edges of tables. How could she look so refined while in her nightwear? It was an art to be studied. Marguerite looked down at her shoes. They were spotted with mud. Thirteen spots on the left. Five on the right.

“Did you dress as I suggested?” Violet spun to face her.

“Yes, I made sure it was a dress of thin fabric and easy to remove.” Marguerite felt her color rise. Would she ever learn not to blush?

“I don’t understand it then. I’ve never known a man to fall asleep while still aroused and I cannot believe your husband was unaffected by your appearance. Even my first husband never fell asleep once he’d become – Oh, that doesn’t matter. Still, you say he fell asleep, not that he left. Did he lie down on the couch? You were in the library you say?”

“Well no, it was in bed,” Marguerite answered.

“His or yours?”

What did it matter? “His.”

Violet sat back down. “So you were in his room. Things had progressed then?”

Progression, that was a good word for it. “Yes.”

Violet picked up her cup again and sipped. “I am just not understanding. He took you to his chamber and then he fell asleep. What exactly had happened?”

Marguerite did not believe she had ever been so red. She looked at her shoes again. She was wrong. There were six spots on the right.

“Well?” Violet let the question hang.

“He just fell asleep. I was next to him, in the bed, without my clothes on and he fell asleep.”

“You were in bed wit the man, bare-assed, and he fell asleep?”

Marguerite nodded.

Violet closed her eyes. “It sounds so unlikely. I’ve never even heard of man getting a woman naked and then falling asleep – unless there were drugs or liquor involved. Did he smoke anything? Did the room smell funny?”

Marguerite shook her head. She was a failure. Her husband had fallen asleep. Tears began to build behind her eyes. “No, he just rolled off me and closed his eyes. Then he started to snore.”

Violet suddenly looked alert. “You say he rolled off you? I believe I asked if you understood the mechanics of the situation. Did he try to – Did he have an erection?”

Marguerite was not exactly sure of the meaning of the word, but she could guess. There were still six spots. She rubbed her toes together. “Yes, although it,” her voice shook, “it did grow smaller afterwards.”

“Afterwards. You mean you did have intercourse?”

Marguerite was glad Violet had used the word. She did not think she could have. “Yes, four times, but then he just fell asleep.”

Violet blinked. She blinked again. “Four times and then he fell asleep.” She started to laugh. The laugh grew until it was nearly a guffaw. “Four times and then he fell asleep.”

“Do not laugh at me. Mama always cautioned that men had insatiable needs and were never satisfied.” Marguerite had to resist joining in the laughter herself. One look in Violet’s face and she knew the truth. “I know I am ridiculous, but how can I be sure that he was happy? How is a woman to know these things? What if I bored him?”

Violet pushed a napkin to her mouth and attempted to stop laughing. Tears began to stream down her face. “Four times and he fell asleep – you think you bored him?”

Violet stopped laughing abruptly. She put down the cloth. “You, my dear, I am afraid have an amazing talent for sin. I think I had better explain things more fully.”



She was gone. Tristan rolled over and reached for his wife. The bed lay cold beside him. He stretched and stared at the canopy above. The events of the night before ran through his mind.

He pushed up on his elbows. The curtains were still drawn and only the faintest tinge of light seeped into the room. The floor was bare, his wife’s clothing gone. Had Jackson been in? No, he was too well trained to interrupt. Marguerite must have taken them with her when she scurried out. She was probably at her bath or toilette. He stretched, that settled in his mind.

He lay back on the pillows. Considered. Rang for his coffee and toast. He had not planned on this.

He should regret it. He stretched again, sighing with satisfaction. No, he could not regret it. If he had known how passionate Marguerite was it would have happened long ago.

She had seduced him. He had not doubt of that.

For whatever reason she had decided that she belonged in his bed.

She was his wife.

Was it as simple as that?

Jackson entered with a tray. Tristan swung his bare legs over the edge of the bed. Jackson placed the tray on the writing desk by the window. Tristan waved him away. He walked over and poured his own coffee from the tall china pot.

He took the gulp, the tingle of the bitter fluid played down his throat. He swallowed again.

His wife was not a simple woman. He had been mistaken to see her as sweet and innocent, and think that was the meat of her. She was a woman of intellect and depth.

She had seen what she wanted and gone after it.

The question was why? For what purpose had she sought her rightful place it his bed?

He had given her independence and wealth – she would not want for more. They were already wed – she could not be seeking position and title. Was there some favor she desired, something she feared he would not grant? She had certainly approached him with purpose and plan.

Where had innocence ended and intent begun? He pictured her lips closing about the pastry, while her eyes shone with delight. He remembered her stretch before the fire last night, she must have known how little her dress concealed. His body responded to the memory, and he picked up his robe and drew it on.

It required thought. He would find out her purpose. He must remember it was a game of desire and not love. She might have played the siren with great success, but he was the master. He would find her secrets, whatever efforts were required. He grinned. Yes, he would do whatever was required. He anticipated the task. Husimans’ card party would be the perfect place to start.