Taste of Desire (35 page)

“Don’t want to see you,” was Moreland’s only greeting.

Was he supposed to apologize for walking in the park? Tristan was not in the mood to deal with this now. “I’ll be on my way then. If you blink again perhaps you can pretend I was only a hallucination.” He went to move past.

Simon stepped in his way, stopping him.

“No, it’s too late for that. It may be all your fault, anyway.”

“My fault, what is my fault?” Tristan was torn between the desire to return to Marguerite and the knowledge that Moreland’s drunken comments might prove useful.

“All of it.” Moreland hiccupped. “I took mother’s bulbs. I wanted some funds I didn’t have to ask father for, so I took the bulbs. Worth thousands she said. A man shouldn’t have to ask his father for everything. It’s men like you who cause the problem, never have to ask for anything and you get it all, too.”

Tristan had no idea where this was going
. They were back to flowers again. Did the whole bloody world revolve around flowers? In any case it was clearly not important. He tried to maneuver around Moreland. He made it, but Moreland grabbed the reins of the gelding as they passed.

“Not worth anything
. Nothing I get is worth anything. Mother will be so angry. She never likes what I do, always stops my having a bit of fun. Not like you, you get all the fun. I never got to see more than her titties. I liked that spot, looked like a butterfly. Very pretty. I bet you got more though.”

Tristan turned
. His mind spun with the connotations. It was not possible that Simon was talking about – it didn’t even bear thought. “Are we talking about my wife?”

“Marguerite, yes, that’s who. Prettiest titties
, don’t you think?”

“And how would you know about my wife’s breasts?
” Tristan’s curled his free hand into a fist.

“She showed them to me
. Well, I had to help her a little. She wasn’t too steady after sharing my whiskey.” Moreland had the gall to smile.

“My wife shared your whiskey?”

“She likes it in her lemonade. She likes anything with lemons. Then she wanted to go into the garden. We all know what that means when a chit wants to see the garden. Mother was right. She wasn’t as innocent as I thought. Kept mumbling about magic and gloves. Marguerite, not mother. She did have pretty titties, though. Too bad that buffoon had to appear just when it was getting fun. Chit may have been asleep though. A man can’t let that stop him though, can he? Never have any fun then. Besides she asked me to the garden. I would never have gone if she hadn’t asked me. Can I help it if she wanted me?”

“What buffoon?”

“That Clark fellow. He actually tried to pull her dress up. What kind of man does that?”

Tristan dropped the reins of the horse, leaving Moreland to hold them
. He curled his other hand to a fist. “Are you saying you doused my wife with whiskey, took her to the garden, mauled her, and would have done more if you had not been interrupted?”

“Well, it don’t sound so fun when you say it like that,
I only did what she wanted -–“ Moreland did not have a chance to say more, before Tristan’s fist connected with his face sending him to the ground. Tristan wished it was muddy. Moreland belonged in the mud and filth.

He stood for a moment over Moreland waiting for him to rise
. There had not been enough satisfaction in that single blow. Moreland refused to cooperate. He rolled on his side and retched.

Tristan stepped back, gathering the gelding’s reins again.

“Don’t know why you did that. Not very gentlemanly.”

Neither was kicking a man when he was down
. Tristan ground the heel of his boot into the dirt. The urge was hard to resist. He would like nothing better than to tear Moreland to shreds. That would not solve anything. The important thing now was Marguerite. He must get back to her. “I would suggest that you of all people do not use the word gentleman again in my hearing. I would, further, suggest that you ask your father for funds and take a long journey. I hear that Italy is wonderful this time of year. I would, however, suggest that you avoid mixing the wine and the women. I hear the fathers have long knives.”

He walked on down the path
. He did not look back to see if the horse had any difficulties with the obstacles in his path. He did hear one smothered scream. “I’ll try calling on you in the morning. I suggest you be already gone. If you are not – let us just say I will not long remain a gentleman.” He walked on.

Marguerite looked up at the horse. The mare was smaller than Buttercup, but that was not reassuring. The horse snorted and looked at Marguerite, demanding. Demanding what Marguerite was not sure, but she knew that look. Her mother used that look.

She reached out a palm and let the mare nuzzle it
. “You are a pretty girl. Can we be friends?”

The mare snorted again and stamped a foot.

“I know just how you feel. It has not been an easy day.” She patted the horse again and called to a groom to help her mount. She was glad Will had disappeared for the moment. He would only serve as a reminder of what she had lost.

A
gnawing tightness grew in her chest. She would not think of that. She was here because she refused to think of it. She was going to let this day go on as it should have. She knew it was foolish for a multitude of reasons – you could not turn back time and pregnant women did not belong on horseback – but, for this day, this one day she refused to be reasonable. Being reasonable had gotten her no place. For today she would give into fantasy.

She would ride this damn horse and catch her husband and make him listen
. It was time she made people listen – that she stood up for herself. She would show everyone.

She actually had her hand upon the pommel of the saddle, when she stopped.

Getting thrown from a horse would not show anybody anything. She was acting like a foolish child – besides she would not endanger her child – not that her horse’s rump of a husband would care, he might even be happy.

She turned away from the horse and strode off towards the park
. She would find that stupid man on foot and then she would let him know just what she thought. Anger was much better than self-pity.

She did not even consider fetching a maid
. She wanted no witness of this confrontation. She marched on into the park. Just wait until she found – She spied a group of ladies she knew ahead and turned on to a side path. She did not want company. How could she smile and pretend that all was fine – when her heart was breaking. She had always considered that a melodramatic phrase, but now it truly felt as if something deep inside of her were being ripped in two. Rage was not a strong enough shell to contain the hurt that continued to grow.

A tear trickled down her cheek
. She was a fool. First, she should never have gone to Tristan in the first place. There must have been somebody else she could turn to for help. Another tear fell. Second, she should not have married the man. She had been brave enough to come to London on her own. It could not have been that much more difficult to stand up for herself, to say she would not marry. The trickles became a deluge. Third, she should never have imagined that marriage meant family. She should never put herself in a position where she could fall in love with the man. Or had she loved him all along – was that why she had run to him in the beginning? Was it all one big circle?

She heard a
rider up ahead, it was impossible to see through her tears, and moved off the path.

She almost stepped on Simon Moreland who lay hidden by the bushes
.

He lurched up at her
. “You little bitch. It is entirely your fault.” He loosed a further sting of obscenities, as he pushed himself to his knees and then stood. His nose was bent to the side and bleeding freely. An odor of vomit mixed with brandy surrounded him.

Before Marguerite could even respond, he raised an arm, his fist curled tight.

Marguerite did the only thing she could, she turned and ran.

She did not turn to look back until she spied the road, only then did she gl
ance back. She felt her foot catch the edge of the curb, saw the coming carriage.

She knew she fell
. It hurt to land. The screech of wheels surrounded her.

Where was she? Tristan paced the upstairs corridor, impatience rippling through his body. It was his job to make her understand. That was difficult when she was not present.

He needed to see her, to be sure she was
all right. The encounter with that scum Moreland had left him shaken. He could not bear that he had added to her pain after all he had been through. He really wasn’t any better than Moreland. He, too, had used her for his own purposes.

Tristan
swung open the door to her chamber. He’d been in the room many times over the last months, but never alone.

It was not that different than when it had been his mother’s room, but in the subtlety lay the differences, small rosebuds instead of a more dramatic arrangement
. He deliberately avoided flowers and now they seemed to be everywhere. At least Marguerite didn’t favor those overblown tulips that had become so prevalent.

He walked over and picked up the small crystal vase
. He brought it to his face and inhaled the delicate scent. Normally the scent of flowers filled him with unease – put him back in that room with his mother and the gardener. Today, all he saw was Marguerite, her sweet smile, the tilt of her head, the deep fires that built in her eyes when she was too embarrassed to talk, the stubborn lift of her chin when she wanted to prove her abilities.

Why had he not realized how special she was
? He set the flowers back on the table, looked at her silver brushes, the curl of a ribbon upon a table, and the decorative bowl of lemons set high on a dresser.

He heard a flurry of activity from below and went to investigate
. He was just closing her door when one of the maids came scrambling up the stairs. He stopped. He had seen that expression before.

He was not surprised by the maid’s words. “It’s my lady
. She’s had a fall – almost run over by a carriage.”

He was halfway down the stairs before he paused
. “Where is she? Is she here?”

“No, my lord
. She is at your mother’s.”

He
bolted for the door.

There was the murmur of voices, soft and sweet. For a moment Marguerite let herself relax. She was warm and safe, a soft feather mattress beneath her, silk comforter above. If she kept her eyes closed she could imagine she was someplace warm and wonderful, someplace where dreams came true.

The voices grew louder
. Felicity, she would recognize those soft tones anywhere – there was something so similar in the flow and pause to her husband’s voice. Another female voice, deeper, more contralto – ahh, Violet. The last voice, male, gave her pause. It was not familiar. Why would a strange man be outside her bedchamber? She wiggled in the bed trying to get comfortable. Something was not right.

She opened her eyes
. What had happened? Her gaze met an unfamiliar room. The high canopy and curtains were embellished with countless flowers growing together in an enchanted garden. The scent of more flowers, real this time filled the room. Peonies, the first peonies of summer.

She turned on her side as the door
opened. Felicity entered, followed by Violet. The man did not enter. She was spared that at least.

Felicity came and sat on the edge of the bed
. Violet hovered behind.

“How are you feeling?” Felicity asked.

Violet reached forward and patted her hand.

“I . . . I am not sure
. What happened? How did I get here?” Marguerite could not bear to ask about the baby.

“I do not know exactly,” Felicity began, “I was taking an early ride in the park
. I hoped to escape the coming heat of the day. I heard a scream. I followed the sounds and found a crowd gathered around you. You must have tripped off the curb. You were almost run over by a hack.”

Marguerite closed her eyes again and tried to remember
. All she could remember clearly was the argument and the bitter taste of lemonade. She scrunched her eyes closed. It had all gone so wrong.

She fought the urge to rub her belly again
. She would be strong.

Falling
. She could not remember falling.

“Shh, just relax, my
physician said you would be fine. A great wallop on your head and a few bruises on your behind. A day of so of rest and you should be fine.”

The baby
. Felicity did not mention the baby.

“Why am I here?
” That was an easier subject to discuss. “I am so close to my own home. Why bring me here?”

“I had not originally planned to
. I was going to brave Wimberley’s dragons and bring you home, but you refused to go. You began to fuss, said you did not wish to see you husband. You only calmed when I promised to bring you to my home.”