Taste of Desire (15 page)

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.

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.

“Huis
mans 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.”

T
he 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 o
ur 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 low
ered 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.

S
uddenly 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.