Taste of Desire

chapter Four



Lady Smythe-Burke, two maids, the curate, herself and Tristan in a drawing room. A wedding breakfast consisting of one pheasant and two types of soup. One only slightly used gown half a size too big, the wrong color, and ten years out of style. Vows so hurriedly said Marguerite couldn’t remember what she’d promised. It was not the recipe for happily ever after.

Despite Tristan’s mention of Minerva Press, this was no novel she’d ever read, even hidden in her bedroom by candlelight. Marguerite stared along the bench seat of the carriage at her – at her husband. He lounged relaxed along the bench, his long thighs almost brushed her hand. She curled her fingers, intensely aware of their closeness. She swallowed.

She must feel gratitude. He had saved her from disgrace and despair. He had elevated her to a position far above any she could have dreamed. With barely a flick of his wrist and his signature on a piece of paper, he had made her every problem disappear.

He gazed towards the half open window. Did he even remember she was seated across from him? She was aware of his every breath, and still he seemed to think he was alone. Still, he had saved her. She should be grateful. So, why did she want to grit her teeth and spit at him?

He certainly looked the storybook hero, all fine blue wool and gold embroidery. He should have appeared the fop – instead, her toes curled at his nearness, his tousled golden hair shining almost white in the sun that seeped through the window. It made her want to spit all the more.

What type of lady was she? She’d never felt like this before. Bloody, blasted hell. She blushed even thinking the words. Her sister Rose could swear like a sailor, but Marguerite had never even thought the words.

Now, when it was too late, her mind was full of them. She didn’t feel gratitude. She felt anger, anger that he should sit there, so careless with his power. Her life had been spun around and still she was in the same place – lacking all control of her own destiny.

She was married to a man she hardly knew, with child by a man she never wanted to be in the same room with again, and her stomach was beginning to protest the sway of the carriage. Life could not get any worse.

The carriage jolted to a halt.

Without even looking in her direction Tristan swung the door open without waiting for assistance. He kicked the step loose and jumped down, only then turning towards her and without meeting her eye, held out his arm.

She placed her icy fingers about it, thrust her shoulders back, and, taking a deep breath of air, attempted not to lose the wedding breakfast on his boots.

The house loomed above her. She’d known it was imposing, but now it seemed ready to engulf her in its majesty. What was she doing? This was not what she had wanted.

She bit down on her lip hard and followed Tristan as he marched towards the door. It swung open before him.

Taking it as his due, he proceeded. If she hadn’t been holding fast to his arm she would have turned and fled, as she should have when she’d first arrived a week ago. Was it only a week?

Her feet dragged to halt. She would not do this.

It was not too late.

They would just rip that piece of paper in half and pretend it never happened. She did not know what she would do then, but it would not be this.

Tristan turned as her stalled feet caused her to pull at his arm. Her feet would not move another step. She stood looking up at the façade of his home and could not move – except for the tremor that began in her knees and spread until she was shaking like a kite string in a gusting wind.

“Is something wrong?” His tone was so correct, so condescending. Was she supposed to grovel in thanks for all he done?

“What could possibly be wrong?” Her voice was high and brittle.

“You stopped.”

“I had not noticed.” If only her feet would move. If only his arm were not the only thing keeping her upright.

“You’re shaking.”

“I must be cold. There is a chill in the air.”

For the first time all day Tristan looked at her, really looked at her. He moved to stand beside her, his silver eyes locked on hers, the heat of his body warming her.

“I didn’t mean it to be like this,” he said. “Somehow it’s spun out of control like a child’s top. I am best when directing the action.”

“I thought this is what you wanted. I would never have agreed, I would have gone along with it all if you had not persuaded me it was for the best. I am already disgraced. I could have stood the scandal.”

He raised one hand and stroked her cheek. “Maybe you could, maybe you couldn’t. I know I couldn’t have stood it for you. It is what I wanted. I knew what I did and why. I should have offered more reassurance. I am sorry.”

“No, I am sorry.” She knew she was about to ramble and tried bite down on her tongue, but still it ran on. “I still do not understand why you did it, why you asked me. You could have had anyone and you chose me – hardly your first choice – only then Lady Smythe-Burke bullied things along and . . . Oh, I do not know . . . I could still run away . . . nobody would blame you.”

“Do not doubt that I knew what I did, and why I did it. I considered no others. Our marriage suits my plans. What matters now is how we proceed from here.”

He placed a hand on each side of her face and turned it until they faced each other fully. She could feel the roughness of a callous on the firm flesh of his palm. For a moment they stood there, still. Marguerite could feel the heat of the morning sun upon her face, smell the greenery freshly cut and neatened for late autumn. With each additional second that Tristan stared down at her she could feel this single moment being etched forever in her mind.

He moved then, only half a step closer, but it was enough. She drew a deep breath into her lungs, filling them as if it would be her last. She focused on his mouth. He bent his head, his lips only inches from her own. How warm his breath was. She inhaled and knew they breathed the same air. She raised her head up slightly. This is what she had dreamed of – what had led her to this moment. She swayed towards him. Her gaze fastened on his lips.

He made that last move, his lips parting and – she turned her head, his kiss brushing over her cheek. It was all simply too much.

He stepped back, not saying a word.

“I am sorry.” It passed her lips as a whisper.

“There is no need to be, these things take time, on occasion.”

“No, it is not that, it is only that . . . .”

“That what?”

How could she want this so much and still refuse to dip even a toe in the pond? Marguerite closed her eyes, not wanting to see his expression. “It is only that I have never been kissed before.”

“Never been kissed before?”



Tristan watched her flush as he stared at her belly. Never been kissed before. The words ricocheted through him. It was not possible. His own desire caught at him, leaving him frustrated and burning.

“Do not mock me.” She spoke with quiet dignity.

“Forgive me. You make it too easy. How can you not have been kissed before?”

“I do not comprehend what you find so complex. It is a simple statement. I have never been kissed before.”

“But . . .”

Marguerite curled her hands about her waist. She stared at the hollies, refusing to look at him.

“I thought you said you understood how these things worked.” She kept her eyes on the bush. “It did not require kissing.”

She reached out and cradled a cluster of berries in her hand. Was she ignoring him? She answered his questions, but her mind seemed elsewhere.

He coughed, forcing her eyes back to him. He needed to understand. He offered his arm. “Forgive me. You are, of course, correct. There is no kissing actually required, although I hardly see the point, the pleasure, if one does not – What a distasteful thought.”

“I never said it was pleasure.” A deep flush washed across her pallid cheeks as she took his arm. She turned her eyes downward. Why wouldn’t she look at him, speak straight to him?

She just kept staring at the ground. He could see her discomfort with the situation and his mind reeled with the implications. He had assumed an ineligible lover – but pale cheeks and trembling fingers were not the mark of a woman who had known passion’s fulfillment. What type of man made love to a woman without kissing her, adoring her? Her lover must have been as inexperienced as she, a raw youth.

“Ah, well then I do have much to teach you,” his voice caught and dropped as his body reacted to his thoughts. He would be sure that by morning she knew the full meaning of pleasure. Her cheeks would flush with color and her eyes gleam with delight. He reached out and ran a single finger down the side of her face. “No woman should be left with so little comprehension of what can be.”

“I hardly think –“ She finally lifted her head and met his gaze.

“I am your husband.” He refused to let her look away. She shivered and then dragged her glance downward again.

His task might be more difficult than he anticipated – but he was up and ready for it. He traced down her cheek again. Her skin was softer than a peach.

She nodded, “Yes.” It was a whisper. “I just thought that. . .” Her diminutive shape seemed to shrivel even smaller. What had been done to her? He’d heard that young girls feared the wedding night, but she was no longer an innocent. What bungling fool had she chosen for a lover? He would have to explain that it only hurt the first time.

“I just thought that . . .” He could see her trying again to force out the words. “I thought that it would be a marriage of convenience. I never imagined that you would want to . . .”

“I always intended a real marriage. I would not even consider the other.” He sounded harsh, but she had taken him by surprise.

He watched her pull a deep breath in to her chest. She nodded once and placed her hand upon his arm and indicated they should proceed into the house.

The girl had gumption. There was only the slightest remaining tremble in her fingers.



The walkway was fifteen bricks across. There was more space between the middle bricks than the others. Was it by design or a mistake? If she’d had a few more moments she could have counted how many more bricks it took to make a stair than a simple path.

The wedding night. How could she not have considered that? Her body felt so hot and heavy. She had spent the last days thinking of all the reasons they should not wed and she had never even considered . . . she still could not think. Did he really expect her to do that? It was so strange being this close to him, knowing he had the right to touch her, all of her. It was hard to breathe. All of Rose’s curses rushed through her mind.

She pushed her shoulders back, but could not raise her gaze from her half boots. She was still in her wedding dress, but her shoes were still the same practical ones she had worn for well over a year. They were somehow reassuring, reminding her who she was.

She could do this.

She let him lead her through the entry as the door swung wide.

Winters stood just inside, freshly starched.

“Your lordship, you have guests.”

Tristan turned towards his butler. “Oh, and who would –“

“And what do you have to say for yourself, girl?” The voice screeched.

Marguerite felt breakfast rise in her throat. She had been wrong. The day could get worse.

“Hello, Mama,” she said. “How wonderful to see you.”

She turned and faced her husband. She knew this had not been part of his plan.



Only by sheer perseverance did Tristan keep his jaw from dropping open. The woman who stood in the door to the parlor was more than three times the width of his wife and a full hand shorter. Her grizzled gray hair was pulled tightly back and her lips clenched shut – until they opened.

“Do you know what you’ve put me through, girl? I’ve been so worried. Haven’t slept the night through since you’ve been gone. It’s a wonder I haven’t wasted away to nothing. Why I would never have found you at all if not for the betrothal announcement in the papers and even then it would have taken me well over a week to read it if dear Mr. Clark hadn’t noticed it and brought it to my attention. He gets the paper immediately to be sure he doesn’t miss any opportunities. Such a wise man. In any case, daughter, gather your belongings and get ready to come home. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.”

Tristan stepped forward, moving between Marguerite and her – mother. The relationship did not seem possible. He knew Marguerite’s gaze was pinned to him as it had been since the moment her mother had mentioned the announcement. Why would that upset her? Of course, he’d put in a discreet announcement.

“Forgive me, Madam. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I am Tristan St. Johns, Marquess of Wimberley.”

“That’s all good and well, but it doesn’t explain what you’re doing with my daughter and why you’ve told the world you plan to marry her. Utter nonsense.”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Wilkes.” He hoped the name was correct. “You seem to be under a misperception.”

“You don’t intend to marry her? Keep her in your house for several nights and then send her home? Isn’t that just like a lord, but probably no more than she deserves, and after all the worry she’s put me through.”

“I do beg your pardon, but I do believe you should let me explain the situation.”

“There’s no need for explanations. I have two eyes. I can see very clearly what’s been going on.”

Marguerite slipped from behind him and moved towards her mother.

“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just couldn’t –”

“Doesn’t matter what you could or couldn’t, what matters is what you will . . .” Evidently Mrs. Wilkes refused to let anyone finish a sentence. “Now, Mr. Clark was kind enough to drive me into town. Can’t imagine what you were thinking taking a public conveyance. The very thought of a daughter of mine mixing with – well, the only time a decent woman comes into such company is in church or when performing works of charity, neither of which you have shown the slightest interest in. Not that you seem to have any wish to be a decent woman. How a daughter of mine –“

“Now, Mary.” A tall, stoop-shouldered man stepped out from behind Mrs. Wilkes. “We’ve had this discussion. Marguerite is merely misguided in her youth. She didn’t mean to worry you. Once we are wed all will settle down. You’ll see.”

Marguerite staggered back as the man moved closer. Tristan could see the tendons in her neck pull tight.

“You’ve given you mother quite a fright,” the man said. “I’ve tried to explain that it was bridal nerves and nothing more. I know no matter what the appearance or circumstance you would never do anything to disappointment her.”

Tristan turned to Marguerite, resisting the urge to step between her and the stranger. Instead he held out his hand to her. She grasped his fingers eagerly and he could feel hers tremble within his palm.

Her eyes closed tight, a gesture he was coming to know well. Then she pulled in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and looked the man straight in the face.

“It was good of you to accompany Mama, Mr. Clark. But, there was no need for either you or Mama to make the journey. As you can see I am in no distress and well situated.”

“How can you say such a thing?” Mrs. Wilkes began. “You are involved in some pretense of an engagement with a man who would never marry you. I don’t know what is going on, but what is clear is that you need to come home now. I need you to come home. I will have no more of this foolishness.” She looked straight at Marguerite. Cool blue eyes met cool blue eyes and for the first time the resemblance was clear.

“Mama.”

Tristan had never heard his bride speak so forcefully.

“If you would have given me a chance to carry out more complete introductions perhaps our dialogue would proceed more smoothly. Wimberley, allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Mary Wilkes, and Mr. Samson Clark, her neighbor. Mama, Mr. Clark, may I present Tristan St. Johns, Marquess of Wimberley, as of this morning, my husband.”

Silence.

Then cacophony.

“Marguerite, I do not believe my ears.” Ms. Wilkes’ gaze fastened on her daughter. Her mouth slammed shut, then open. It shut again. Then opened wide. “You have not married this man. It simply is not so. Get your things. We are leaving.”

And Mr. Clark, “That is impossible. Marguerite and I must marry. I’ve already prepared the banns.”

“Is the carriage still outside?” Mrs. Wilkes did not care who was talking. “Marguerite, why aren’t you moving? So help me if you don’t come this instant you will be sorry.”

Mr. Clark ignored her and continued, “Did you tell him what happened? He would not have married you if he knew. It can still be annulled, dissolved.”

Tristan’s head spun at the continued attack on his senses. Striding to his office and slamming the door with them all on the other side seemed the most sensible option. Only, there was Marguerite. Having set out to be her hero, it would be poor form to turn and run now.

She was fading by the instant. First, her color had gone. Then, her shoulders had slumped. And now, if he was not mistaken her knees were starting to shake.

He took the hand he still held, and pulled her against him. She was so small. He’d known she was delicate, but only as her soft curves pressed against him did he realize how slender she was. She was not short, but her frame was so slight, so thin that it seemed possible the very words, which flew, about the room could break her.

Unmindful of all propriety, she melted against him, head turned to his chest and he could feel the hot moisture of her breath through his shirt. He slipped a hand around her waist.

He spoke one simple word.

“Stop.”

Mrs. Wilkes and Mr. Clark froze as if stuck in a children’s game.

“First, were formal promises made, papers signed?” Tristan put all the power of his position into his words.”

He could sense their desire to say ‘yes’. He felt the slight shake of Marguerite’s head against his chest.

Finally, Mr. Clark spoke, “No, nothing formal. It was just understood.”

“Then,” Tristan stated, “why do we not all proceed into the parlor and discuss this in a reasonable manner. It is true. I have married her and have full intention of continuing the union.”

Marguerite burrowed further into his chest making it hard to stride forward with dignity. He lifted her slightly and proceeded, her feet dangling inches from the ground. He knew that if he could see her face it would match the red damask covering the chairs to perfection.

Entering the small, sunny room he sat her in a wingchair and took a position slightly behind her, but still protective. The room was small and a short settee was the only other piece of furniture.

“Winters, please send for some tea.” He watched Marguerite turn her head slightly at his request. “Be sure to include extra lemon.”

Mrs. Wilkes gave a humphf and Tristan was almost sure she muttered under her breath, “You’ll go bankrupt keeping that girl in lemons. At least that’s once expense I am free of.”

He watched with interest as she and Mr. Clark positioned themselves. Mrs. Wilkes landed on the sofa with what could only be described as a thump. Mr. Clark looked a moment at the scant few inches remaining on the couch and with a grimace took a stand similar to Tristan’s behind her – only his view was partially obscured by a large potted plant.

In any game position was power.

Mrs. Wilkes stared up at Tristan and he could feel her thoughts whirl. Her mouth opened repeatedly as if to speak and then closed again. He was reminded of a fat bluegill blowing bubbles in a sunlit pond.

Mr. Clark remained silent and glared.

Surprisingly it was Marguerite who broke the deadlock. He’d not thought she had it in her.

“Mother, whether it was your intention or not I am now wed. Do you have anything to say beyond welcoming Wimberley to the family?”

“I certainly do,” her mother answered. “First I will not accept that the wedding was valid. It was probably a trick on his part – trying to sneak the honey from the cow without paying for it. Men are deceitful, first your father, promising me forever and then dying, then that sneaky Dutchman, trying to wiggle his way into my good graces with worthless nonsense, and now Wimberley. Just wait, the paper is probably not even good parchment. He knew a fake marriage was the only way he’d get you. And second, even if it was a real wedding, you’re too young to be wed without my consent.”

Marguerite met her mother’s glare and despite the trembling of her shoulders did not falter. “I am not sure whether to be pleased or not that my sense of virtue has suddenly been restored in your eyes. A moment ago I feared I had none. As for the wedding it was indeed valid and I am sure the witness and the curate would be pleased to swear to that effect. As for Wimberley tricking me, why would he? How have I suddenly become such a prize? When you told Mr. Clark I would marry him you made it clear nobody else would have me. What has changed?”

“None of that matters.” Her mother pushed towards standing and then settled back on the settee with a groan. Moving that bulk was evidently an effort. “You are still too young to marry without my permission. I need you to come home with me.”

It was time to take the discussion into his own hands. “As you say, it hardly matters,” Tristan began. “It has been decades since the courts enforced such laws in all but the most blatant cases of abuse. I hardly think that the case here. I am not noted for my pursuit of children and I hardly think anyone would believe I am after her dowry – assuming she has one. Tell me, Madam, do you have such powerful friends that your own view will hold sway?”

“Well . . ,” Mrs. Wilkes stuttered. “It can still be annulled.”

“Can it now?” Tristan asked.

The palm shuttered and Tristan was sure he heard the gnashing of teeth before Mr. Clark spoke up. “Marguerite stated you had only married this morning. There has not been a wedding night and I as I said, she is not of age.”

Marguerite tilted forward in her seat and Tristan was left with only the view of the back of her head, the fine hair glinting in the sunlight. He rested a hand on her neck in reassurance. She pushed back against him and the small curls at her nape wrapped around his thumb.

“Lack of consummation will not get you an annulment, as I assure you both parties are able, and do you really believe these matters require the cover of nightfall?” he asked. His fingers stroked down her neck, marking his possession. “I took you for more a man of the world. And, forgive my bluntness Mrs. Wilkes, it was a rather slow carriage ride back to my home and before that . . . Well, let’s just say my dearest Marguerite may already be working to provide me with an heir.”

The palm shook again and then stilled as Mr. Clark stepped around it and came to stand directly in front of Marguerite. He leaned forward and Tristan could not see his face.

“Are you with child? Is that the explanation for all this nonsense? I would have moved the wedding up if you’d told me. These theatricals were not necessary.”

Tristan started as Marguerite threw her head back to face Mr. Clark head on. Every time he thought she would fade away she sprang back into the fight.

“Despite my mother’s sometimes unkind words,” she began. “I am not an expert on these matters, but I do believe it is a little early on to tell if I am with child.”

Mr. Clark’s jaw clenched, the muscles throbbing beneath the skin. “That would only be true if . . . .”

“If what, Mr. Clark?” Marguerite replied. She rose to her feet. “Is there something you would like to divulge, here, in this company?”

For a moment Tristan thought Mr. Clark would do it, spit out whatever secret it was that vibrated throughout the room. Was he the father of Marguerite’s baby? Mr. Clark opened his mouth to speak.

Tristan stepped forward. His mind began to siphon through the possibilities. It would certainly explain a lack of kissing. Tristan’s height did not match Mr. Clark’s, but he knew how to project power and strength. He filled his chest, let his arms fall back and spoke. “Yes, is there more you would wish to say about – my wife, the woman I have just promised to cherish and – protect? I take my vows very seriously.”

Mr. Clark stepped back. He met Tristan’s glare, then faltered. “No.”

“Is that all, then? Do we have more to discuss?” Tristan stepped back, but kept his gaze locked on Mr. Clark’s face.

“Yes, we are through, for now.” Mr. Clark leaned forward and in what could almost have been described as a courtly gesture lifted Marguerite’s hand and brought it to his lips. “Until later – my lady.” He turned and strode from the room.

Mrs. Wilkes sat on the couch doing her imitation of a fish.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Wilkes, but I do believe you arrived with Mr. Clark.” Tristan put on his ballroom manners. “Will you be departing with him also or should I instruct Winters to have one of my own vehicles prepared? Or would you like to spend the night here, as my guest?”

“Stay here, after what you’ve done? Certainly not. I don’t know what type of lady you are used to dealing with, but I can promise you I am a far different breed. I am sure Mr. Clark would not dream of departing without me. He is a true gentleman rather than just a pretender to the name. I have never felt so put upon in all my days. How could you do this to me, Marguerite? Who will take care of me in my declining years? Do you really think your sister Hetty is up to the task? You know how forgetful she is. She will be so disappointed in you – not that I’ll let you see her and spread your uncharitable influence. I don’t know what I did to deserve such a strumpet for a daughter. And you, my lord, to take advantage of my poor innocent child. How could you do such a thing and break a mother’s heart? Now will someone help me from this chair?”

Tristan offered his hand. It had definitely been too long since he’d darkened the door at Gentleman Jim’s Boxing Salon, his straining muscles informed him.

Finally Mrs. Wilkes was up, she flounced her skirts around her like the youngest of coquettes. She walked over to her daughter and bent slightly until they were face to face. “I hope you know what you’ve done. I tried to keep you from making these mistakes. Being headstrong doesn’t pay.”

She heaved back to her full height, thrust out her breasts and narrowed her eyes. “I will expect to receive the license and the names of all the guests.”

She turned and stalked from the room without a backward glance.



“Her manners are usually very polished.” Marguerite resisted the urge to sway. The world had begun to spin about halfway through her mother’s speech, but she would manage to be strong a few minutes longer. She edged back towards the chair. “It’s just the unpleasant surprise.”

“I don’t know that I like being considered an unpleasant surprise.” Tristan turned from his protective position beside her to face her dead on. Her breath caught as those silver eyes looked through her. “I’d never realize that capturing a marquess was such a disgrace. Did she have a duke in mind?”

Marguerite sank back into the chair. Did he have to sound so cold?” “No, as you heard she’d always thought that Mr. Clark and I – well, I think she’d just made up her mind that we would suit. She has very strong ideas about a parent’s duty to their children.”

“And who exactly is Clark that he should be so high in your mother’s esteem?”

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about this. It had been hard enough confronting her mother. She could only imagine what Tristan must think. She opened her eyes and stared at the pearl inlay of the side table. Finally she found the words. “He’s our neighbor. He is an important member of our parish and is always first when a contribution is needed. His home is larger than ours and his soirees more lavish – not that mother approves of overindulgence.”

“No, I am sure she doesn’t.”

“Don’t look like that. Mother has always been of delicate health. She became very ill, shortly after my birth and my father’s death, and was counseled to eat sweets and cream to help build up her constitution. She’s struggled with weakness ever since. She had hoped that as her neighbor’s wife I could continue my care of her. And I do confess, mostly I believe she is scared of being alone. I should have been kinder to her.”

Tristan turned and walked away. He picked up a delicate marble bust of Aphrodite and ran his fingers over the smooth curves. “That response will only go so far. Why was your mother so in favor of the match with Clark? Does she know something you have failed to divulge to me?”