Taste of Desire (20 page)

He stopped
. He lifted his face to the sky and stared up at the full moon lighting the clear night sky. It was the same moon that had shown on that long ago summer night.

It might have taken him a moment when Marguerite first appeared to realize who she was, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten the magic of that night, the wonder that had bound him.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. He hadn’t even kissed her. But, as he stared up at the moon he could feel the velvet skin of her wrist beneath his fingers, her sweet breath caress him, her deepening eyes enchant him. He had known many women much more intimately, but none had ever touched the core of him the way her innocent wonder had.

Damn – reason, logic
. He was not a man of emotion. He had made a mistake in marrying her, a mistake he would have to rectify.

He had used her
. He had even planned to use her again, to attract that fool Moreland. That cut as sharp as any dagger. He had been staring out the window at her, plotting how to use her further, when –.

Marguerite had not even wanted to marry him
.

The thought echoed in his mind
. She had fought against it as hard as she was able. He had trapped her and held her for his own foolish reasons. Even England’s glory in the China Sea seemed unimportant next to the pain he had seen in a small white hand picking at a pillow’s lace.

He lowered his eyes, away from the moon, back to the streets
, and headed home.

Grayness enveloped all. Marguerite pried open eyes encrusted from hours of crying. She could not remember sleeping, but it was dawn. Slow, damp light moved across the room. She rolled on her side and stared at the unwelcome morning.

She felt fine
. She did not even ache. She wanted the pains of yesterday – some physical manifestation of all she had lost. She brushed a hand across her stomach, pressed against the womb that still felt so empty. How could she miss that which had never been?

She had dreamed
of calling Tristan all through the long afternoon and night, but had been unwilling to risk that he would not come, would not understand.

             
Cold and desolate, she swung her feet out of bed and went to the window. It was later than she had realized. Only the drabness of the day had fooled her. The maid must have been instructed to wait until she was called.

She pulled a deep breath into her lungs
. She was still here, no matter how she felt. She walked back to the bed and rang for the maid. She would not hide from the life that stretched forward. While living with her mother she’d had practice at existing from one moment to the next.

The silent maid arrived and helped her dress
. Marguerite wondered if she needed a voice at all. Life seemed to progress whether she spoke or not.

She started down the great stairs
. Tristan had probably already left for his clubs. The quiet of the house echoed. Not even the patter of servants’ feet could be heard.

She approached the dining room, but stopped before reaching the door
. She could not face the grand room, the sideboard laid out with countless dishes to tempt one small appetite. She turned instead and headed to the south parlor. Even on such a bleak morning it should offer some light, some brightness. Surely the sunny yellow chintz would provide cheer.

She entered and sat, smiled
. The smile stretched across her cheeks pulling at the skin. She tilted her chin up, reached her out her hand to call the maid. It was just another morning. Any morning.

It really was no different than yesterday.

She felt him before she heard him. There was not a sound, but she could feel the whisper of air. He was here. She refused to look around.

“I am pleased to see you up, Marguerite
. I thought you would spend the day resting,” he said.

The smile was still fixed across her cheeks
. “No, such a minor complaint does not require a stay in bed.”

“I understand enough to know that normally that would be true, but . . .”

“There is nothing abnormal about the situation. I am as well as any woman at such a time.” She still did not look at him.

His boots sounded on the wood as he came to stand before her
. “I think you are wrong.”

“No, do not presume to know me better than I know myself.
” The buttons on his waistcoat were painted with daisies. He did not seem a man to wear flowers. She shut her eyes and looked again. Daisies.

“I merely meant that such a circumstance must be upsetting.”

“There is no circumstance. I made a mistake. It has been corrected. Now, we must try to correct the other mistakes we have made. I thought I would leave for Glynwolde tomorrow as you had previously desired. Only this time you would not need to join me.” The daisies were white and pink. Pink? Again, it did not fit what she knew of him. Perhaps his valet dressed him. The world was so much more pleasant when you worried only about daisies and buttons.

“No.”

“No?” Now, she did look up, beyond his buttons, to his face. She could not read anything. His features were as blank as her heart.

“No
. I find that I require your company in town for the next months.”

“Require.
” She dropped her glance. There were tiny blue flowers also. Forget-me-nots?

“Yes, you are my wife
. Does that present a problem?”

She drew in a breath
. Fighting took so much energy. “No, but I would think life would be simpler if I left. I could have the rest I desire and you – you could continue with your life.”

“
I can continue with my life with you here. We can live separately within the same house. I do not want you to be alone.” He was so cool, collected.

Not forget-me-nots
. Hyacinths. They were more vertical than forget-me-knots. Maybe she could ask to borrow his waistcoat. The design would make a fine needlework if she traced it. She would have much time for needlework.

“I still believe that it would be best if I went to
Glynwolde.” She let the smile relax. “But, as you say I am your wife. It is your decision to make. I will do as you please.”

“I did not mean to displease you.
” He sounded almost concerned. “I only thought that . . .”

“Please, my lord, it
is not of significance. I am happy to do as my husband desires.” Her life was not her own. She had trapped him as surely as she had trapped herself. It didn’t really matter where she resided.

“I only wish to make you happy.”

“As I said, it is not of significance. Now I wish to be alone. I find you are correct. I am still fatigued.”

“Well then, I will leave you to enjoy the remainder of the morning
. Should I summon some tea? Or do you prefer coffee?”

“I can ring myself.”

“It is my plan to attend to business this afternoon. I shall join you for dinner before departing for the evening’s events, unless you require an escort.”

“No, I may not require bed rest, but I do
truly find myself weary.”

“That’s settled then
. I will see you at dinner.”

S
ilence returned with his departure. Bone by bone, Marguerite let her back relax until it touched the back of the chair. She let her head fall back until she stared up at the ceiling.

She should ring for her tea, but the effort felt enormous
.

             
Chapter Ten

Tristan peered around the dark gaming hell. The air was foul with the stench of cigars and bodies that had gone too long without a bath. Langdon and Moreland sat across from him, their eyes blood shot and watery.

“I am going to make myself
a fortune soon.” Moreland slurped as he lifted his glass to his lips and downed another whiskey. God, who slurped whiskey? Although given the vintage of the malt, swilling it would not have been a bad move.

“You always have a plan to make fortune
,” Langdon said, pulling himself up in his chair. “Why don’t you just wait for your father to kick off like the rest of us? You don’t even have any brothers to worry about. Whatcha need a fortune for anyway?”

The last phrase was so slurred Tristan had to consider each word on its own
. If he hadn’t been nursing the same glass for half the night rather than drinking it he would have wondered at his own sobriety listening to the others argue.

Moreland tried to pour another glass, but sloshed the liquor across the table instead
. Now they all smelled like a distillery. He picked up the empty glass and stared at it as if wondering what had happened to the brew. “With a fortune I’d be my own man. So tired of listening to Father tell me what to do. Who cares if I learn how to manage the estates or not? It’s not like he spends time looking over his own books. Got a manager and a man of affairs to handle them. He’s always off shooting at some creature he thinks we want to eat. Never cared for venison or pheasant myself. I like a good slab of beef or a tender roast chicken.”

“Don’t need a fortune to have a roast chicken.
” Langdon smiled at his own wit.

“How are you planning to acquire this fortune anyway?
” Tristan leaned forward in his chair and pushed the bottle back towards Moreland’s empty glass. Maybe there was something to learn here.

“That’s my secret
. You have a pretty wife. Mother says I mustn’t tell anyone. Do you think she’d like flowers?”

“Your mother told you not to tell anyone I have a pretty wife?
” Maybe more whiskey was not such a good idea.

“Don’t be a fool
. About the flowers.”

“Yes, I think your mother likes flowers
. I am sure that somebody must have remarked on it.” Tristan was loosing patience fast. Why did everybody want to speak of flowers? He’d be happy if he never saw another bloom.

“You’re right about that
,” Langdon spoke up. “Lady Harburton always has the best arrangements. My own mother comments on it. Wants to know why I can’t find her a better florist. Why would I care about finding a florist?”

“Girls like flowers
. Marguerite must like flowers. That’s what I was asking. I want her to like me. She used to, you know. She let me show her the gardens once, so she must like flowers.” Moreland let his head drop to rest on the table. He smiled at Tristan sideways. “Now, I think she only likes you. You’ll have to tell me how to make her like me again. I’d do anything for a girl like her, even share my whiskey.” He reached towards the bottle, but the effort was too great and he let his hand rest beside his head.

Tristan picked up the whiskey bottle and placed it under the table
. This was going nowhere. Did he really need to stay out all night to listen to a discussion of posies and watch Moreland drool over Marguerite? Speaking of drool, a large puddle of it was forming in the corner of Moreland’s mouth and running towards the table.

Landon looked at it, pointed, laughed, and promptly turned an interesting shade of green
. Puffing out his cheeks and clamping his hands over his mouth he ran from the room.

Tristan resisted the urge to rest his own head on the table
. How had he been reduced to this? He knew how to use cunning and trickery to find a man’s secrets. A whiskey bottle was too easy, and unreliable. He glanced at Moreland who had closed his eyes and begun to snore.

Had he really considered using Marguerite as a lure for – that
? A cold knot formed in the base of his gut. He had set his target and been prepared to use any means to achieve it. He hadn’t cared in the slightest who was hurt.

And this was the price
. He was saddled with a wife who didn’t want to be married to him. How had he managed to accomplish that? All the girls wanted to be married to him, they always had. In his younger, more respectable, days he’d had to step on many a window ledge or balcony to avoid all the traps that had been set for him by sweet young things and their scheming mothers. So how did he end up with a wife who didn’t want to be married? Who didn’t want him?

How could she not want him?

He sure as hell wanted her.

It was
damn well time they worked this out.

He stood, ignoring the slumped figure beside him
. It surely wasn’t the first time Moreland would wake in the morning alone in an unsavory establishment.

The carriage ride was quick, the walk to the door and up the steps even more so
. He strode across the hallway and aimed directly for her room. He opened the door gently, not wanting to startle her. A woman must be gently wooed.

He slipped across the chamber and
came to stand beside the bed, the remains of a candle still flickering in a pool of wax. Marguerite was swathed in the blankets, more a mummy than a princess, a gift waiting to be unwrapped.