Taste of Desire

chapter Six



Marguerite fought the urge to turn and flee as Tristan stalked in the door. Bravery only went so far. The first spurt of words had burst out of her, leaving nothing in their wake. It had been so effortless to plan her return while safe in the carriage. Even this morning when she’d awoken to find him already gone she’d held strong with ease. It was quite another to find courage when under the glare of six-feet of hard masculinity.

Tristan stared at her. The light flowed in the door behind him and she fought to keep from squinting. He was tense, his shoulders drawn back, his neck held stiffly.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I believe that since our marriage I live here.”

Silence again. She pressed her lips together. She refused to start rambling no matter how long he stared.

It was hard to see him with the sunlight filtering in. Marguerite waited another moment for him to speak and then walked down the stairs and turned into the parlor. She did not look back to see if he followed.

She sat in the same seat from which she’d confronted her mother. She drew in each breath carefully and held it. She must be calm. If she could survive this one meeting without giving in maybe she would stand a chance at some independence. She was not a puppet to be moved at will. He had wanted this marriage, pushed her to it – let him live with it.

Tristan strode into the room, a second man following behind. “You were supposed to have gone to the country. I saw you leave – yesterday. We decided it was for the best. Did you forget something? You should have just had it sent for.”

Marguerite concentrated on drawing in another breath. Why did the dratted man do this to her? She counted to five. Focused on the leaves of the palm in the corner. Released her breath. “I decided not to go.”

She looked up, trying to focus on anything but him. Was the man behind Tristan grinning? Had Tristan told this man about the baby? Marguerite wasn’t sure how to respond. Tristan still had not introduced them.

“I will be more comfortable here with you,” she said. “I do not know anyone at Glynwolde and have never been one for long rambling walks and I do not ride – not that I would in my condition. I have a strong dislike of horses and other large animals. What would be the advantage of my being there a few days earlier?”

“Well, the air. As I said, the air.” Tristan nodded his chin decisively.

“I find the air here quite satisfactory and I am sure that your cook has never served anything spoilt in all her days. And I doubt the gardens are producing much given the frost. I imagine that a hothouse cucumber is the same whether in Town or the country.”

The man behind Tristan gave a loud snort. Tristan turned to face him. “Are you still here? Don’t you have someone better to bother?”

“Oh, brother, who could be better to bother than you?” came the reply. “I’ve never seen you at such a loss for words. I swear you could take on every Whig in Parliament with more grace and wit than you presently show. Are you ever going to introduce us? You’re normally known for your perfection of manners.”

“If I must.” Tristan glared at the man who was grinning even more widely. “Marguerite, let me present to you Lord Peter St. Johns, my brother. Peter, this, as I am sure you have gathered is Marguerite, Lady Wimberley, my wife and your salvation.”

Lord Peter stepped forward with a smile that shone with sincerity. “He’s right about that. I’d begun to worry that he’d never do the proper and I’d be forced to die before him or face all of this.” He gestured about at the elegant room and then, stepped around Tristan and pulling her up from the chair, he crushed Marguerite into an embrace. “Welcome to the family.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she squeaked. She resisted the urge to push against him, even though his embrace was overpowering it was not unpleasant or as unsettling as Tristan’s mere presence.

Finally he released her, allowing her to sink back into the chair gratefully. Her eyes darted from one man to the other. She would never have guessed they were brothers. Tristan shone with elegance and breeding. He was broad of shoulder, but tapered – his tailor must rejoice in dressing him. His brother was more of a bear, well muscled and sturdy. Even their coloring was different. Peter was as dark as Tristan was fair, his eyes and hair the color of darkest chocolate. She searched for some similarity between them.

Peter turned back to his brother. Did he ever stop grinning? She had never seen a man so continually glowing. “She’s a beautiful addition to the family. Have you brought her to meet mother? She must be delighted to know you’re finally happy.”

Tristan turned away, avoiding his brother’s eyes. “No, the opportunity has not presented itself.”

Peter appeared to miss any undercurrents in his brother’s comment. “I see the two of you must have things to discuss. Tristan, perhaps you’ll find your eloquence again once I am gone.”

Peter gave Marguerite one more glowing smile and bounded towards the door like a happy puppy. Marguerite heard his boots pound along the hall and then the groan of the front door.

There was silence again.

She could hear the patter of her heart and the creak of her chair when she shifted. Tristan stood motionless and soundless. The beat of her heart increased.

“Your brother seems very pleasant,” she choked out the words. How did he always make her speak first?

Tristan drew in a deep breath. He turned to face her, his glance sweeping over her. “Yes, Peter is always pleasant. A man could not wish for a better brother.”

“I am happy for you then. Happy for you both.” Why would he not stop staring at her? She could feel her skin flush beneath his gaze. “What of your mother? Will she not take it amiss that we have not yet been introduced? Perhaps I should visit her in the next few days?” That sounded awkward, but she was struggling for words to fill the void. Now that they were alone the quiet seemed unbearable. She shifted with discomfort. The room seemed very hot and a deep ache began low in her belly. She found her eyes drawn to his. The air seemed to have leaked from the room.

While she watched, Tristan’s brows drew together and then released. His face was placid when he spoke, but she could see the pulse in his neck speed. “I notice that you still have not adequately explained your return to town.”

Marguerite looked at her hands, swallowed. There were blue flecks in the stone floor. She never noticed that before. Had she pushed herself this far only to be sent back? She dug her nails into her palms and tilted her head up to face Tristan. She could not let him see how affected she was by his closeness. “I did not know an explanation was required beyond my own desires. Or do you wish me gone? You can always forbid me to stay. You are my husband.”

Tristan turned away with a click of his heel. He moved to a side table and picked up the book that sat there, a philosophical treatise, she thought. He stared at the binding. “No, that is not what I meant.” He spoke with such careful control. “I merely wish a logical explanation of why you would go and then return before you even reached your destination. It seems rash and illogical.”

For the first time since she had arisen that morning and found Tristan already gone Marguerite smiled. “And who told you that women were logical? I thought we were famous for acting upon our impulses. Although, I admit that I have always striven to act with some degree of reason.”

“Yes, and surely you see that this is unreasonable.”

“No, actually, I do not.”

Tristan looked at her, opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. She could feel his gaze upon her lips

Marguerite continued, conscious of the shape of her mouth with each word formed, “Whatever our reasons we have decided to embark on matrimony. It does not seem illogical, unreasonable, or lacking in sense to think that we will do best if we try it together. I had always believed that marriage required two.”

Tristan rubbed his brow, but his focus remained. “Why do I feel that I never win with you? This should be a simple thing and instead I am backed into a corner. I do not believe that your heading to the country a day or two early would have set our marriage on a path to ruin, but by all means stay if that is what you want. It hardly matters.”

He turned to the table set the book back without opening it

“It is gracious of you to grant your permission, husband.” Why did her voice sound so deep, so husky?

Tristan glanced back at her and for a moment she thought she caught the hint of a question. Did he have something else to ask? Then he schooled his features, again. “As I said it matters not. I intend to dine tonight at my club and then attend the theatre with my friends. I would dislike canceling on such short notice. I am sure that if you let Lady Smythe-Burke know you are without entertainment she will fashion something suitable. Although perhaps given your condition a quiet evening at home would be best.”

“I shall do as you suggest. I believe that tomorrow will be soon enough to embark on the grand career of a marchioness.”

“I should have known better when you argued with me at the start.” This time there was no mistaking the upward curl of his mouth. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He nodded his farewells and turned and left the parlor.

Marguerite did not move. Her body ached with the effort of not wilting before Tristan. Finally, she let her head fall forward. “I don’t know what you were thinking either.”

She was still here, not sent to Glynwolde. What good was being here with Tristan, if he wasn’t here, at home, with her? Had he not understood her comment about it taking two to make a marriage? She was prepared to do whatever was necessary to form a solid bond. She would even welcome bedroom games if they would lead to the home and happy family she had dreamed of as a girl. She had forgotten all the stories her sister had told her about how little time society husbands and wives actually spent in each other’s company. The bedroom might be the only place she could catch her husband’s attention – if he would actually stay home.

Returning to London was an empty victory.

Still, perhaps she would visit his mother. Getting to know his family could only help her cause.



“You want his mother’s direction? Didn’t you ask him? A man, even a marquess, should know where his own mother lives. I don’t know what is happening to children in these current times. Makes me glad I didn’t have any myself. Still my nephew knows where I live and he’s a duke.” Lady Smythe-Burke was on a roll. She took one gulp of air and continued without stop. “Felicity, that’s his mother, but I daresay you know that, only lives four doors down. The house with the green shutters. Who would ever paint their shutters green? It makes me think of peacocks. Disgusting birds, always screeching. My father kept them when I was a girl. Never could get a good night’s sleep and then father would see the circles under my eyes and question my reading by candlelight. Never would believe it was the birds. So few books worth staying awake for – I was up until past two with Byron once. The book not the man. Not that either was that entertaining.”

Lady Smythe-Burke paused to take a swallow of tea. Marguerite was not one to miss an opportunity. “Four doors down, green shutters did you say?”

“I just said that, didn’t I? Lovely flowers in the summer too, not those horrid things that Dutchman keeps sending me in return for my good regard.” She gestured to the arrangement on the table. “Still don’t see why Wimberley didn’t know. The young don’t know where their parents live and obviously don’t listen to them. Always talking. Perhaps that’s the problem, the young talk too much to listen. There must be a way to stop the chatter. Glue. Keep their lips fastened. Does make it hard to eat, though. Perhaps some type of locking device? I’ll have to look into –“

“Forgive me, Lady Smythe-Burke, but . . .”

“Just what I am talking about. Don’t give your elders a chance to say a single word. My father would have rapped my knuckles for such behavior. Still have the scars. I had a nurse who insisted that if you put a fresh fish skin over the scrape there’d be no mark. Never could abide the smell of fish . . .”

Marguerite glanced down at the inlay on the table. There were three different colors of shell used and what was that deep red? She’d never seen anything like it. The stripes on the sofa were of mixed size and only repeated pattern every sixth color. The flowers on the mantle were most unusual. Where did you get tulips in the fall? The mixture of white, green and red in a single flower was most bizarre.

“. . . Jonah should have stayed in the whale.” Lady Smythe-Burke clicked her cup on the saucer. “Don’t you agree?” She paused and waited for an answer.

Marguerite resisted the urge to look at the clock. It had seemed a simple task. She would call round for tea and casually inquire about Tristan’s mother. She knew it seemed odd that she had not asked him, but she had not seen him for two days. She’d considered asking Winters, but could not bring herself to confess to a servant that she knew not the barest details of her husband’s life.

“Aren’t you going to answer me? First I can’t get you to be quiet and now you don’t answer. I’d question your mother about your upbringing, but then I’d have to speak with her. She used to be such a sweet woman before your father died. I’ve heard of fading from grief, but never expanding from it.”

For the first time since she’d received the directions to Lady St. John’s home Marguerite’s ears pricked up. Nobody ever talked about her mother. She’d heard bits and pieces and managed to put together part of the story from her mother’s own comments, but Lady Smythe-Burke’s words promised to fill in some gaps.

The door swung open and another lady flurried in. “I’ve just heard the most amazing gossip. I can’t believe that people are claiming that . . .” Her eyes settled on Marguerite. “It’s true.” The eager chatter turned cold.

“Hello, Lady Harburton. It is a pleasure to renew our acquaintance.” Marguerite smiled as she spoke. She didn’t know why she rubbed Lady Harburton the wrong way, but she did. They’d met at her sister Rose’s house party the year before and from the very first Lady Harburton had made her opinions clear.

“Yes, of course.” Lady Harburton’s tone implied the opposite.

For once Lady Smythe-Burke remained strangely silent.

“How are your husband and son?” Marguerite asked.

“Very well, I am sure.” Lady Harburton nodded once briskly and then turned towards Lady Smythe-Burke and back again. A slow, cat-like smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “And what of your husband? I was most astonished when I heard the news. You seem a most unlikely pair. The rumor is it’s a love match. Strange though that Lord Wimberley has been out the last two nights with my Simon, instead of staying home with his new wife.”

Marguerite knew she had paled at the words, but she kept her shoulders tight back. “We find plenty of time together. I feel no need to tie him to me.”

“Tie him to you – is that how you got him to the altar?”

“Now calm down, Minerva.” Lady Smythe-Burke finally chimed in. “If there was any tying done I believe I can take credit. I always was good with knots. Now what did you come about? I doubt it was to show off your manners.”

Lady Harburton glanced around the room and then settled on the settee. “You’re correct, of course. I had planned to discuss the rumor that you’d been involved in Wimberley’s wedding, but for once the gossip seems to be accurate. No matter.” She paused, then sped on. “The other reason for my call was I need advice.”

Lady Smythe-Burke merely nodded.

“Lady Danchester has said that she’s received bulbs,” Lady Harburton continued, “and she plans to have them forced before her gathering next month. She’s invited half the ton to her next soiree and now she’s going to have new flowers. It’s a disaster.”

Lady Smythe-Burke nodded again. “I see.”

Lady Harburton was quivering with vehemence. “I always have the best flowers. Dorchester has a chef that can’t be matched. Nobody does musicales like the Langdons and I have the most superior flowers. The only time I’ve even been threatened was when Felicity brought that new gardener up from the country – not that he lasted long. But, now Lady Danchester is promising to have the most incredible arrangements.”

“Have you considered adding peacock feathers to yours? You could add whole tails full.” Lady Smythe-Burke did not seem at all perturbed.

Lady Harburton slumped back into the chair. Never had Marguerite seen the starch go out of a spine in such a fashion. Was she even wearing stays? “If I don’t have the flowers, what do I have? During the war I had my correspondence with our heroic men at arms. I could always talk about their brave doings in whatever field they were at, but now I have nothing. Harburton is always off hunting or fishing or some such and I – I have my flowers. Everybody knows my flowers can’t be touched.”

“I do understand the seriousness of the situation, Minerva, and I will have a discussion with Jessica. I am sure she doesn’t mean to offend you.”

“I am sure she did. She’s always been jealous of my gardens. She even tried to hire Higgins away from me. Everybody knows that nobody can prune a rose like Higgins. It’s a plot I tell you. A plot. Why if she’s not careful I’ll . . .”

Marguerite peeked at the clock out of the corner of her eye. It was getting late. If she was going to attempt to visit Tristan’s mother she must take her leave. “Lady Smyth-Burke, Lady Harburton, forgive me, but I must depart. I am still hoping to catch Lady Wimberley.”

“Lady Wimberley? But –” For a moment doubt clouded Lady Harburton’s face, then a smile. “You mean the dowager marchioness, Wimberley’s mother. You plan to visit Felicity?”

Her laugh filled the room. It was not a pleasant sound.



Marguerite sat in the upper south parlor and stared forlornly into her tea. She had been staring for quite awhile and not a single waft of steam remained. She blew across it anyway just to see the ripples scoot across the top.

“I hear you’ve visited Felicity.”

She did not even glance up at her husband’s voice, she had felt the tension of his presence before he even spoke. It was remarkable that he appeared before dinner. He had not returned until she slept the night before, and had been gone before she rose this morning. She should take comfort in his company.

“Yes, or rather no.” She shifted in her chair and turned to face him. “I paid a call, but she was not receiving. Perhaps she was unwell.” She did not comment on the laughter she had heard waft down the stairs. It had been too reminiscent of her first call on Tristan and all that had ensued. Besides, it was likely that she had only heard the maids giggling. Surely no lady would deny entrance to her brand new daughter-in-law.

“I wish you had informed me of your intent. The time is not yet right for you to meet.” He raked his fingers through his hair upsetting the perfect waves.

“I beg your pardon. I was not aware there was a correct time to visit one’s family.” She raised her glance up to him with the slightest hint of challenge, while returning the cold tea to the table. She placed it beside the small vase of buds she had requested. The room needed something to give it life.

“Nonetheless, I wish you had consulted me. I will introduce you to my mother in my own time. Does that present a difficulty to you?” The late afternoon sun broke through the clouds as he spoke, turning his fair locks into a fiery halo. He stood before her proud, magnificent, and utterly cold.

She felt her own power start to fade beneath his gray stare. No. She was done being cowed. “Perhaps, you would care to explain your reasoning, Lord Wimberley.”

“And if I do not, Lady Wimberley?”

Marguerite let her gaze slip down to her hands. It was so hard being strong. When her sister stood up for herself nobody challenged – well sometimes Wulf did, but the glances that passed between them placed the game on a whole different level. That was not the case with Tristan. He could stare right at her and still not see her, while she could see him even when her eyes were closed.

“I repeat myself.” He made no move. “Does it matter if I do not care to explain?”

“Of course not. I am only your wife. Why should you explain to me why I couldn’t meet your mother? You have not taken the time to explain anything else.” Marguerite rose from her chair, holding her spine in the perfect straightness her mother had spent years trying to imbue. She glided towards the door. “If you will excuse me, I will dress for dinner. Will you be joining me this evening?”

“I think not. I promised Lord Langdon I’d visit before dropping by the Winchester’s ball. I trust I will see you there.”

Marguerite paused in the doorway. Her first night in society and he was not even going to escort her? She stared into the hallway. “I would rather not attend alone. Besides, I am rather tired and thought I would stay at home this evening.

“You are the Marchioness of Wimberley. Why would you need accompaniment?”

“I merely do not wish to attend my first ball as a married woman on my own. Does that surprise you?”

“Look at me.”

She slowly turned and faced her husband. It still seemed odd to think of him in such a fashion. She knew him less well now than she had a year ago. Still, when their gazes locked she felt that tension, that inability to breathe. It felt as if an invisible force bound her and pulled her forward. “What do you want?”

He paused, his eyes darkening. He stepped forward, his lips parted. There was a second of absolute stillness. She could feel the beat of both their hearts. Then he turned.

“I am sorry if I have not adequately provided for your needs. I had thought you would have enjoyed the outing. I am sorry that I had already made my own plans for the evening. It is not unusual for a wife to attend events without her husband.”

She shook her head trying to clear the dizziness of that frozen second. “I cannot believe that is true of my first outing in society.”

He looked nonplussed for a moment, but then recovered. “We will introduce you formally later, for now the Winchesters are dear friends and they will understand.”

“It does not really matter,” Marguerite answered. “I am simply fatigued and have decided not to attend.”

“It is your first London ball. Does it not pique your interest?”

“I am tired.”

“And if I wish you to go?”

She would never understand this man. He paid almost no attention to her after their wedding day other to display some displeasure that she had not hurried off to the country unaccompanied. He stiffened up and shifted uncomfortably whenever she drew near and now he was upset that she didn’t want to attend a ball, unaccompanied.

“Surely, there will be other balls for me to attend. In fact, I believe there are invitations to at least six sitting on my writing table.”

“I wish you to attend this one. Once your condition begins to show you will not be so free in society.”

“Then will you accompany me?”

“I had planned on joining you at the musicale you are attending tomorrow. I do not believe we need to live in each other’s pockets. I am sure to see you at the ball, regardless.”

She really did feel tired. It was true that her first refusal had been based solely on the desire not to appear at her first dance alone. No matter what Tristan said, even with Lady Smythe-Burke for support it was sure to cause comment. Married four days and her husband could not even be bothered to share a coach. It stung.

She stepped towards him, lay a hand gently upon his coat. She could feel his heat through the heavy fabric, she let her fingers rub along the heavy velvet. “Would it really be such trouble to come with me? I know it is silly, but I would feel more comfortable in your presence.” It felt so good to make actual physical contact. She stroked again, pretending she was blind and could see only with her fingers.

He pulled back from her touch. He grimaced, almost as if her touch caused him pain. “I am sorry. You should have informed me earlier of your whims. As I said I have already made plans. It would be too late to beg off with Langdon.”

She turned back towards the hall and pretended there was a string pulling her head towards the ceiling. She would not show that she cared. “I will send a note asking Lady Smythe-Burke if it is too late for me to join her. Is there anything else you require, Lord Wimberley?”

She heard no answer and proceeded towards the stairs. She would change for the evening and then enjoy her lonely dinner. There were fourteen stairs followed by twelve paces to reach her bedchamber.



Where was she? He should have broken his plans to accompany her. He did not want to seem a heartless cad, but he’d been certain he was on the verge of a breakthrough with Langdon and Moreland. Now, Tristan glanced around the Winchester’s ballroom trying to see into the dark corners. He was sure she would come after their discussion earlier. He did not think she had it in her to outright disobey his request – especially her unexpected return to London.

That was for the best anyway. His original plan of using her to regain entry into polite society was sound. He needed to be here, and even more importantly he needed her to be here. He pushed back the thought that he also wanted her here. Wants were not important.

It was hard enough having her around the house. It had only been days, but it felt like centuries. He only had to look at her to want her. Frustration had become his constant companion. The only way to avoid pulling her to him and letting his passions rule was to stare past her, to never quite let himself relax in her presence. His body ached with the effort.

Still, where was she? Where was Marguerite? He peered around the room again, wishing the Winchesters had not been so frugal with the candles.

Ah, there was Lady Smythe-Burke. No other lady had skirts quite so broad or a corset quite so stiff. He was amazed sometimes that she did not powder her hair. If she was here Marguerite must be near. He glanced around again, but without luck.

“Wimberley, I didn’t know you’d chosen to attend. I didn’t think this was quite your cup of tea – or should I say dram of whiskey. You’re not the tea type.” Lord Harburton chortled at his own witticism.

“My wife wished to attend and what type of husband would I be if I didn’t at least stop by. I do want to be sure that she is content.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. She’s been the center of a flock of those young things. Even our Simon’s been keeping her good company. I’ve never been able to abide the chatter of the young. I much prefer a good corner and a book, or a good horse and an open field.”

“I must express my own surprise at seeing you here. I didn’t think you’d return so early in the season. I’d heard the fishing was good.” Tristan kept half his mind on the conversation, while trying to peer over the top of Harburton’s head. He saw the flock that Harburton had been referring to, young misses in the palest of muslins and boys who scarce looked old enough to be up from school, but where was Marguerite?

“Surprised to be here myself. You were right about the fishing, trout near as long as my arm, but I got a summons from Minerva. She said that there were pressing matters that required my presence in Town. Turns out it was all some nonsense about tulips. Can you believe the woman made me give up fish for flowers?”

“Can’t abide flowers, myself. I never allow them in my house.” Well, except for the ones that Marguerite had been filling the rooms with. He really should say something to her.

“Do they make you sneeze? My brother couldn’t get within an arm’s length of a bloom without wheezing and snorting like a hog.”

“I can’t say that I found myself suffering from such an ailment. I merely find them – frivolous.” He saw a shimmer of light blond hair in the corner. He rose on his toes. No, the lady was distinctly too heavy to be his wife.

“Frivolous, that’s a good word. But, then women are frivolous, I am sure you must be finding that out for yourself now that you’re wed,” Lord Harburton continued. He apparently saw nothing odd in Tristan’s visually searching the room while holding a conversation. “I daresay that your breakfast conversation centers around bonnets and reticules. Why do you think I am always off pursuing more manly pursuits?”

“Lady Wimberley has not yet privileged me with such wonders of discussion.” There she was, standing by the doors to the gardens. Both Simon Moreland and Langdon were with her. She nodded to one and then smiled at the other. What was so interesting about them? “Forgive me, I must greet my wife.”

“Give it a year and you won’t be so eager. I’d best be off myself before Minerva tracks me down. She’s decided I need to take my seat and vote on some referendum. I am not sure I understand why we shouldn’t have a fort in Malacca, but it’s just easier to go along with her.”

Tristan stopped and pivoted back, but Harburton had already disappeared into the crush.



Why had she come? After her last experience at Mr. Clark’s ball this was almost unbearable. The heat was oppressive, even with the cool breeze blowing in from the open doors. Why would anyone try and fit so many people in such a tight room? She longed for lemonade, but the fight across the room was more than she could manage. She fanned herself and tried to look interested as Lord Simon talked about tea. She didn’t agree that England was better off concentrating on domestic issues and not worrying about the rest of the world. It seemed impolite to argue, however. Besides, Simon had been to some of the country’s best schools. If only he would quit edging so close to her.

“You look parched. Can a fetch you a drink?” Simon asked. He must have been reading her mind.

“No, truly I am fine.” She did not know what had prompted the response. Why did she not want Simon to fetch her a drink? He was looking at her curiously and she hurriedly continued on, “The crush is so great that you probably would not be back before it was time to leave. I would hate to miss out on your company.”

“But, Marguerite, you know I am a champion at fetching lemonade. Don’t you remember the last time? Perhaps you could wait in the garden. I am sure Langdon would keep you company.” A strange look passed between the gentlemen. “I do remember how you love your lemons.”

“Remember how I love my lemons?” It was true that she did love lemons, but why should Simon know, much less remember?

“I see your confusion.” Simon focused his full attention on her. “I noted your partiality when we first met at your sister’s a year ago and then again at Clark’s –“

“Oh, there’s my husband.” Tristan’s fair hair glowed white in the candlelight, and even from across the room she could feel his steady silver gaze. Lord Harburton stood just behind him, addressing him with some comment. Tristan stepped towards her and then stopped. He turned back to Harburton, but Harburton had slipped back into the crowd.

She watched, waited for Tristan to turn back towards her, but something else caught his eye. His brother, Peter, came forward and whispered something in his ear. Together they turned and glanced towards the door. Framed in the arch stood the redhead who had been draped across Tristan’s lap on Marguerite’s first night in London. Her dress was slightly more decorous than it had been on that occasion, but still it clung to her curves like foam upon the waves.

Marguerite watched as Tristan and Peter tracked straight towards the woman. The three of them whispered, then turned and left together.

Tristan did not even glance back in her direction.

And that was the end of her first London ball.