Taste of Desire

chapter Two



Tristan watched Marguerite’s brow pucker and relax. Her breath quickened and he found his gaze drawn to the rapid rise and fall of her small, high breasts. He felt his own pulse speed. She continued to stare at him. He could feel heat in her gaze, but also a question.

You do know the child is not yours, do you not?

With every second that passed the question echoed again between them, though not a sound was whispered.

Tristan focused on her slender fingers as they rubbed against a frayed spot on her skirt. Fingers that were the only part of her he’d ever given into the longing to touch. “Well, yes, I did realize that.”

She blushed at the irony that filled his tone. His ready wit had supplied the words while his still mind raced. He let his gaze rise to settle again on her refined features, those full lips. He considered her pedigree.

Was she the key that would unlock the door? Was there a drawing room anywhere that would be shut to her? “I do know something about how these things work, you know, and then there is the fact that we haven’t seen each other for over a year.” He focused again on her mouth. “And, I don’t believe we’d progressed as far as a single kiss –”

The dear girl blushed red, her entire face taking the shade of a polished apple. Her gaze focused on his evening slippers. She was enchanting. “I am aware you know more about such matters than I. But if you know it is not your child, then why –-?”

“Why would I offer to marry you?”

“Yes.” It was little more than a mumbled whisper. Her eyes darted up, caught his then fled again. “This is not what I planned. I cannot marry you.”

He stopped, pondered. Marriage was a momentous step – even for such a cause. Why was he so willing to marry her when he had never been ready to marry before? No matter the cause, he had always balked at this final gate.

Halt the horses.

This he had never considered.

She wouldn’t marry him.

Was she insane?

A sane woman wouldn’t show up on his doorstep interrupting his guests, wouldn’t look up at him with clear blue eyes that had his every protective instinct clamoring and then refuse his proposal.

She’d said “no.”

No one said “no” to him. Why, he was famous for his ability to persuade. He pulled his shoulders back and stood to his full height. He let his voice ring full and clear. “Nonetheless, it is what I offer.”

“I do not understand.”

He could hardly hear her.

“Let’s see,” he began, letting his instincts run free. He remembered her sweetness, her beauty, the innocence she wore draped about her even now. He had been drawn to her on their previous meetings, never been irritated in her presence. He would have claimed her before if it had not been against every principle he held dear. But if he wed her – and a wife would be very useful at the moment – then he could make her his own and do right by her also. It was all so straightforward, if he would just let it be. Now that the plan had formed, coolly, collectedly he must win through. He moved closer to her. “According to you I promised to help you if you ever needed me. Yes?”

“Yes, at Rose’s wedding.”

“And, being a gentleman, I must trust the word of a lady. Don’t you agree? And, being an honorable man, I must do all within my capability to fulfill a promise. Is that not enough reason?”

“Well –”

“No, you’re right. It might suffice in a Minerva Press novel. But not in reality.”

“Then?”

He strode over and stared out the window. He pitched his voice lower – that always worked with women, drew them closer. “Maybe I am overcome by your beauty and by memories of our walk together in the garden, and simply cannot wait another moment to make you mine.”

He turned back toward her. If only she’d lift her eyes from the floorboards and look back at him. He knew he could persuade her. He focused on the perfect shell of her ear, imagined nibbling it. His desire cascaded through his words. “You are very beautiful. I have no doubt I shall relish making you mine.”

Was that a snort? It couldn’t be –- still, part of laying a trap was knowing when to pull back.

“No, I rather suppose that won’t work,” he continued. “I made it a little too obvious – did I not? – that I wasn’t sure who you were at first. And a lovesick swain would hardly wait a year to propose.”

Her pale blue eyes opened wide. She sniffled. The blush had faded from her skin and she looked unhealthily wan. He strode towards her and stood near, ready in case she should faint. She continued to stare at him with wide, seeking eyes – eyes undisturbed by the promised passion of his tone.

“What other reason could I have for asking you to be my bride? Maybe I am really a spy, and my profligate life has all been a cover. Now, for some secret reason of my own, I need a wife, and respectability. If she is with child and I can convince my more –- questionable -– acquaintances that I am forced to the altar, so much the better.”

Marguerite only stared at him in confusion.

“No? You don’t believe that one. I’ll have to do better.”

He sat beside her on the settee, careful to keep their bodies from touching. “What about this, then? I am tired of being pestered by my mother, my aunts, and my younger brother to marry and produce an heir. Poor Peter, my brother, is terrified I am going to meet my demise and leave him the title and estates. So, maybe I simply wish to manage matters in one fell swoop.”

He could feel Marguerite tremble, although they did not touch. Her gaze had returned to her half boots.

“This must all seem a great joke to you,” Marguerite croaked, as if addressing her lap, “but it is my whole life. I believe one of the requirements of producing an heir is actual paternity.”

“That’s the rumor, but it is not a fact.”

“Now you are just being ridiculous, toying with me.” Her head snapped up, her eyes glistened – with tears or anger? “I would not have expected that of you.”

“But you don’t know me, do you?” Indeed, at this moment he didn’t know himself. Had he grown so cynical that even marriage proposals had become a sport? He drew in a breath, considered. No, his plan was sound. His words were sound. He felt no desire to change their flow. She would suit his needs perfectly. His gaze swept her slender figure. She really was exquisite. Yes, he would offer her protection from scandal and she . . . .

“Apparently, no.” She interrupted his thought. “If this is your response, no, I do not know you. All I had hoped was to be put in sufficient funds to make do until Rose has delivered her child. Then I would trust in her charity and shelter. Truly, sir, it did not seem such a great deal to ask.”

“But it is not what I offer.” Money. He should just give her the funds and be done with it. But, his instinct again clamored against it. Instinct never failed him. He let the words keep forming. The silver-tongued charmer he’d played for so long served well. “I have told you the help I am prepared to present. How do you reply?”

She lifted her head and turned towards him, dark shadows stark beneath her eyes. “Sir, you cannot be serious,” she argued further. “No man deliberately claims a child that is not his own and names it his heir.” Her voice quavered with weariness.

“Why not?” He could see the confusion cross her face at his question.

“I do not understand.”

“It seems a simple question. Why should I not marry you if I choose to?”

“You are a marquess. You cannot mean to bestow that title and all that comes with it upon a bastard?”

He stopped short. That was the most delicious garnish to this whole affair. He resisted the urge to smile. He’d long wished a solution that would spare his brother Peter the burden of the title. Instinct and gut reaction had again proved right. A new wife would not only provide cover for his activities, but oh, he could not wait to see his mother’s face. The solution was simply perfect.

“Again, why not?” He reached out and took one of her hands between his own. It was like picking up a handful of snow. He rubbed his hands back and forth over her fingers. “Why should one wish to be a marquess at all, if not to have the right to act upon one’s whims?”

“Are you mad?”

“I’ve never considered the question, but I think not. If one were mad, I daresay, one would be unlikely to know it. Yet, it seems much more likely that I am merely overindulged and spoilt.”

“I think perhaps you should consider again.”

“My sanity or my proposal?”

“Is there a difference between them?”

Tristan pursed his lips and considered her sharp reply. Patience. A few more gentle pushes and she might provide his salvation. He could not afford to scare her off. He edged closer to her. “You demonstrate more wit than I had expected. I took you for a demure, quiet girl. I am surprised at your cheekiness. Perhaps I should reconsider, then.”

“Yes, that is just what I am saying. You cannot possibly want to marry me.”

“Oh, but I do.” He raised her hands to his mouth, brushed a kiss against them, and let their joined hands fall again. He had done that on their first meeting. Did she remember? He let his glance slide over her face, paused at her lips, moved on and held her gaze. “Have I not yet supplied a valid reason?”

“No.” She slipped her hands from his, and turned to face straight ahead, ankles tight together. “You have not.”

“Oh, I know. My mistress, who desires to become my wife, and has threatened scandal if I do not give in, is pursuing me. Oh, but then she could still cause a scandal if I wed you. And where would that leave us?” He leaned forward until his breath brushed her disheveled curls causing them to stir.

He let his voice drop and grow somber. “I’ve got one more: My two best friends have both married in recent years, and I find myself taken by the vision of domestic life they now lead. There is something immensely pleasing in the ease of companionship they share with their respective wives.”

“You play with me, my lord.” She sat even straighter, resisting him, her eyes locked straight ahead.

He saw the pain in those eyes and it bit at him. He slid to his knees and knelt before her, letting the charming seducer depart, and spoke plainly and with sincerity. “No, I do not. At this moment in time I have no wish greater than to have you do me the honor of accepting my proposal, my protection. It would serve us both well.”

Her head dropped forward, the blond hair falling about her cheeks. Her fragile shoulders shook. She had begun to cry. The shudders grew in strength and, as he continued to kneel at her feet, paralysis clutched at him. He could offer wit and passion, but comfort? That had never been demanded.

“Shh, don’t do that, my dear. All will be well. Really, it will.”

Her eyes came up, and he saw their glazed shine. The pale lips curved up despite the teeth clenched firmly against the lower lip. It was laughter. Not tears. Bitter laughter.

“How,” she said, “can you possibly promise that? I am with child, unmarried, and about to be disowned by my mother. I cannot turn to my sister, the one person who cares for me, and, to make it all the more enjoyable, my stomach has taken residence in the back of my throat and I fear I may be embarrassingly ill at any moment. How, then, pray tell, can everything be well?”

“If you will but marry me, I shall be your surety that all will be well. I will do all in my power to care for you and provide whatever you seek.” He spoke from a place long untouched. “You will not find yourself with a babe in arms and still unwed. There will be no need to trouble your sister. And, I am sure, your mother will not dream of disowning you when you are a marchioness. The only field wherein I shall not claim victory is your stomach, but even there I am sure I can have some delicacy prepared that will tempt rather than upset.”

“You have not met my mother.” There was still laughter in her voice, but it grew increasingly hysterical. “Your proposal was not of her devising, and, therefore, not acceptable. Besides, you are unknown to the women of her parish, and that will matter more than your hallowed bloodline. I can assure you, she will find no more favor in this marriage than do I.”

He stood up with a jerk. Half an hour ago he had not thought of marriage, and now he was working his damnedest to make it happen. The gods must be laughing.

“Then stay,” he said finally. “For all my levity, the offer was sincere. I may not be able to explain my motivations to your satisfaction, but do not doubt me.”

“Why not?” The words tore out of her. “I did not doubt you a year ago when you promised me help. Even when I knew you didn’t mean it, that they were merely words, some part of me believed you. I thought you would honor your pledge if I came and begged. And that is what I am doing, you see.”

Tristan turned back to face her. He stepped forward and placed a light hand at each side of her face, holding her captive. He spoke gently, “I will give you the money you require.”

Her body jerked in surprise. “You will?”

“Yes, I’ll send Winters to fetch it in a moment, but first let us talk for a moment longer.”

She shifted and he could sense her desire to flee, to demand the funds now and run. Her chest expanded and she spoke. “If that is what you desire. I am hardly in a position to refuse.” Still she edged towards the door.

He walked forward until he towered above her, deliberately demonstrating the powerlessness of her position. “I’ll have a hack summoned. What is your destination?”

“I have told you. I would retire to the country until my sister has her child.”

“I understand that, but what is your destination now, tonight? Do you have a friend who will take you in? But no, if you did, it would be their residence that you graced with your presence now. So, which way with you?”

“Why, to the coach, of course.” She looked up at him as if he were daft. There was still an edge of hysteria about her.

“My dear, that establishes your manner of conveyance, not your destination. Do you intend to sleep on the box?”

Marguerite, having no reply, lowered her eyes.

“And – by yourself? You must have had a marvelous journey here, if you are so eager to attempt it again. Perhaps you will find an inn? Will you sit up this night and partake of a hardy draught of ale? I am sure you’ll find the nighttime company to your liking.”

“I had not thought –“

“Clearly you hadn’t.” He knew he sounded cruel, but this could only be a kindness. He would not think of what fate would await her if she left with no destination, no clear plan.

“But yes, I can sit up in the tavern tonight, waiting for the morning coach. It cannot be too bad.”

“I can tell you have not had much exposure to London.”

“I did visit Rose last spring, and, of course, there was her first husband’s memorial.”

“I am sure that you spent many evenings on each of those occasions wandering alone.”

“Of course not. But that does not mean –”

“I am rather afraid it does. You would not be safe. Do you wish yourself harm?”

She slumped for a moment, but then pulled herself up, refusing to be intimidated. The firelight lit her hair as she moved.

“You can send a footman with me. That would keep me safe.”

“So now you require funds and a footman, too?”

“Yes.” Her voice shook, but she refused to back down.

“That can be managed.” He let her have her victory, then parried. “Where exactly will you go, once you are in this wondrous public coach?”

“I’ve already said, the country.”

“That covers rather a lot of territory. Do you have a more specific location, in case I should be in need of repayment?”

She paused and turned away, walking to the window. She stared out into the darkness. “I’ve heard Cumberland is pretty. I’ll take a cottage there.”

“And how will you find this cottage?”

“Ah.” She continued to face out into the night. The window overlooked the rear garden and there was not a sparkle of light to be seen. “I will hire someone to find a cottage. A manager.”

“So I am now supplying funds for a manager as well.”

“I will find someone reasonable,” her voice shook at the end.

“How? In my experience a low price is often linked to dishonesty and shoddy practices.”

“I am a good judge of character.”

He stared at her belly. “And why do you not want to contact your child’s father?”

“That was different.” Her hands clenched at her sides.

“If you say so.”

“It was.”

“I haven’t argued.” He stepped closer again, resisting the strange urge to take her in his arms and offer comfort. “But, I daresay I’d best supply an estate agent, as well, to find you a quiet spot. An estate agent, a footman, and funds to keep you. Is anything else required?

“No.”

“I am sorry I didn’t hear you.” He took another step forward. “Can you speak up?”

“No, I need nothing further.”

“I am so glad you know how to cook. So many women don’t.”

“I will be fine.”

“You do cook, then?” He continued to watch her. Her tightly drawn body was vibrating with the subtlety of a violin string. She could not resist much longer.

“I said I’ll be fine,” her voice still held surprising determination.

“I’ll add a cook to the list, then. Perhaps a maid, as well. You don’t seem to have a knack for hair.”

Marguerite’s hand rose, as he had known it would, and brushed over her wilted locks. He could not mistake its trembling.

He moved to stand close behind her. Only a breath of air separated them. “I do not believe I can give you the funds you desire. It seems a most foolish enterprise. My plan is much sounder. You must believe I have your best interests at heart.”

“Why should I?” Her whole body was shaking visibly now.

Again, he experienced an urge to pull her against him, to cradle her with his strength. His body was responding to her closeness. All the cards were stacked against her.

“Would it be so hard to trust me?” He whispered into her hair; a light citrus scent tickled his nose. “I seek only what’s best for you. What other reason could I have?”

“I do not know,” her voice dropped. She sounded so defeated. “None of this makes sense. All I know is that marriage between us is nonsensical. I cannot do it.”

“Forgive me, but I am not sure you have much choice.”

“I beg your pardon.” The laughter was gone.

“You are more than welcome to leave.” This was the moment. He refused to push her further. His own needs were not worth the pain that seeped from her. If she did not surrender he would find some other plan to meet his needs. He could, however, not send her off to face the world alone. “I will even supply the money for the hack if you are without ready funds. Perhaps you could even persuade me to part with coach fare back to your mother. That, at least, would seem logical.”

“But, I cannot.”

“You have not yet said why, but I will trust your reasons are not lacking.”

“Then, you’ll give me the money to go away, after all?” She turned to face him. He could hear the edge of hope in her voice. “It will not be much. I can live simply. Just until after Rose’s confinement.”

This would be the last chance. He should stop it now, but his voice answered even if as his mind turned away, “No.”

“But –”

“Your choice is simple. Your mother or me.”



Marguerite stared down at her hands, clenched tight in her lap. Any sensible girl would accept his offer, she knew. And she was sensible. So why couldn’t she say yes? It would be the prudent thing to do. Even if he changed his mind and withdrew his offer later, surely he would be duty bound to help her.

But, no, she couldn’t do it. Bile rose in her throat. She had run away to avoid one proposal – if one could call her mother’s demand a proposal.

“Mr. Clark and I have decided the two of you will marry. The first banns will be read Sunday.”

No, that did not sound like a proposal.

Tristan’s offer had not been a proposal, either.

No. She couldn’t do it, no matter how desperate she was, no matter how he might attract her senses. Marriage to Tristan might have been her dream once, but never under these circumstances. Why would she flee one marriage just to tangle herself in another? She might be insane, but it was time she took some control of her life.

She wouldn’t be in this situation if . . . No, she was not going to think of that. She had to remain focused on the present.

Maybe, if he’d been the Tristan she remembered from the garden, maybe then she could have faced the risk – but she would not tie herself to this stranger who looked through her and planned as if she had no say.

She would take the offered coach fare and leave. She would not have to return home. Marguerite stared back into Tristan’s quicksilver eyes. It would not be much money, but other women must have survived on less. She wrung her hands again. Her fingers were so cold.

But Marguerite knew that she was not other women. She had never done anything but help Mama with the household. She was more naïve at twenty than most women were at fifteen. She doubted knowing how to devise a menu would provide much support.

She did have her needlework. Being a seamstress could not be too hard.

“Are you going to give me an answer?” Tristan’s commanding voice sliced through her thoughts.

“Yes. I mean, no. I cannot marry you.” She wished her tone did not quiver so at the end.

“A pity.” For a moment she thought he would give in, grant her the ability to leave. Then his face firmed, but his voice sounded off. “I was anticipating adding another cuckoo to the tree.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just mumbling my broken heart.” He sounded so sarcastic. Where was the man she had known on that one magical night?

“Stop it.” She stood, hoping her legs would hold her. “Just give me my fare and I will trouble you no more.”

“I will have Winters fetch it.”

Tristan stared at her hard. Was that acceptance and perhaps relief she saw cross his face? Then he stepped back, and turned to the fire.

“Or perhaps I should send for Wulf and place this mess on his shoulders. What about the father of your child? We have not spoken much of him.” His hands dropped back to his sides and he stepped away.

“What of him?” She should have been prepared for this question.

“Why do you not go to him?”

“God, no.” Tremors swept Marguerite at even the mention of . . . . No, it was unthinkable.

“Is he already wed?” Tristan’s voice turned cold, losing all trace of that enveloping warmth.

“No, but it is not possible.” Her mind froze when she even considered the possibility. Some things could not be discussed.

“Why?”

“It is really none of your concern.” His iciness had made it easier to turn the question aside. “Are you ever going to call for my hack and give me the fare?”

“You asked for my help. That makes it my concern. If he doesn’t wish to wed you, just tell me who he is and I am sure I can persuade him to a different conclusion.” She had always considered him a diplomat not a fighter, but now the warrior shone through. Even in her misery, she could not mistake his magnificence.

“No,” she forced the word out.

Tristan did not answer. He tapped his fingers on the table, fingers she had felt against her skin.

“I brought this upon myself and I will take full responsibility. Beyond that, I do not wish to talk of it,” she said. He tapped again. She remembered the whisper of his thumb against her wrist. Did she owe him anything? “I never meant to – he is not a husband I would ever choose.”

Tristan let his gaze drop to her belly. Even though it was still flat, Marguerite felt as if it grew beneath his gaze. There was no jest in him now.

“I think the time for choice has passed. I was wrong to offer you two choices. It is clear that the best resort is to return you to your child’s father. No man would refuse, and if he attempted to –”

“No.”

“Has he then refused to wed you?”

“No, he does not know.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“No, and I have no intention of doing so. If you do not call Winters, I will walk away now.” She turned, feeling the need to flee. She did not know how much more she could take.

“Stop.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“That is my line.”

“I am too tired to play with words.” Soon she would cry. She felt the tears welling behind her eyes. It was unbearable that this mocking man should witness her defeat. “Coming here was a mistake. I just did not know where else to turn.”

She lifted her head and their glances met. Something swirled and shifted in his eyes. He held out his hand.

“Please, come sit by the fire again, and I will attempt to discuss this more rationally. You look pale and chilled.” His voice softened again, beckoning her, beguiling her. “I will call a maid to fetch you something to eat. Surely you don’t mean to head back without taking some refreshment? You look in need of sustenance. Stay. You have provided far more entertainment this night than I expect from any woman.”

Blast him. She blinked rapidly. Could he not he remain serious for even a moment? She turned again to leave. She would not be an amusement, not when her whole life swung in the balance.

“I am sorry.” He switched again, sounding so sincere. “I’ve spoilt things again. Come, Marguerite. Come and sit by the fire and I promise to behave myself. Come and tell me your secrets and perhaps you can persuade me to open my purse a little farther. I did promise you my help, and despite my foolishness, I am a man of honor. Come and persuade me.”

She wavered.

“I see the uncertainty in your eyes. Come, sit. What harm can there be in trying a honeyed tongue? You’ve come this far. Will you concede defeat so easily? Perhaps you may yet convince me to open my purse.”



Tristan watched her pause. She trailed her slender fingers over the door handle. He sensed her indecision. What further lure could he provide? “Don’t you want to eat before heading back to the coaching inn? I can’t imagine their fare can match mine? And watching a woman eat always puts me in a good mood, a generous mood.”

“It is too late for another coach to depart.” Her words were barely a whisper as she stepped towards the chair.

Victory. Tristan resisted the urge to smile. She was sniffing the bait, but not yet been trapped. “What can I have fetched to tempt you? There should still be some venison from dinner.”

She paled.

“Ah, , what about toast soldiers and a nice pot of tea?”

“With lots of lemon and sugar. Lots of lemon.”

She was caught. She didn’t realize it as she sank into the wingchair, but there would be no escape. The tension seeped from his shoulders. She was his.

He rang for the maid and ordered the repast.

“I’ll be sure all is as you request.”

“Why are you being so cordial, suddenly?”

“I told you, I like watching women eat. I am already anticipating the event.”

“Tell me the truth,” she answered, her gaze sweeping his face. “I do not believe you do anything without a more definitive purpose. I stayed with my sister long enough to hear Wulf tell many tales of schooldays and later. He said you always got your way. He was not sure how you did it, but somehow people always acted as you wanted.”

“I am sure that can’t be true. Why would anyone do something just because I said so?” He gave her his most innocent grin.

Her eyes fastened on his lips. That was good. Once women concentrated on his lips . . . He let his own gaze linger on hers. Now that she was sitting, their color had returned and they were a split cherry, ripe for the tasting. He could see them part with each breath, the lower one moist from her tongue. He leaned towards her slightly, letting the spell grow, entwine about them both. He raised his glance slightly, prepared to meet her darkened gaze, the pupils dilating with desire.

She drew back suddenly, her lips clamping shut, her eyes burning with – suspicion.

This time it was he who shook his head, trying to shake free the blood that had rushed there.

“Wulf was right,” she said.

“What?”

“You weave a web of words and charm and . . . I must be going.”

Just as she prepared to rise, the maid entered the room with a tray. The steam rose from the pot and filled the room with its light, crisp scent.

Her eyes fastened on the tray, on the lemon. Her lips parted again and he could see her tongue dart over her teeth. She dropped back into the seat.

“I suppose you were right that a little refreshment would not do any harm, but then I really must leave.”

“Whatever you wish, my dear.” He’d never considered the seductive powers of tea before.

“Do not call me that. If you will not be serious I will depart immediately.” Her fingers were already reaching for the wedge of lemon. She picked it up and with the tiniest glance at him, brought it to her lips. Her eyes closed in rapture. The tiny muscles in her cheeks working as she nibbled at the edge.

“You have most unusual tastes,” he said.

She dropped the wedge, then hurriedly lifted it again.

“I do not really, but it just looked so inviting, like it would taste of summer. It’s so tart and fresh. I didn’t even know I wanted it until you mentioned tea and then I craved it. I love lemons. I always have.” She brought the wedge back to her mouth and this time she sucked. There could be no other word for it, those red lips wrapped tight around –

Tris shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He forced his gaze away. Citrus fruits were not erotic. Neither were pregnant chits. Why then were his breeches growing so uncomfortable?

“Have some tea with that.”

“Oh, you’re right, I suppose I should. I am forgetting my manners. It is hard to maintain proper decorum with a near stranger who has just asked you to marry him.” She was rambling, but no longer looked so desperate.

He poured the tea into her cup, a most unfamiliar task, and offered her the bowl of sugar. She took two heaping scoops and then squeezed three slices of lemon.

She sipped.

And smiled.

It was the first genuine smile he’d seen flit across her face and it caught him off guard. Just for a moment he was back in that long-ago ballroom, watching a young enchantress glide down the stairs, her enthusiasm barely restrained. Her aquamarine eyes had flashed at him and he’d been the one captured, all thought of purpose gone. It had been all he could do to restrain himself until he could maneuver her into some dark corner of the garden. He clenched his hand into a fist, fighting the remembrance of how soft her palm had been in his, how she’d quivered with first awareness as he stroked that virginal skin. He’d let her distract him then; he would not now. He had determined his goal and he would pursue it.

“Would you like some? There are two cups.” Her question caught him off guard again.

“No. I am not partial to tea. I prefer coffee or chocolate, and then only in the morning.”

“Oh.” She bit into a toast point, nipped at an escaping crumb. Her lips had been so red, so innocent in the moonlight. He’d known she’d never been kissed, had been slowly seducing her into his arms when they’d been disturbed.

“What are you thinking about? You have a most peculiar expression.” Her teeth caught at her lower lip.

“Nothing in particular,” he answered. Damn it all. He supposed himself the master wordsmith and he couldn’t seem to keep his mind off her mouth for more than a moment. This would not do. “Or rather, I was merely considering your situation.”

“I thought we were done discussing that.”

“Actually, I think we have barely begun.”

“How do you suppose?”

“Well, it seems that we have not reached a solution that is agreeable to us both.”

“I do not see that it needs be agreeable to you. It is my life.”

How little she knew. “Then why will you not be sensible? Do you think I am without suspicions of your intentions? You have become much too amenable to returning to the mother you fled from. I do not believe it.”

As if on cue, her eyes dropped to her plate. The hand holding the toast shook until delicate crumbs fluttered through the air. So, he had been correct.

“Even I, with all my acknowledged wickedness, cannot send you out with only a handful of coin and no known destination.”

She kept her head lowered and brought up the tea for a sip. No, it was more of a gulp. She placed the cup back on the saucer. It clattered loudly, echoing in the growing silence.

He walked around the small table and knelt down before her. Her shoulders straightened as she attempted to edge away from him. He pressed forward against her slightly open knees.

She turned away and stared at the old masters on the wall.

“Look at me, Marguerite.”

She kept her eyes turned away and did not answer.

This close he could smell the dust of her journey, the faint floral scent she wore, and over it all the crisp tang of the lemons. He caught one of her hands between his, rubbing his fingers gently across it, and then brought it to his lips. First, he nuzzled her wrist, then worked his way over her palm and up to the soft pads at the base her fingers. The sharp scent of the lemon was overpowering and, unable to resist, his tongue darted out and tasted.

She turned back to him, startled.

“This is where we stopped a year ago. I tasted only your fingers, never your lips. Do you wish it had been different?”

“What I wish is of no consequence now.” Despite her words, her glance moved over his face and settled on his mouth. He parted his lips and watched her inhale. He bent closer.

She did not draw back.

He pressed tighter against her legs, and moved until only a butterfly’s eyelash separated them. He could feel her breath upon his lips, but he did not close that final gap.

They breathed as one and he forced himself to a perfect stillness. She would come to him; he need only wait.

He felt her eyes move up his face, the weight of her gaze caressing him, assessing him. Their glances joined and, with a sigh of surrender, she moved forward.

The door banged open. A commanding presence strode in.

“What is going on here? I could not believe it when Lady Carrington told me I was needed. Here. A lady of my consequence appearing at a bachelor residence. Unheard of. But, I see that she was correct. Miss Marguerite Wilkes, what would your sister say about this? Alone with a gentleman well past any decent hour. And Wimberley, you of all men should know better, and do know better. Huntington would skin you alive if he knew with whom you dallied. You know what this means, I trust?”

Tristan rocked back on his heels. He could not help the ironic smile that spread across his face.

Lady Smythe-Burke had arrived.