Taste of Desire (16 page)

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 lo
oking 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 wo
uld 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.

             
Chapter Eight

Marguerite glanced down the long front stair. In the two weeks she’d lived here it had begun to seem like home. The servants treated her well and she certainly lacked for nothing.

She let a hand drop to her still flat stomach
. When would it start to round? She did not know and did not have anyone to ask. It was embarrassing how little she knew about this whole procedure. She had never even seen a woman heavy with child and had not even been permitted to visit her sister during the last months of Rose’s first pregnancy. Mama had thought it too indelicate a circumstance for a young lady.