Taste of Desire

chapter Seven



Three balls in three nights. Two afternoon musicales and a – she didn’t even know what to call the covey of dowagers who had huddled around the teapot at Lady Smythe-Burke’s that afternoon. They had claimed it was an afternoon of cards, but Marguerite had never seen the decks actually leave the tables. On each occasion Tristan had either accompanied her or arrived separately.

It was true that after that first ball he had taken the time to speak with her. He had appeared the next morning full of apologies and she had nodded politely, but had not actually listened to a word. He might smile at her indulgently, but she still felt like an afterthought. He never stopped to really look at her.

She glanced down at her gown. It shimmered as she moved, the delicate gray overdress of silk netting whispering over the deep sapphire beneath. It was the first dress she had selected herself and she was still amazed at how quickly it had been made-up. She thought it enhanced the pale blue of her eyes and brought forth the color in her skin. Tristan had not even commented. He just eyed her up and down and nodded as if to say, “You’ll do.” Then he handed her into the carriage and they were off to the ball.

Off to the ball. It sounded so romantic. It was so bloody dull. She was tired of dancing with boys who did not know the steps and old men who could not keep their hands where they belonged. She had thought being married would be a defense against the grope of unwanted hands. It was not.

“Marguerite.”

She turned at the first sound of her name. Not Tristan, but Lord Simon – again. What did the man want? She’d understood his interest when she was unwed, had in fact enjoyed his flirtation, but why did he keep appearing now? He seemed bent on flooding her with lemonade.

“Marguerite, would you care to dance? I’ve seen you waltz and it would be the utmost pleasure to be your partner.”

She thought about refusing. Her toes did feel blistered and stomped upon, but that would probably mean more lemonade and she was tired of dumping it in the palms. She didn’t know why she felt so resistant to the beverage. Normally, it was her favorite.

“That would be delightful.” Could she pretend to be so caught up in the music that she had no need to converse? She also did not feel up to one more discussion of imports. She was reaching the point where she truly did not care where things came from or who supplied them. Yes, she wanted her tea, but she wanted to drink it in peace. She had never before realized how truly limited Simon was when it came to conversation.

He took her by the hand and led her to the floor. It was the first time she had danced with him since her sister’s house party well over a year ago, and as his hand closed about her waist the strangest shiver shot down her spine. She fought the urge to pull back.

Instead she fixed a smile on her face and stared over Simon’s shoulder. Thankfully, he did not feel the need to converse, either.

“Huismans is talking to your husband. I wonder what they have to discuss.”

“Who?” she asked.

“I am sorry. Anton Huismans, he’s a representative of a Dutch trading firm and has become a most useful friend. He’s very good at keeping the ladies, particularly my mother, happy.” He gave a meaningful grin as his fingers tightened on her waist, she tried to shift away while keeping step with the music.

Marguerite turned her head to look at him. She must have mistaken his implication. “I am sorry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted indulgently. “Oh, my little innocent, I don’t mean that. It’s just that he – well, actually I think I’ll keep it my little secret. I’ll have to see if his treats have the same effect on you.”

Marguerite heard the music drawing to an end and almost sighed with relief as they left the dance floor. Simon was getting much too personal. Had he noticed her husband’s lack of attention? It was time to show Simon that their past flirtation, was just that – past.

For that matter it was time to show her husband.

Her chin tilted up. Her shoulders went back.

She took four steps towards her husband.

Really, it was too easy to fall into this trap of letting others make the decisions. If Tristan got to decide that she must attend this pile of affairs, then she was going to decide what she did while she was here. Maybe she should try and make him jealous? Did he know that she and Simon had once toyed with flirtation? Of course, that would suppose that Tristan could be made jealous and, to be truthful, the appeal in being that close to Simon was long faded.

A slow smile curled on her lips.

The one thing she knew about her husband – the one thing she’d never seen falter – was his perfection of public manners.

She took two more steps. She knew Simon was behind her. If she gave him the chance he would offer his arm and become a proper escort. Four more hurried steps. Side step around Lady Odfellows. Two more steps and . . .

“I’ve been looking for you. Did you forget you promised me this dance?” She let her voice lower as she peered up into her husband’s quicksilver eyes. She would not falter now.

“This dance?” He hesitated only for a moment. “You must forgive me, my dear. I am afraid I was so swept up in conversation with Mr. Huismans that I lost count. I was sure there were still several more selections before I would be graced with your presence. You must let me introduce you. He is quite a gamester. We have been discussing theories of both chess and whist. His knowledge abounds.”

The introductions were made. The music began.

“You must forgive us, Mr. Huismans. But my husband did promise me this dance.”

There was an almost imperceptible tensing of Tristan’s brow. “Are you sure it was this dance? I was sure it was later. It would be a shame to interrupt such a fascinating conversation.” “No, no, Lord Wimberley. Never let it be said that I stood between a man and his beautiful wife,” Huismans replied. “If your wife believes it is time to dance it is time. Perhaps she will honor me with a dance later in the evening?”

“Of course, it would be my pleasure, Mr. Huismans. I will look forward to it.” She held out her hand to Tristan. He frowned, but took it and led her towards into the swirling crowd. She looked again. His face was as calm and polite as the butler’s. Had she imagined that look or did she somehow see deeper than the surface?

“Were you really going to forget our dance to discuss cards and games of chance?” Marguerite almost gasped as Tristan’s fingers curved about her. They were so hot. She shivered, but it was a very different shiver than Simon had aroused. Her breath caught and held.

Tristan drew her closer. “I had not asked for a dance, as well you know.” He drew her closer still.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry.

“You need to breathe. Dancing goes much better when you inhale,” he whispered the words, air stirred around her ear.

His lips were so close. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek, smell the sweetness of the brandy he had drunk. She shivered again.

“Breathe. I know you can do it.” He led her in a waltz.

She inhaled so deeply, so loudly, she was surprised that the neighboring couples did not turn.

“Now, about this dance, is there a reason you wanted me to yourself?” His breath was a caress.

“I am sure you must have promised one to me. I know you would never be so bad mannered as to not dance with your wife.” She focused on the weave of his coat. Were there gold threads intermingled or was it a trick of the light – some type of shot silk, perhaps?

“Oh, of course, my dear. I trust now that we are so respectably wed for more than a week I may call you ‘my dear’? And you are correct. I would never be such a bore as to ignore my wife, now would I?” His palm moved up the curve of her back drawing her hips against him for the briefest of moments. The front of her thighs prickled.

Who was this man she was dancing with? It was not her husband of the past week, the stiff cool man who could stare right at her and smile correctly, while not even noticing she was there. No, this was the man she had met a year ago, the man she had come to London to seek. Where had he come from?

They twirled faster and faster. There had never been a waltz like this. The music that ran through her had no relation to the notes the musicians played. They spun, arm in arm, eyes locked.

When the music finally slowed Marguerite looked up to find herself standing in the garden still tight in Tristan’s arms. She could feel the heat of skin through his coat, feel the beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. The pulse sped with her every touch. She stared up into his eyes, caught in his glance. She felt more alive than she could ever remember, aware of each leaf whispering in the breeze, each star sparkling in the sky.

He lowered his head and she again smelled the sweet scent of the brandy, along with something intoxicating that was only him. His gaze focused on her lips and she found herself licking them, unsure, nervous, but filled with anticipation.

He drew her closer and pressed her fully against him. He was so hard, so firm – everything she had imagined in the last year. Her own eyes fastened on his mouth. His lips were dark in the night and as they moved lower she hesitated, then stretched up to meet them.

The first touch was soft, a kitten’s nose butting for attention. He drew back slightly and it was she who pressed forward, bringing their lips more firmly together. How could anything be so sweet, so gentle and yet so strong? She moved closer, lured by his retreat. Her entire world became the caress of his lips upon hers, the glide of silk and velvet.

She hardly noticed when his hands slipped behind her, clasping her until there was no space left between them. His mouth firmed beneath her and the gentle teasing grew more impatient. His tongue darted out and caressed her upper lip.

She pulled back a moment shocked. What was he doing? Kissing was lips, not tongues. His arms tightened around her and allowed her no escape. For a moment fear flickered, but then abated as his kisses gentled, again moving to the corners of her mouth and then drawing back.

He moved back an inch, then two. Held firm. Again she felt his breath against her face, smelled the essence of him. She opened her eyes, when had they shut? His gaze was warm, fire ignited within. His pupils were huge within his eyes and even in the dark, deep emotion glowed from them.

She reached up and ran the tip of a finger over the lips that had so recently caressed her own.

It was a moment of wonder.

A moment far too long in coming.

A second of complete enchantment.

She had stepped back in time.

All her dreams could come true. She had been kissed. Well and truly kissed.

Suddenly a large group came out the door.

Tristan stepped away, and they stared into each other’s eyes for an endless moment, the emotions of the kiss still sending shocks between them. Then, as the group moved closer, he led her back to the ballroom. Back to the reality of her life.



What had come over him? Where had the tenderness and wonder come from? One dance should not change the course of things. One dance would not change the course of things. Nobody had glanced at him amiss when he followed his wife into halls he had not previously graced. Further, it had been taken as accepted practice that having followed his wife he need only pay her polite social attention and then pursue more masculine activities. A husband’s infatuation was only expected to extend so far.

So what had happened during the dance? It was such a simple matter to give in to her wishes and lead her to the floor. A quick waltz around the room, then he would seek out Huismans again. There was something about the man that raised his hackles.

He scanned the room. Damn. He didn’t see Huismans anywhere. He should have resisted Marguerite’s allure. He was allowing her to distract him from his purpose.

She gained him entry into polite world and in return he protected and cared for her. Desire was not involved.

Her hand was still clasped about his arm. She turned, her top-most golden curls brushing his chin, her skirts swirling against his leg. The almost imperceptible scent of lemon surrounded her. His body quickened with desire.

She was his. It would not be denied.

He halted, just for a fraction of a second, allowing his gaze to wander over her. She was exquisite. The hair, paler than moonbeams, the flawless skin, the slender yet curvaceous body. She reminded him of a newly risen Venus.

She gazed up at him, her bottomless blue eyes innocent, yet guarded. Her brows drew together in question. Why had he stopped?

She was beautiful.

He was a man.

A vigorous man.

Desire was natural.

He should have accepted it from the start. He had made a miscalculation in avoiding her bed on their wedding night. It had created a situation that could not continue, but was awkward to end. He could not simply show up at her bedroom door with no warning.

But, perhaps he had made a mistake in assuming that she would not welcome him. That kiss had been – well, it had been very definitely reciprocated. Could it truly have been her first real kiss? She had been innocent, but ardent. He resisted the desire to close his eyes and remember.

Instead he looked down at her.

A smart general knew when it was time for a new strategy. As if sensing his thoughts, Marguerite lifted her head and smiled up at him. Her lips were still ruddy from their kiss.

Yes, it was definitely time for a new strategy.

###



Marguerite’s mother had often mumbled about the ingratitude, inconsistency, and general unpredictability of men. Marguerite had always understood these beliefs centered around the mistake her father had made dying less than a year into marriage. It had been the ultimate desertion and betrayal in her mind and her mother had never forgiven him.

Now Marguerite understood her mother’s beliefs might be a more general statement. It certainly applied to her husband. She slammed her teacup down – at least she did in her mind, in truth the china was too delicate and beautiful to risk. Would the servants think her odd if she asked for stoneware?

Tristan Cornelius St. Johns.

She leaned back in her chair, actually allowing her back to rest upon the cushions, and stared at the library’s high shelves. It was wonderful to be surrounded by books.

Tristan Cornelius St. Johns. Husband.

She had thought that after their dance, their kiss, everything would be different. Her husband had not strayed from her sight for the rest of the ball, even going to the extreme of dancing with her again. They had ridden home together in the carriage and their feet had – was there a word for the way their feet had played? If not, there certainly should be.

She closed her eyes, indulging herself in the memory. He walked her to her bedroom door, and then stared into her eyes for an eternity. She had sensed his regret, and questioned, when he walked away. She had almost called him back. And then the next morning, he kissed her in the breakfast room. A long, endless kiss. Her toes curled now as they had then. He was a master of kisses.

It should have been the beginning of something wonderful.

But – her eyes opened with a snap – then he left. No, word of why they were not heading for the country. No sweet words of how much he would miss her.

No, a messenger arrived and he left.

A messenger carrying a note in a feminine hand and signed with a V.

What you are looking for may be in Crawley. I will depart with more detail in person. V

Violet? It had not been difficult to learn the name of her husband’s sometime companion. Violet, Lady Carrington. Marguerite curled her toes tight inside her shoes. She refused to be jealous. She was a reasonable woman. Her husband had made her no promises.

Still, he should have told her where he was going. The servants shuffled and avoided any answers when she inquired. Perhaps he’d gone to a mill, was the closest she got to a reply. Crawley, she was told, was famous for the boxing matches held there. Marguerite could not even imagine Tristan at a fight. He did not seem the type for such sport. And she certainly did not believe he would desert her for one.

Only, maybe she did believe it. Men left. They could not be relied on. How many times had she heard that in her childhood? And it certainly was not like Tristan loved her, she could not even be sure if her husband actually even liked her. Was he so ashamed of her that he could not even let her meet his mother?

Almost as if on cue, there was a tap on the library door.

“You have callers, my lady. Lord Peter St. Johns and Lady Wimberley, the dowager marchioness, have arrived.”

Marguerite hesitated for a moment. Tristan had made it all too clear that he planned to make introductions in his own time. Still, surely that only applied to Marguerite contacting his mother, not the reverse. Besides, if he was not going to be here, then it was up to her to make decisions.

“If you can just give me a moment to straighten myself, I would be delighted to receive them. I would also like some more tea. They may be in need of refreshment.” That felt good. She was in charge. She would make her own decisions.

Hurrying to the small wall mirror, she smoothed her hair. Very presentable. She arranged herself neatly on the chair.

“My dearest Marguerite. I am so glad you are well.” Peter loped into the room. If not for his size, Marguerite would have taken him to be much younger. He moved and fidgeted like a schoolboy. “I’ve worried that I haven’t seen you about the last few evenings.”

“Tristan needed to be away for a few days and I thought I would take the chance to rest,” Marguerite replied.

“Yes, we heard. It is why I chose now to call.” A dark-haired beauty, of a certain age, entered the room. Her green gown was of the latest cut, a scooped neck, loose yet still revealing, the color bright and becoming.

Marguerite rose. This was Tristan’s mother? She did not look old enough, and as Marguerite took in her dark-eyed stare, it seemed impossible that she could have given birth to a child as golden as Tristan.

Marguerite, in turn, felt herself being observed and measured. They examined each other as closely as rivals, if without the same malice. It was frank curiosity.

“I am Felicity, Lady St. Johns, dowager Marchioness of Wimberley. I have evidently taught neither of my sons the courtesy of proper introduction.” Felicity turned and glared at Peter.

He did not look at all abashed.

“It is a delight to meet you. I am Marguerite, Tristan’s wife.” Marguerite smiled and waved her guests towards the chairs. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I have sent for more tea. I am so glad you have come to visit.”

“We should have met weeks ago. As I have already stated, my sons are somewhat lacking in manners.” Felicity sank gracefully into chair.

“Don’t look at me, Mother. You know it was not of my doing.” Peter declined to sit and began idly pulling books off the shelf and then returning them. His toe tapped as if he could not be contained by such light activity.

“Yes, Peter, I know well where the blame rests for such a lack of propriety,” Felicity said.

Peter kept taking books off the shelf and did not answer. His toe tapped faster.

The brief silence was uncomfortable and Marguerite ventured into the gap. “Well, that hardly matters. We have met and may now begin to know each other.” What else did one say to one’s mother-in-law? Ah. “You must tell me all about Tristan as a child.”

“We will get to all that in time, Marguerite. I trust I may call you Marguerite?” Felicity settled herself more comfortably in the chair. “For now you must reassure me. You mentioned the need to rest. You are not ill are you?”

Marguerite shifted under the penetrating gaze that came her way. Tristan should have told his mother – but, perhaps not. The only thing Marguerite knew about their relationship was that she knew nothing. She glanced at Peter. She had overheard Tristan tell him, surely he would have told his mother. Peter kept his gaze locked on the volume in his hand. He refused to glance up.

He had not told his mother. What was she supposed to say? How did one judge a woman one had only just met? Perhaps this was why Tristan had avoided the meeting.

“No, I am not ill.” Maybe Felicity would leave it at that.

“Then why do you avoid society? Do you lack for company? I would be happy to join you, although I myself have ventured out little in the last years.” Felicity looked pleased at this solution. She picked up the Aphrodite figurine and ran her fingers over its curves. Tristan had used the same caress.

How would Tristan react to his mother taking her about? And what of Lady Smythe-Burke? That lady had seemed displeased enough at Marguerite’s refusal to venture out this past week. Marguerite could only imagine how she would react to learning that Marguerite had replaced her with another. “I thank you very much for the thought, but it is simply that I have been tired. I am sure I will be returned to myself in no time.”

“Staying at home for a week, and no ready excuse. Why, people will assume you are with child.”

Peter dropped the book with a thud at his mother’s comment. For her part, Marguerite knew she had blushed red and then paled.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Felicity gasped with delight. “How careless of Tristan not to tell me. He knows nothing would make me happier. Did you know I am descended from Henry the fourth? Only distantly, of course.” She tittered at her own joke. “But I have so longed to see the line continue. Tristan knows that I’ve longed for – exactly why he didn’t tell me, of course. That boy will never forgive me or give me a chance to explain.”

Felicity stared into space as she spoke and Marguerite could tell the comment was aimed at no one. Suddenly, Felicity drew herself up in her chair, straight as an arrow. She turned to Marguerite and all delight and warmth left her face. Her gaze ran over Marguerite, examining her more closely than Mama looked over a room cleaned by a new maid.

“You’ve been married less than two weeks.” Felicity turned and faced Peter, who still stared at the books. “I may not visit with Tristan often, but I keep myself aware of his activities. He had not been out of London for several months before this trip. She is not more than two, three at the most, months gone . . .

“Oh,” she said. “It is not his child.”

Marguerite could only stare. Who had a mind that worked with such deliberation? Despite their difference of appearance she clearly was Tristan’s mother.

“How dare you trick my son in such a fashion?” Felicity rose to standing and her size seemed to expand with her vehemence, an outraged mother lion.

Marguerite found herself cowering back, unable to answer.

Then, like the pop of a soap bubble, Felicity fell back in her chair. “Nobody tricks Tristan. Wimberley is no fool. He knows. This is just like him. I thought his wild ways and refusing to bow to society’s dictates were his revenge.” She stood again and walked to the door. Her hand shook as she set it upon the handle.

Marguerite knew she should say something. A lady was always supposed to offer comfort to those in need. But, how could one offer comfort when so unsure of the situation?

Peter placed the book he had retrieved from the floor back on the shelf. He walked over to Marguerite and took both her hands in his.

“I am sorry, sister,” he began. “I never imagined it would come to this. I thought that bringing you together with mother would help the situation. I will call again tomorrow to assure myself that you are fine. For now, I must accompany mother home. Forgive me.” Then he released her hands and walked to join Felicity at the door. He wrapped an arm around her and led her from the library.

“I thought his marriage meant that he had forgiven me, that he was ready to take his place in society. How could he be so cruel?” Felicity’s chilled words echoed back as they walked away.