Taste of Desire

chapter Seventeen



What had he done? He was not an idiot. Tristan spurred the horse to a gallop despite the pedestrians starting to wander the pathways. Dammit all. Why had he not taken more precautions with Marguerite? He’d been around enough to know that a baby could catch no matter what, but still there were more reliable methods.

Dammit all.

It wasn’t like he’d wanted her to get pregnant. Was it?

He pulled back on the reins at the thought, causing the gelding to balk.

He’d given up all thoughts of home and family when he’d found his mother and her lover – found out what a lie his family had been. He tapped his heels against the horse’s ribs quickening the pace again.

What had he been thinking over these past months? Or had he been thinking? No, he hadn’t and that was the crux of the matter. He’d convinced himself that withdrawal was enough. Being with Marguerite was so comfortable, so easy that he’d left his brains behind. When he was with her he almost believed again in possibilities.

He started to pull back on the reins again, but caught himself – talk about not thinking. This was no way to treat a mount. He pulled the horse to halt and dismounted. He walked forward, the horse following behind.

What did he want?

It was in and of itself a stupid question. He knew that regardless of his wishes the child would come. He was going to be a father. An hour ago the thought had filled him with horror, but now as he strode forward, the leafy boughs of summer overhead, he felt a kind of wonder.

He had not wanted a baby, but perhaps having one would not be so bad. He pictured a small infant tight in its mother’s arms – in Marguerite’s arms – and actually felt warmth begin deep within his chest. His wife would be a wonderful mother, there was no doubt of that. He had seen her love grow previously for a child she had not wanted, felt her loss that it was not to be. How then must she feel about a child she did want, did desire?

He remembered her hesitant joy as she’d told him her secret. And the blank despair following his response.

He was wrong. He was an idiot. Marguerite came and offered him what was to her a precious gift and he had stomped on it.

The warmth in his chest dissipated. He had sworn when this all began that he would not hurt her. He might turn her to his uses, but he would be sure that she had an equal share of benefit.

He had failed.

He turned towards home with heavy feet. He would make this up to her. It would be difficult to explain the rapid change of his emotions, but he would do it.

It had been the shock that had made him react so badly. He would simply ask that they start again. Tell her that the baby was a reality and he had never turned from reality. She would understand that he was a man who did his duty, did not shirk responsibility.

Yes, she would understand. They would continue from there.

He almost missed seeing the man walking towards him. Simon Moreland was much worse for wear. It was clear that he was not out for an early ride, but instead staggering home from the previous evening.

“Don’t want to see you,” was Moreland’s only greeting.

Was he supposed to apologize for walking in the park? Tristan was not in the mood to deal with this now. “I’ll be on my way then. If you blink again perhaps you can pretend I was only a hallucination.” He went to move past.

Simon stepped in his way, stopping him.

“No, it’s too late for that. It may be all your fault, anyway.”

“My fault, what is my fault?” Tristan was torn between the desire to return to Marguerite and the knowledge that Moreland’s drunken comments might prove useful.

“All of it.” Moreland hiccupped. “I took mother’s bulbs. I wanted some funds I didn’t have to ask father for, so I took the bulbs. Worth thousands she said. A man shouldn’t have to ask his father for everything. It’s men like you who cause the problem, never have to ask for anything and you get it all, too.”

Tristan had no idea where this was going. They were back to flowers again. Did the whole bloody world revolve around flowers? In any case it was clearly not important. He tried to maneuver around Moreland. He made it, but Moreland grabbed the reins of the gelding as they passed.

“Not worth anything. Nothing I get is worth anything. Mother will be so angry. She never likes what I do, always stops my having a bit of fun. Not like you, you get all the fun. I never got to see more than her titties. I liked that spot, looked like a butterfly. Very pretty. I bet you got more though.”

Tristan turned. His mind spun with the connotations. It was not possible that Simon was talking about – it didn’t even bear thought. “Are we talking about my wife?”

“Marguerite, yes, that’s who. Prettiest titties, don’t you think?”

“And how would you know about my wife’s breasts?” Tristan’s curled his free hand into a fist.

“She showed them to me. Well, I had to help her a little. She wasn’t too steady after sharing my whiskey.” Moreland had the gall to smile.

“My wife shared your whiskey?”

“She likes it in her lemonade. She likes anything with lemons. Then she wanted to go into the garden. We all know what that means when a chit wants to see the garden. Mother was right. She wasn’t as innocent as I thought. Kept mumbling about magic and gloves. Marguerite, not mother. She did have pretty titties, though. Too bad that buffoon had to appear just when it was getting fun. Chit may have been asleep though. A man can’t let that stop him though, can he? Never have any fun then. Besides she asked me to the garden. I would never have gone if she hadn’t asked me. Can I help it if she wanted me?”

“What buffoon?”

“That Clark fellow. He actually tried to pull her dress up. What kind of man does that?”

Tristan dropped the reins of the horse, leaving Moreland to hold them. He curled his other hand to a fist. “Are you saying you doused my wife with whiskey, took her to the garden, mauled her, and would have done more if you had not been interrupted?”

“Well, it don’t sound so fun when you say it like that, I only did what she wanted -–“ Moreland did not have a chance to say more, before Tristan’s fist connected with his face sending him to the ground. Tristan wished it was muddy. Moreland belonged in the mud and filth.

He stood for a moment over Moreland waiting for him to rise. There had not been enough satisfaction in that single blow. Moreland refused to cooperate. He rolled on his side and retched.

Tristan stepped back, gathering the gelding’s reins again.

“Don’t know why you did that. Not very gentlemanly.”

Neither was kicking a man when he was down. Tristan ground the heel of his boot into the dirt. The urge was hard to resist. He would like nothing better than to tear Moreland to shreds. That would not solve anything. The important thing now was Marguerite. He must get back to her. “I would suggest that you of all people do not use the word gentleman again in my hearing. I would, further, suggest that you ask your father for funds and take a long journey. I hear that Italy is wonderful this time of year. I would, however, suggest that you avoid mixing the wine and the women. I hear the fathers have long knives.”

He walked on down the path. He did not look back to see if the horse had any difficulties with the obstacles in his path. He did hear one smothered scream. “I’ll try calling on you in the morning. I suggest you be already gone. If you are not – let us just say I will not long remain a gentleman.” He walked on.



Marguerite looked up at the horse. The mare was smaller than Buttercup, but that was not reassuring. The horse snorted and looked at Marguerite, demanding. Demanding what Marguerite was not sure, but she knew that look. Her mother used that look.

She reached out a palm and let the mare nuzzle it. “You are a pretty girl. Can we be friends?”

The mare snorted again and stamped a foot.

“I know just how you feel. It has not been an easy day.” She patted the horse again and called to a groom to help her mount. She was glad Will had disappeared for the moment. He would only serve as a reminder of what she had lost.

A gnawing tightness grew in her chest. She would not think of that. She was here because she refused to think of it. She was going to let this day go on as it should have. She knew it was foolish for a multitude of reasons – you could not turn back time and pregnant women did not belong on horseback – but, for this day, this one day she refused to be reasonable. Being reasonable had gotten her no place. For today she would give into fantasy.

She would ride this damn horse and catch her husband and make him listen. It was time she made people listen – that she stood up for herself. She would show everyone.

She actually had her hand upon the pommel of the saddle, when she stopped.

Getting thrown from a horse would not show anybody anything. She was acting like a foolish child – besides she would not endanger her child – not that her horse’s rump of a husband would care, he might even be happy.

She turned away from the horse and strode off towards the park. She would find that stupid man on foot and then she would let him know just what she thought. Anger was much better than self-pity.

She did not even consider fetching a maid. She wanted no witness of this confrontation. She marched on into the park. Just wait until she found – She spied a group of ladies she knew ahead and turned on to a side path. She did not want company. How could she smile and pretend that all was fine – when her heart was breaking. She had always considered that a melodramatic phrase, but now it truly felt as if something deep inside of her were being ripped in two. Rage was not a strong enough shell to contain the hurt that continued to grow.

A tear trickled down her cheek. She was a fool. First, she should never have gone to Tristan in the first place. There must have been somebody else she could turn to for help. Another tear fell. Second, she should not have married the man. She had been brave enough to come to London on her own. It could not have been that much more difficult to stand up for herself, to say she would not marry. The trickles became a deluge. Third, she should never have imagined that marriage meant family. She should never put herself in a position where she could fall in love with the man. Or had she loved him all along – was that why she had run to him in the beginning? Was it all one big circle?

She heard a rider up ahead, it was impossible to see through her tears, and moved off the path.

She almost stepped on Simon Moreland who lay hidden by the bushes.

He lurched up at her. “You little bitch. It is entirely your fault.” He loosed a further sting of obscenities, as he pushed himself to his knees and then stood. His nose was bent to the side and bleeding freely. An odor of vomit mixed with brandy surrounded him.

Before Marguerite could even respond, he raised an arm, his fist curled tight.

Marguerite did the only thing she could, she turned and ran.

She did not turn to look back until she spied the road, only then did she glance back. She felt her foot catch the edge of the curb, saw the coming carriage.

She knew she fell. It hurt to land. The screech of wheels surrounded her.



Where was she? Tristan paced the upstairs corridor, impatience rippling through his body. It was his job to make her understand. That was difficult when she was not present.

He needed to see her, to be sure she was all right. The encounter with that scum Moreland had left him shaken. He could not bear that he had added to her pain after all he had been through. He really wasn’t any better than Moreland. He, too, had used her for his own purposes.

Tristan swung open the door to her chamber. He’d been in the room many times over the last months, but never alone.

It was not that different than when it had been his mother’s room, but in the subtlety lay the differences, small rosebuds instead of a more dramatic arrangement. He deliberately avoided flowers and now they seemed to be everywhere. At least Marguerite didn’t favor those overblown tulips that had become so prevalent.

He walked over and picked up the small crystal vase. He brought it to his face and inhaled the delicate scent. Normally the scent of flowers filled him with unease – put him back in that room with his mother and the gardener. Today, all he saw was Marguerite, her sweet smile, the tilt of her head, the deep fires that built in her eyes when she was too embarrassed to talk, the stubborn lift of her chin when she wanted to prove her abilities.

Why had he not realized how special she was? He set the flowers back on the table, looked at her silver brushes, the curl of a ribbon upon a table, and the decorative bowl of lemons set high on a dresser.

He heard a flurry of activity from below and went to investigate. He was just closing her door when one of the maids came scrambling up the stairs. He stopped. He had seen that expression before.

He was not surprised by the maid’s words. “It’s my lady. She’s had a fall – almost run over by a carriage.”

He was halfway down the stairs before he paused. “Where is she? Is she here?”

“No, my lord. She is at your mother’s.”

He bolted for the door.



There was the murmur of voices, soft and sweet. For a moment Marguerite let herself relax. She was warm and safe, a soft feather mattress beneath her, silk comforter above. If she kept her eyes closed she could imagine she was someplace warm and wonderful, someplace where dreams came true.

The voices grew louder. Felicity, she would recognize those soft tones anywhere – there was something so similar in the flow and pause to her husband’s voice. Another female voice, deeper, more contralto – ahh, Violet. The last voice, male, gave her pause. It was not familiar. Why would a strange man be outside her bedchamber? She wiggled in the bed trying to get comfortable. Something was not right.

She opened her eyes. What had happened? Her gaze met an unfamiliar room. The high canopy and curtains were embellished with countless flowers growing together in an enchanted garden. The scent of more flowers, real this time filled the room. Peonies, the first peonies of summer.

She turned on her side as the door opened. Felicity entered, followed by Violet. The man did not enter. She was spared that at least.

Felicity came and sat on the edge of the bed. Violet hovered behind.

“How are you feeling?” Felicity asked.

Violet reached forward and patted her hand.

“I . . . I am not sure. What happened? How did I get here?” Marguerite could not bear to ask about the baby.

“I do not know exactly,” Felicity began, “I was taking an early ride in the park. I hoped to escape the coming heat of the day. I heard a scream. I followed the sounds and found a crowd gathered around you. You must have tripped off the curb. You were almost run over by a hack.”

Marguerite closed her eyes again and tried to remember. All she could remember clearly was the argument and the bitter taste of lemonade. She scrunched her eyes closed. It had all gone so wrong.

She fought the urge to rub her belly again. She would be strong.

Falling. She could not remember falling.

“Shh, just relax, my physician said you would be fine. A great wallop on your head and a few bruises on your behind. A day of so of rest and you should be fine.”

The baby. Felicity did not mention the baby.

“Why am I here?” That was an easier subject to discuss. “I am so close to my own home. Why bring me here?”

“I had not originally planned to. I was going to brave Wimberley’s dragons and bring you home, but you refused to go. You began to fuss, said you did not wish to see you husband. You only calmed when I promised to bring you to my home.”

“I do not remember.” Marguerite shook her head trying to clear it and almost screamed at the sudden pain that lanced down her neck.

“Be careful.” Violet spoke up for the first time. “You have quite a knot on the back your head. It must be painful.”

Marguerite nodded.

“I hate to ask,” Felicity drew her attention, “but, why did you not want to return home? Has my son done something foolish? It would be like him.”

Now that Marguerite knew the story, Felicity’s bitter undertone was clear.

“I would not phrase it quite in that manner.” Marguerite hoped her own bitterness did not sound as clear.

“And I thought that everything was going so well.” Violet came around the bed and sat on the other side. “You said our lessons had been successful – even if you would not supply details beyond that you both liked to play piquet. The important thing is to tell us what that foolish man has done so that we can help you begin to correct it.”

“I am not sure that I need to know that there were lessons, even if I did perform the introductions between you. However, Violet is correct. That is not the important matter had the moment. How can we be of assistance?”

“I am not sure you can. I do not believe Tristan was foolish – careless, perhaps, but not foolish. I am clearly the fool in this situation.” Marguerite twisted her hands in the sheets. They were the one part of her that did not ache.

“Nonsense, dear. One of the first rules you must learn is that it always the man who is foolish,” Felicity said. “It goes without saying.”

“I must agree,” said Violet. “Knowing you both, well, you are much less prone to foolishness than he, and that is not even accounting for the fact that he is a man. You consider and debate each action a hundred times. He acts without thought and only through charmed instincts is almost always correct. You would never have decided to marry him in under fifteen minutes if given a choice. I doubt it took him five. Tell me which of you is more likely to be the fool?”

Marguerite remembered the anger and numbness that had driven her from the house that morning. She clearly did not have charmed instincts. “Still,” she mumbled, “I was the fool. He acted in what I am sure in his mind was a reasonable manner. He may have not debated the point long, but he already knew all the rationale for and against. This was not a question of thought and reason, it is a matter of emotion.”

“Oh dear, you don’t mean . . .” the two ladies spoke as one.

“Yes, I afraid I do.”

“You love my son. There is nothing else that could cause such misery.” Felicity shook her head sympathetically.

“I should have foreseen this when you came for help. It is always a danger with women.” Violet bit at her lower lip. “You are sure you love him? For the inexperienced it is very easy to confuse love and sex.”

Marguerite could feel the blush rising. “Yes, I am sure.”

At that moment a door slammed below. Marguerite jumped, startled. She collapsed back against the pillows, her ears ringing with the pain.

Violet and Felicity turned towards her with hushed words of comfort, ignoring the noise below. Then another door slammed. This time it was the chamber door, slamming against the wall from the force of its opening push.

Tristan strode into the room, his face knotted with worry. He took three steps forward. He stopped, surveyed the situation. His glance paused upon his mother, skipped over Violet, and settled on Marguerite. She watched as he moved towards her, his focus complete.

He paused so close to the bed that he had swept his mother’s skirt. He did not seem to notice. “How are you? I heard –” his words faded. He just kept staring at her, his eyes examining every bit of her being.

“I am as well as can be expected.”

Tristan looked so tired, so worn. “I never want to hear those words again. How are you really? Do you hurt?”

Violet shifted on the bed and Marguerite turned to look at her companions. They looked uncomfortable, but avidly interested. Felicity was focused on Tristan with an almost savage intensity. How long had it been since they had been together in one room?

“I am one big ache.” Marguerite wished there were a way to describe just how deep the pain went. It still wrapped about her soul, and its cuts were not all physical. The emotional ones were by far the worst. “I understand I shall be fine, however.”

“And the –“

“Baby?” Marguerite forced herself to say the word. It felt good to finally have it out there. “The baby has pointedly not been mentioned. And why should you care? It would suit your desires very nicely if I had lost it.”

Cacophony broke out.

“What baby?” said Violet.

“I didn’t know about a child?” said Felicity. “I would not expect him,” she gestured at Tristan, “to tell me, but surely Peter should have said something. I am going to be a grandmother.”

Marguerite heard the words, but only listened for Tristan. He spoke slowly and with care. “I would never wish such a thing. I saw how you mourned for the one who never was. I would never wish such for you.”

“But what about you?” Marguerite answered, her words all a jumble. “What do you want? You said earlier that you would not have children. You made the statement rather forcefully.”

“I may have spoken in haste.” Tristan looked down at his boots. “You have not answered, have you lost the child?”

Marguerite glanced at Violet, and then turned to Felicity. “Well, have I? You have avoided all mention.”

Felicity’s gaze shot back and forth between Tristan and Marguerite. She gasped as if seeking words. “I really don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” Tristan addressed his mother for the first time.

“I did not know about the pregnancy. It never occurred to me.” She stared straight at her son. “It would have been inappropriate for the physician to examine her in such a manner. He checked only her bumps and bruises. The only thing of concern was the knot on her head, and even that he did not find of much import. He left some syrup for the pain. That is all.”

“There is no bleeding.” Marguerite was torn between embarrassment and concern. A small bundle of joy formed in her chest. She was frightened to let it loose.

The lines around Tristan’s mouth had softened, but not disappeared. “We will have to have you examined by Dr. Howe. I will take you home now. Did the physician give any indication that she should not be moved?”

“No.” Felicity shook her head.

“Wait.” Marguerite tried to sound firm. “I have conditions before I go.”

Tristan started to protest, then simply asked, “What?”

“Felicity and Violet have been wonderful. I wish them to feel free to call on me tomorrow.”

Tristan paused. Marguerite could see denial on his face, but all he said was, “Certainly.”

“And I wish you to be there with me. A woman needs her husband at such a moment.” Marguerite lay back against the pillows. She did not wish to see his expression.

Even so she thought she heard him swear once silently, then, “Of course, I would be delighted to attend you and your company.”

The little bundle of joy began to leak. If Tristan could begin to form a rapprochement with his mother then perhaps . . .” Marguerite turned to her husband. “You may take me home then,” was all she said.



Marguerite awoke for the third time that day feeling groggy and disoriented. Dr. Howe had been by earlier and his examination had revealed that her pregnancy was still progressing. There was no sign that her trauma had caused any difficulties.

She had been given a dose of the syrup for pain and fallen asleep soon after, exhausted by the accident and the emotional upheaval preceding it. Now, as she stared around her room, the lengthening shadows betraying how late it had become, she found herself held in a state of restless anticipation.

Tristan had been neither the careful, caring man she had come to love nor the remote, calculated one she had come to dread, when he had escorted her home from his mother’s. He had been solicitous and kind, but his hands had been fisted with tension.

She clung to the memory of his brief words, “I may have spoken in haste.” Did that mean he did want the child? And could she trust a man who could so coldly turn off his feelings in less time than it took to blink.

There was a light tap on the door and a maid entered with her dinner tray.

Should she call for her husband? Would putting off their confrontation serve a purpose? She took the tray on her lap and pondered. No, she was done chasing. It was time for him to come to her, to prove himself to her.



Tristan swung his feet up onto his desk. He lit a cheroot, filling his mouth with the fragrant smoke, following with a swig of sweet brandy. He gazed out the window at the gathering twilight. It was too early for either the smoke or the drink. By all that was proper he should have waited until after dinner to indulge. Not that it was the first time he had been so precipitous. He took another puff and then another sip.

He had no appetite for dinner. He had sent the maid with a tray for Marguerite, but his own stomach was still a tangle. He sipped carefully trying to center on the burning flavor that filled his mouth.

It was hopeless. Whatever he did, all he could see was Marguerite pale on his mother’s blankets, her face pallid and devoid of expression. Had he done that to her? Did she really believe he wished she had lost the child?

He placed the brandy on his desk and swung his legs down, too restless to stay still. It seemed every decision he made about her was wrong.

He forced her to marriage when it was not necessary.

He avoided her bed and then found that was the last of her desires.

He indulged himself in her sensuality with no thought to the future.

And, he spoke without thought. She had become so much a part of him, that his internal debate was spoken out loud.

That was the core of the matter. He had not meant his rambling words – no, the truth was that he had meant them. He must be honest about that. He merely had not considered them, not given himself a chance to realize that he did trust Marguerite, the sense of family she had built between them these past months was not a lie.

And then there was Lord Simon Moreland. Did he tell her what he now knew? Was there any purpose in telling her that her attacker was somebody she danced with, laughed with? If she did not remember was that her mind seeking its own protection?

Damn. He could not tell her. Not that. There was no purpose to it. After their encounter today Moreland would stay far from her, indeed, from all of England. She might wonder at his desertion, but it would not be for long. No, trust or no trust, that was one secret he would keep.

That did not answer the greater question, what did he now do about his wife? Could he convince her that he now recognized the folly of his response? Even if he did could they return to the way they had been? These past months had been – magic. It was a ridiculous sentiment for a man of reason, but he could think of no other explanation. Marguerite had filled his life with magic. How else to explain how little he’d thought of the government’s puzzles these last months. They had become a hobby rather than the reason for his being.

And his mother, he had actually spoken to Felicity. He had invited her to his home and promised to be there to greet her. That was nothing less than enchantment.

He turned and looked up at the portrait of his father that hung above the fireplace. He would have expected to rapprochement, instead the deep brown eyes of the portrait shone with the kindness he so well remembered.

Kindness. Perhaps that was the key. He would go to Marguerite not thinking what he wanted, what would gain him the prize, rather he would approach her with the sole goal of determining what it was she wanted, she needed. He would do what was necessary to ensure that she received what she desired. He would make that his only ambition.

He took the stairs two at a time.