Taste of Desire (19 page)

“I do not understand.
” Tristan walked forward and sat on the edge of the bed. It sank beneath his weight. She did not look up at him.

“I did not lose the baby, could not lose the baby, because there was no baby
. There never was a baby.” If she gripped tighter could the knuckles actually pop from beneath the skin? She had ruined both their lives – for this.

“I am afraid I still do not understand.
” Tristan reached out and took her hands in his, easing them open. He stroked her fingers gently.

She did not want gentleness
. She tried to pull her hands back, but he held firm. She let her arms fall loose. “I do not know how to say it more simply. I was never with child. It was all the mistake of a foolish girl.”

“But, you are bleeding – surely that means . . .
” She could hear the disbelief in his voice, and his fingers raked through his hair displaying his discomfort.

“Women do bleed, you know.
” Did she have to sound so bitter, so destroyed? Why was he being so kind? His every soft caress cut her more deeply than a knife.

“Yes, but – how did – I mean – I was not aware that there was a difference
. I mean of course there is, but how did the doctor . . . I am not making any sense.”

“Yes, you are – the question is obvious.
” Defensive anger filled her. “When the doctor arrived he examined me most intimately. Apparently my womb was not enlarged as it should have been after these months. But, more than that – I am intact.”

The stroking stopped
. She glanced up. Tristan’s lips were pursed, his eyes clouded. “Intact?”

She pulled her hands away, folded them neatly in front of her
. “I am still a virgin.”

“A virgin?”

“There is no need to repeat it. I do not know who was more shocked among us. You, myself, or the poor doctor. He was left quite without explanation, the poor man.”

“But, how
–? Why?”

Marguerite rolled away from him and stared at the wall
trying to hold on to her composure. God, she was such a fool. “How did I make such a mistake? Or was it a mistake? Do you think that I all along sought to trap you – to trap us both?”

“No, of course not, but . . .”
His voice cracked as he spoke.

She closed her eyes
. In the course of a few hours she had gone from understanding so little about her body to understanding so much. She fought the bitter taste in her mouth. She had never wanted to remember that night, but now she was forced to. “I have told you that I do not fully remember the night that – that it happened. It was so hot. I could not get my breath. And I was so thirsty. I kept drinking lemonade, but it seemed only to make it worse. Then I went out into the garden with – oh, that doesn’t matter.” Thinking about her innocent hopes and dreams on that night only made it worse. Some things were too painful to share. She pulled herself straighter against the pillows. “What is important is that I must have swooned from the heat. Then things are a blur until I awoke to find Clark yanking my bodice up. I felt so sick, I tried to run, but he held me firm.” Her voice caught and for a moment she was afraid she could not finish. “Even that is unclear.”

“
I still do not understand. Surely you would know if. . .” His words trailed off and Marguerite felt the bed rise as Tristan stood.

“I thought I did
. Everyone acted as if I had committed a great sin. What else was I to think? Nobody bothers to explain these things to girl. When Clark returned me to my mother she looked shocked at my disheveled appearance and we left immediately. It was only a matter of returning next door, to our own home. She said little and simply turned me over to the maid to be put to bed. I was too weary and confused to argue.”

“I still do not see how . . . .” Tristan sat on the bed again.

“I am getting to that. But notice even you do not say the words. I do not even know what the words are – marital intimacy, loss of virtue, seduction. These are the phrases I know and none describe what I thought happened to me. How was I to know anything when I was told nothing?” She yanked hard at the lace edging of the pillow. It was amazing it did not rip beneath her fingers. The words poured from her like bile. She needed to get them out before they ate her from within. “But let me finish my tale. The next morning, as soon as I had awoken and dressed, I was called downstairs. Clark sat in our parlor looking like it was his own. My mother left me alone with him. I sickened with the memory of what had happened. I could not look at him.

“He proposed and
I declined. I could not bear the thought of those hands touching me again. I kept seeing them yanking at my gown, touching me where I had never been touched. He left after my refusal and I thought that was the end.

“But, he talked to Mama and soon I was trapped
. She would not hear what I said. Clark had described a small mark on my breast, a mole in the shape of a butterfly.” Could one explode with fury? The more she talked the greater her anger grew. She had let others take over her life and this was the result. “In her eyes I had crossed a line and must pay the price. She was also delighted at the thought of my residing so close. She envisioned our life continuing as it always had, only I would have a respectable spouse.”

She stopped and stared ahead blankly
. She fought the tears of anger and worthlessness that threatened to overwhelm her. Tristan leaned forward and laid his hand softly upon her back. Fury with him began to bubble. It was easier to blame him than her. If only he had listened to her none of this would have happened. Silence grew between them, then finally he spoke. “Forgive me, but I still do not understand why – ?”

“
I thought I was with child?” She saw the question on his face and in that moment hated him and his gentleness with all her soul. “All I can say is I didn’t know – but even if I had known – all the indications were there. Only, the doctor said it is not uncommon for women to . . .” Despite her bitterness Marguerite could feel blood rush to her face. She had never expected to have such a conversation with a man, indeed with anyone. How was she supposed to explain this to him? She tried to pretend the words were only in her head, that she was alone. “For women to miss their monthly courses when they are upset. He said that – the doctor said that in his observation it is even more common among women who are young, small, or particularly slender. I seem to fit all these criteria. He described it all as being due to hysteria. Nausea is simply another symptom of such a mindset.” Was she screaming? A deep numbness had begun to settle over the anger, moving her from it. She could still feel it, hear her voice rise in vehemence with each word – but it did not touch her. She was separate, alone.

“He, the doctor that is, asked if I had suffered some loss or faced emotional disturbance
. He wanted to know if I had always been given to panic and frenzy.” Marguerite’s voice cracked.

Tristan’s hand reached out again to stroke her, calm her, but then dropped down
. His eyes, normally so reflective, revealing nothing, were deep and dark. They burned with buried emotion – but what? She did not know him well enough to read the secrets buried there. Why did he not rage at her?

“What did you tell him?
” His lips barely parted as he spoke the words.

“What could I say
? I think I was attacked, but I don’t really remember. Or, I was being forced to marry the man I believe ravaged me. I couldn’t even explain our situation.”

“Our situation?
” His voice was clipped, but still hideously calm.

“Do you not think the doctor was curious that after weeks of being married to you I was still a maid
? Or that he did not wonder how given such a circumstance we could both believe I was with child?”

“I didn’t even consider –
” Finally, his face flushed with color.

“Neither did I until the doctor started with his questions
. He wanted to know if you could . . . If there were problems when we . . .” She still did not know what terms to use.

Tristan paled, his lips drew tight
. “I had not considered such he might consider such a thing. What did you tell him?”

“I did not say anything. I avoided the question. But, is that what matters to you – how your – masculinity is perceived? We are caught tight in this dreadful situation and all you can –“

“There is nothing else to say.
” Tristan stood abruptly. He began to pace about the room. “The simple fact is that I have not visited your bed, but that is no one’s business, but our own. I daresay that Dr. Howe will not inquire on the matter again.”

Marguerite swallowed
. She hoped he could not hear. The rage had been seeping from her body and there was nothing left to replace it. How could they not speak about such a thing? Their whole lives had been changed in an instant and he wanted to tuck it away in a closet out of view. No matter what he might pretend, the whole world was a different place than it had been that morning – she shied away from looking any further back. Loss welled up within her and she wrapped her hands tight about her belly – her lifeless belly. She rolled away from where he paced back and forth across the room.

“I am tired now
. Perhaps, it would be best if you left.”

His
footsteps stopped immediately. He was silent and she imagined the words he did not say. He must feel fury, fury at her foolish mistake that had led them to this impasse.

Still
, he did not speak.

She huddled deeper under the covers, her knees overhanging the far edge of the bed to which she clung.

He drew in a breath, the rasp of air ringing loud in her ears. “If it is what you want, of course I will go. I would not wish to cause you distress. Ring if you need anything further. I will not leave the house this day in case you have need.”

Still he acted the gentlem
an. What else had she expected? She did not hear another sound, but felt him leave. When he was gone she turned on her back and stared at the elaborate ceiling frieze. Her mind was empty of all but the stiff formality of his words. She could not even bring herself to count the swirls and rosettes that twirled in plaster above her.

She did not call for him. Tristan spent the remainder of the day sitting at his desk, staring at words that blurred before his eyes. Every time a footstep sounded in the hall he jerked to attention, ready to answer her summons.

But, she did not call.

When darkness grew, seeping in though the windows and whispering up from the corners, he gestured away the footman who came to light the candles. When the butler arrived with a note from Lord Landon, inviting him to an evening’s entertainment, he let the missive drop on his desk and made no reply.

Could Marguerite really have made such a mistake
? On the surface it seemed preposterous. He had never heard of such a thing. Yet, he did believe her. He had watched her pain and anger grow and shift, and never doubted her after the first moment.

It was all a mistake
. A great foolish error.

And the fault was his own.

He should never have forced her into marriage. What had she called it – a dreadful situation. That was how she saw their marriage – as dreadful. That was why she did not call.

It was only when full darkness sealed the room that he stood and walked to the hall
. He inquired if Marguerite had eaten. Her tray had been returned untouched. He stepped on the first stair. He would coax her to nibble at least.

But, she had not called for him.

She was right to blame him for this
awful situation
. If he had not been so full of pride and bravado and plans it would not have come to this. She would have been free once she discovered she was not with child.

He had forced her to a marriage she did not desire.

He turned and, not looking towards the hall and the rich odor of his own waiting dinner, strode out the front door and down the steps.

The cool night air cut through his light coat, but he did not stop to call for something warmer
. His feet took him to Violet’s door, but he walked on. There were some secrets, some wounds that could not be shared.

He had done this, he with his foolish sense of omnipotence and entitlement
. He might not have caused the original situation, but he had certainly added to it.

Damn
. He should have found another way. Perhaps he should simply have married another – some cold, icy beauty who would have known what she was getting into. The timing would have been difficult, but he had untied harder knots. Or perhaps, he should have braved the questions and simply ventured into drawing rooms and musicales alone. There would have been questions, but surely some other scandal would quickly have replaced the curiosity of a bored marquess venturing into such feminine territory. Hell, he could even have engineered the scandal.

So why hadn’t he
? What had caused him to draw Marguerite into his web? The answer did not seem as simple as it once had.