Taste of Desire (28 page)

“Was Huismans planning a small party?”

Was that a note of jealously she detected in her husband’s tone
? Marguerite picked up the deck and ran a finger over the edge. “I do not know. He did not specify how many? Does it matter?”

Tristan sat across from her, “No, of course not
. I was merely curious. I was not aware you had developed a friendship with Huismans.”

“He saw me sitting in the park one morning working on my embroidery
. He was interested in the design. We started to talk. It was all light and harmless.”

“What else did you discuss?
” He sounded so causal.

She watched as he divided the cards into two piles, one sixes through Aces, the other the lower cards
. He set the lower cards aside and shuffled the remaining with lightening fingers.

“Nothing much, what we were doing the next few evenings, and whether I liked flowers.”

“I’ll deal until you get a feel for the game. Do you know the basic order of play?”

The question came too early
. Violet had not said when she should retrieve the book, but Marguerite sensed it should be later in the evening. She hesitated, then stood and walked to the shelf. “I was reading them earlier. My mother does not believe in gambling and sees no other purpose for games whether of skill or chance.” She paused then turned to the shelf. “Will you consider it cheating if I consult the rules while we start? It is so confusing with the hands divided into the different parts.” She stretched to pull down the volume. She had placed it high on the shelf and had to stand on her toes to reach. The heat from the fire warmed her. She could feel it pierce her dress and caress her flesh. She sighed with the pleasure of the sensation and arched her back like a cat. Her fingers closed about the book and she turned to Tristan. He had not answered her question. “Do you mind if I consult the book?

He was
staring, again. She would never have believed she would see him with mouth agape, but there were no other words to describe his face. He watched her as if caught by a spell. He did not move, not even breath, except for his eyes. They started at her toes and moved slowly up her body. It felt like a physical touch as she watched his gaze hover up her legs, pausing at her thighs, and again at her belly. Her knees shook at the intensity of his look. She thought she had recognized the look of desire before this, but it paled before his current heat. Her front grew warmer from his look, than her backside from the fire. Her own breath caught.

The cards slipped from his fingers and fell one by one to the floor
. She swallowed, lowered herself from her toes. She stepped forward.

“No, don’t move,” Tristan whispered.

She froze, and time did too. How long could they stay trapped in this tableau? Each breath she took seemed to last a year, each blink at eternity. Her mouth grew dry, and she fought for calmness. Her whole body seemed to burn, the heat was almost unbearable.

Unable to stand it
further, she stepped forward again. This time he did not demur. She paused when her knees drew near to his. She stood above. She could see his want, feel his desire. She reached out and brushed his cheek. He turned his face to her hand, but kept his gaze upon her body. So sharp was his gaze she almost thought her gown invisible. She glanced down. Violet had been right. With the fire behind and the room dim, the gown was completely translucent. She shivered then blushed. She could feel the color spreading to the tips of her toes. From the movement of his eyes he could see it to.

He moved in his chair, leaning forward, towards her, then suddenly pulling back
. He started to stand. She inched forward, blocking his movement.

“You are not leaving are you
? We have not begun our game.”

He looked away, finally
. “I think it would be best if I went.”

“Why?
” This was the moment that could decide it all. She had always wondered if generals in war, or men of science in their laboratories knew when they experienced that moment that all depended on, when victory or defeat hung in the balance. Now she knew.

She saw the struggle cross his face
. His lips pursed and then released.

“It would be best,” he answered.

“You said that. I asked why?”

“Because this is not what you want.”

“How do you know what I want? Do I look like I am unhappy?” Her hand still lay against his cheek. She stroked it, reveling in the prickle of his stubble.

He moved a hand over hers, but did not stop her movement
. “You said you wanted to be free. Was not that why you ran from your mother to begin with? You have made it clear that you did not seek me as a husband, that it was my decision forcing you.”

She moved her hand, her thumb stroked the firmness of his lips
. They both jerked as if from shock. She moved her thumb again.

“What you say is true, but tells only part of the story
. Our marriage was not of my choosing, and yet I did in some way choose you by coming to you. That showed both trust and liking. Surely those are not bad grounds for marriage.”

He opened his lips beneath her touch
. She could feel the warmth and moisture of his breath. She stroked again.

He dropped his gaze, turning his face fully into her caress
. “You are right in theory, but there is more to it.”

“I know
. Why do you think I am here?”

“Not to play cards?”

“It is true I do not know how to play piquet. I will need lessons. Do you think you could teach me? I have always believed myself a fast learner.” The blush was back. She could feel it rising again. Did he read between the lines? She did not think she could say more.

He opened his mouth further, nipped the flesh pad of her thumb between her teeth
. She jerked back, startled.

“As you have read
, the first part of the hand is blanks and discards. A blank has no face cards. Personally I am partial to faces.” He nipped her thumb again, then sucked it into his mouth. It was so hot, so damp. She never realized how soft a mouth was. She remembered their kiss, his tongue dipping into her mouth. Images from the book rose before her eyes. She pulled her thumb back, he sucked it in further. She knew there was more to the gesture than she could yet understand, she could not wait to know all.

He slipped a hand behind her waist pulling her between his knees
. “If you don’t have any face cards you must discard. I am afraid you have a face, two of them as you seem to have taken ownership of mine. What would you like to discard?”

She gasped as Tristan’s hand slipped beneath the hem of her gown and traced up her calf, her thigh, following the path his eyes had so recently traced
. Sparks of fire shot from his fingers as they moved slowly over skin.

The magic she had sought, returned.

“What about this?” His hand reached her garter, and with a quick twist pulled it free.

Chapter Fourteen

He had given in too easily. Where was honor when it was so easily lost? She was so soft, so sleek, a goddess come to life. And he was mortal. How could a man resist when a goddess summoned? He let his hand drift up her other leg. He caught the bow of the other garter and pulled it loose. “You still have a face. You must discard again.” He let the garter drop to the floor.

Her hand slipped from his face, to catch the knot of cravat
. She hesitated.

“Ah, to shy to
o tell me that I must discard also.” His words whispered across her belly, he could see it quiver in response.

“I do not remember the rules calling for this, this is more disrobe than discard.
” She blushed at her own quip, but let her fingers creep between the fine cloth and his neck.

It was the blush that had done him in
. He’d watched the color and heat move up her body and known he was lost. The sophisticated women of his acquaintance were masters of the subtle art of flirting, but no calculated gesture had ever captured him as powerfully as her innocent flush.

H
e slid his hands down her legs, pulling the stockings with them. He lifted a hand to his neck and untied his cravat with a single tug. He held it out. “The next part of the hand is called Ruffs. As neither of us has a ruff this will have to do.” He dropped it to the floor.

He quickly unfastened the buttons of his shirt
. Her thumb still rested against his lips. He gave it another quick nip. She caught her breath, held it. He placed his hands about her waist again and pulled her close. He could feel her stomach through the thin fabric of her gown, firm velvet beneath its silken covering. The scent of her surrounded him, clean lemon, the sweet almond from the dessert filling, and a deep musky scent that could only be woman. Desire ate him, wrapped him tight in its web. He fought the desire to tear at her gown, pull her down, bury himself within her.

“Your breath tickles
. I never imagined breath could tickle.” She gasped as he pressed a kiss tight against her belly. Her hands were tangled in his hair now. He could feel them struggle and strain as they caressed, clenched and released. She pulled him tighter against him, almost smothering him against her flesh.

She was as caught in the web as he.

He pressed her back so he could stare up into her face, be sure it held no doubt. His demons were fighting to be loose, and he needed to be sure. He grabbed her hands in his and rose to stand beside her. Now it was her breath that tickled him, moving over his bare chest in gentle puffs. He took the hands he held and placed them above his heart. He let his arms drop to his sides.

“It is your play
. I had no Ruff,” he said.

She looked up at him, her eyes deep and clear
. She spread her fingers across his skin. Then she dropped her gaze and examined his flesh. The same intensity of expression that she’d focused on the pastry overcame her. Her lips parted and her fingers started to travel. They passed over the sprinkling of hairs on his chest, once softly and then with greater pressure. She moved her face forward and rubbed a velvet cheek against him. He could see each sensation she experienced mirrored in her features. His sense of wonder grew as he watched her learn.

That was what she was doing, examining, studying
– learning. She memorized him with each sweep of her fingers, each brush of her cheek. He caught his breath as her attention moved to one of his nipples. She passed the tip of a finger over it, then twirled around it. She moved closer, watching as it grew hard and peaked. One of his hands surrounded her breast. He swallowed hard as she caught her nipple between her fingers. She squeezed slightly, his and then her own tight bud. God, the sensation was exquisite. Did she feel what he felt? He fought back the urge to pull her tight to him, to push down her bodice and replace her hand with his own greedy lips, to show her how great pleasure could be.

As if reading his mind she moved forward and her tongue darted out and she touched the tip to his nipple
. His whole body jerked and pulled tight. She pulled back, then with a slow cat’s smile moved forward and pressed her lips around the entire rosy peak, her tongue tracing the circles her finger had previously drawn.

He needed to move
. He was going to die. He had barely touched her and yet passion burned higher than it ever had before. He needed to move, but dared hardly to breath. He truly would die if she withdrew.

Her mouth, so warm, so hot, traced wet kisses across his flesh until she reached her goal – his other breast
. She repeated her slow, careful tending of that neglected flesh.

With one last linger
ing kiss and suck, she stepped back. “Am I moving right? I do have a trouble remembering the order of play, but realize I have no Ruff either.” Her fingers went to the single tie that held her fragile bodice tight. Was she going to? Good God, she was. Her dress slipped from her shoulders, caught for a minute on the fullness of her breasts, then fell to the floor. She stood before him clad only in the thinnest of chemises, and a corset cut so low that the deep rose of her nipples was clear. He could even make out the faint outline of a mark on the lower side of her breast. Was this the butterfly mole she had mentioned, before? He could not wait to explore for himself.

That enchanting flush rose again under his gaze
. He watched as her skin turned from ivory to peach to berry. He stood frozen. She was so beautiful, so perfect, he had thought her a goddess and the truth was even greater. How could she shine with such innocence while her eyes cried the secrets of seduction?

He was so beautiful, so perfect. Once she had seen such glory, pieces of Roman statuary in a garden, flawless precision in cold stone. But Tristan was warm flesh. She had tasted just how warm. She licked her lips, tasting the salty sweat of his skin, the sweat sandalwood and heady musk.

She should be burning with mortification as she stood before him only partially clothed
. It had been years since any but a maid or a modiste had seen her in such a state, and a man never had. She blocked the memory of Clark’s soiree from her mind – she did not remember clearly, if at all, and besides that had no place here.