Taste of Desire (33 page)

“You are mistaken.”

That was hardly the response she had anticipated
. Still, it was not unreasonable given their history. “I did not want to tell you until I was sure. I visited Dr. Howe yesterday. This time there is no mistake.”

It was likely watching a man turn to ice
. His eyes shown back at her like mirrors, reflecting all, revealing nothing. “I do not wish a child. I do not plan on having them. Why do you think I withdraw from you at the end, let my seed spill across your belly?” He turned and walked to the door. He stopped with his hand on the handle. Marguerite held her breath. He turned the handle with a quick snap and walked out into the hallway.

She heard his footsteps walk down the hall and descend the stairs
. There was no hurry in his step, each one was calm and deliberate.

She stood for a moment, frozen, her hands still pressed to her belly
. The sun began to pour in the window, but it held no warmth.

They had the most honest and forthright of relationships
. Hah. Was she back at the beginning, alone in a world that wanted neither her nor her child? A man who used her own ignorance against her? She had never questioned his actions, taken them as merely a normal part of intimacy.

The horse’s hooves clattered from below
. She walked to the window and watched the horses being led back into the stable. No one would ride this morning.

She felt numb to the core
. She sat in a chair by the empty fire, staring at the blackened grate. How could this have happened? She looked at her fingers. A heavy ruby ring lay on one of them. Tristan had given it to her, not at their wedding, but later. He had smiled up at her, his head resting on the pillows of her bed and pulled it out from beneath a pillow. He had not said anything at the time, but she thought his eyes had spoken for him. They had told stories of caring and of promises for the future. He had lied.

She started to count the mosaic marble tiles that made up the border of the hearth
. Four green Irish marble, two pink Tuscan – no, she would not be distracted. She pushed up from her chair. Emotions returned and they were not gentle ones.

He had no right to t
ell her now that he had not planned on children. Where had he been almost every night for the last months? In her bed, in her arms, in her body – no matter what he now told her. If he had not wanted children he should have told her before.

She knew she was still ignorant of much of what went on between the sexes, but she had heard enough laughter over tea, and whispers between the other married women to know that there were things that could be done when a child was not desire
d –  French letter, sheaths, sponges and oil, and, of course, withdrawal. Gads, she was an idiot. She had heard all of them mentioned in undertone that had left her splotchy with color and eager to avoid the conversation, but she had never put them together with Tristan’s actions. And, he had certainly never even mentioned them.

She paced back and forth across the room, twice, her arms swinging by her side
. Did he think she would go off to the country by herself? Take that trip to Glynwolde that had they had never taken together? If that was his plan, he was mistaken. The season might be ending, but their marriage was not – neither in name nor actuality.

He had wanted this marriage, forced it even – for his own purposes that he had never seen fit to disclose to her
. She might have lured him to her bed, but he had certainly come willingly, eagerly even. If he had wanted to avoid children he should have told her. A man could not lie with a woman for over two months, smile at her, tease her, shower her with the sweetest kisses – and then – oh no, he could not and if her stupid beast of a husband thought he could he had no more – he had no more sense that the rump of that great black beast he rode around upon.

She spun, her skirts billowing out behind her
, marching down the hall, and following the path she had heard his footsteps take. He had made her believe he cared, made her believe they were a family, made her believe in the magic. He could not take that from her now.

She whirled down the hallways, a frigate caught in a sea squall
.

The door to his study was closed
. She paused, pulled in one more deep breath, puffed out her chest, thrust back her shoulders, and pushed the door open with out even the slightest rap of a knock.

He sat at his desk, unperturbed, his account books laid out beside him
. He held a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up.

“Is there something I can help you with, my dear?
” His voice betrayed not one hint of emotion.

Her sails sagged, the wind knocked out of them, then another gust caught her
. She saw the tap of his foot against the edge of the desk, the rake of his fingers through his hair. He was not as calm as he would have her believe.

“I do not care whether you wanted a child or not
. The fact is we – and that certainly includes you – are having one. Do you intend to deny the paternity, to claim I have cuckolded you – although I do not know with whom or when?” Marguerite had not even passed the thought before the words came from her mouth.

“No, of course not.
” Tristan set down the sheet of paper. He centered it precisely.

“Then I do not understand.
” She stepped towards. “I have lost count of the number of times I have said that in the time we have known each other.

He did not smile, not even a quirk at the corner of his mouth
. “I would admit to being at fault myself.” Again, he ran a finger through his hair, the golden strands lifted and held. She was reminded of Will. Why was that thought so disquieting?

She turned away, then turned back and planted her feet firmly
. She would face this head on. She gazed at him trying to appear cool, although inside she was dying. She waited for him to speak, for once she would play his game.

“I have always been
cautious never to father a child. I know I was careless that first night, but ever since –” He stood, the growing light from the window setting his hair aflame.

“Well, that is fine, but the fact remains parenthood is imminent.”

“Things can happen.”

“You do not mean that.
” Her hands shook and she hid them in her skirts. Did she know this man at all?

“No, you are right
. I do not mean it.” His tone was still measured, but deep in the swirling depths of his eyes there was a bleakness she had never seen. “I do not wish harm to you or – your child.”

“Then why do you say th
ese things? Do you not understand the harm that words can cause?”

“I understand.
” Beneath his tan his skin had paled, even his lip looked gray. “Physical injuries can be the least painful.”

“Then why –?”

“I simply have never wished for a child, or maybe never is too long. When I was a boy, even through school, I had the normal images of what my life would be.”

She was empty
. She had thought she had felt pain and despair months ago when she fled to him, it not compare to what she felt now. Having felt the true magic how could she survive without it? She backed up until her legs hit a chair against the wall, she sank into it. “Then what happened?”

“It is not my story to tell.”

“Do you not think I have the right to know? You deny my child, our child, and think you can say nothing?” She glanced past him, frantically seeking some detail on which to focus her thoughts. There was nothing. The rug – she had examined the pattern before, she could do so again. No. It was hopeless. Her mind could not be stilled.

Tristan moved, and drew her gaze back to him
. He went to stand by the window his back to her. “You are right, but it is not easy. I have never spoken of it.” His shoulders drooped forward. “My father died four years ago.”

“I have heard
. But –” her voice was only a whisper.

“Let me tell
this in my own fashion. I idealized him. He was both kind and firm. He managed the estates, took an active interest in the House of Lords, and still always had time for me. When I was a child he would toss a ball or spend hours leading me around on my pony. He was a man of infinite patience. When I grew older he spent hours discussing my schoolwork, explaining why it was important. He could take the smallest historical fact and explain what relevance it had in the modern world. He encouraged my every endeavor. There could not have been a better father.”

“He sounds wonderful
. I never knew my own father.”

“I am sorry for that, but perhaps it would have been easier.
” He combed his fingers through his hair again.

“How can you say that?
”

“Because it was all a lie,” he sounded frozen
. In another man emotion would have grown, in Tristan they seemed to leak from him with each word until there were none left. “He was not my father.”

Marguerite looked up from her hands twisting within her skirts and met Tristan’s gaze as he turned to stare at him
. He looked more a statue than a man.

“My mother, Felicity
, the darling of society and the one great love of his life, had betrayed him.”

Marguerite could only stare at him blankly.

“I had always known I didn’t look like my father. It did not seem important, even as Peter grew more like him everyday. Many boys didn’t look as their fathers. I was his son, his heir. Even as I grew to manhood I never questioned. Why should I? He continued to groom me to take over his place. All was perfect. I was the perfect son in a perfect family.

“Then he died
. He was in perfect health – there is that word again – perfect. He was so alive. He was athletic. He was active. He enjoyed his life to the fullest. I can still remember the night before he died. I had moved into bachelor apartments when I reached my twenty-fifth year. My mother and he had invited me to dinner. He stood at the end of the table – where I now sit every night – and he toasted us all, but in most particular my mother. I will never forget the glow in his eye as he looked at her. It was one of the happiest nights of my life.

“He did not wake in the morning.”

“What happened? How did –?”

“Nobody knows – there was speculation: his heart, a sudden apoplexy, or perhaps he rolled over and smothered against his pillows
. I even heard poison suggested – both deliberately or by mistake. The surgeons had no answer.”

“It must have been horrible.”

“That does not even begin to describe it. The center had been ripped from my life. The worst were those who hinted that I should be glad of the title.”

Marguerite rose and walked to him
, even in the midst of her own pain his cut her deep. She laid a soft hand upon his shoulder. “I cannot even imagine.”

“I was surviving it
, though. Even though all seemed bleak, I had learned to go through one day at a time. There was Peter to be concerned for. He was not yet eighteen and after my father’s death he started to talk of running off to war – the job of a second son and all that. Talking to him, convincing him to stay filled my days. I spent long nights talking to my mother about how to keep him with us.

“She, my mother, never seemed to waver, she offered continual support
. I assumed she grieved in quiet, alone when none could see. She never mentioned my father, would in fact leave the room if his name were mentioned. I assumed it hurt too much. I thought she had loved him and could not bear it.”

“That sounds reasonable to me.
”

“I thought so too
. I worried about her. I had spent some time in the country overlooking the estates, being sure that everything would continue as my father had desired. I could not be at ease, however. I continued to be troubled by mother. I had been hearing disquieting rumors of her behavior. So, I returned to Town unexpectedly – I wanted to be sure she was not in need of comfort and that Peter had not done something stupid.

“I came into this house, to this very room, my father’s room and here I found her
– “

“Surely, that is not unexpected.
” Marguerite watched as her husband paced the room. She stood still, not sure what aid to offer. He showed no expression, but his movement betrayed his agitation.

He stopped and turned towards her
. “She was not alone. I came through the door, eager to see her and found her in the arms of – of,” his voice caught, but he continued, “my gardener. I had never considered the man. I saw him frequently, he was always about, my mother professed a fondness for roses. I had even seen my father talk with him on many occasions. And there he stood, my mother tight in his embrace.”

“I am so sorry.”

“I have not finished. I stood in the doorway frozen, trying to understand what I saw. Then he turned and the light caught his eyes, they burned silver in the afternoon sun. I knew those eyes. I look at them every morning in the mirror. I had watched this man for years, seen him move about the outskirts of my home and never recognized him for who he was. I suddenly knew why I had no resemblance to my father.”