by Lavinia Kent
“You do me good. If I were ever to take another mistress I could not do better. I chose wisely for my fabrication, as you put it. Go ahead. Choose some sparkling trinket and have the bill sent to me.”
She turned her face away, and spoke. “But, would I ever become your mistress? You may have an angel’s face, but you know I am partial to younger men. You are by far too ancient for me – your brother Peter, now, he might be another matter . . . But, don’t worry, Tris. This will cause me no further damage.”
He detected only the slightest wobble in her voice.
Chapter Four
Lady Smythe-Burke, two maids, the curate, herself and Tristan in a drawing room. A wedding breakfast consisting of one pheasant and two types of soup. One only slightly used gown half a size too big, the wrong color, and ten years out of style. Vows so hurriedly said Marguerite couldn’t remember what she’d promised. It was not the recipe for happily ever after.
Despite Tristan’s mention of Minerva Press, this was no novel she’d ever read, even hidden in her bedroom by candlelight. Marguerite stared along the bench seat of the carriage at her – at her husband. He lounged relaxed along the bench, his long thighs almost brushed her hand. She curled her fingers, intensely aware of their closeness. She swallowed.
She must feel gratitude. He had saved her from disgrace and despair. He had elevated her to a position far above any she could have dreamed. With barely a flick of his wrist and his signature on a piece of paper, he had made her every problem disappear.
He gazed towards the half open window. Did he even remember she was seated across from him? She was aware of his every breath, and still he seemed to think he was alone. Still, he had saved her. She should be grateful. So, why did she want to grit her teeth and spit at him?
He certainly looked the storybook hero, all fine blue wool and gold embroidery. He should have appeared the fop – instead, her toes curled at his nearness, his tousled golden hair shining almost white in the sun that seeped through the window. It made her want to spit all the more.
What type of lady was she? She’d never felt like this before. Bloody, blasted hell. She blushed even thinking the words. Her sister Rose could swear like a sailor, but Marguerite had never even thought the words.
Now, when it was too late, her mind was full of them. She didn’t feel gratitude. She felt anger, anger that he should sit there, so careless with his power. Her life had been spun around and still she was in the same place – lacking all control of her own destiny.
She was married to a man she hardly knew, with child by a man she never wanted to be in the same room with again, and her stomach was beginning to protest the sway of the carriage. Life could not get any worse.
The carriage jolted to a halt.
Without even looking in her direction Tristan swung the door open without waiting for assistance. He kicked the step loose and jumped down, only then turning towards her and without meeting her eye, held out his arm.
She placed her icy fingers about it, thrust her shoulders back, and, taking a deep breath of air, attempted not to lose the wedding breakfast on his boots.
The house loomed above her. She’d known it was imposing, but now it seemed ready to engulf her in its majesty. What was she doing? This was not what she had wanted.
She bit down on her lip hard and followed Tristan as he marched towards the door. It swung open before him.
Taking it as his due, he proceeded. If she hadn’t been holding fast to his arm she would have turned and fled, as she should have when she’d first arrived a week ago. Was it only a week?
Her feet dragged to halt. She would not do this.
It was not too late.
They would just rip that piece of paper in half and pretend it never happened. She did not know what she would do then, but it would not be this.
Tristan turned as her stalled feet caused her to pull at his arm. Her feet would not move another step. She stood looking up at the façade of his home and could not move – except for the tremor that began in her knees and spread until she was shaking like a kite string in a gusting wind.
“Is something wrong?” His tone was so correct, so condescending. Was she supposed to grovel in thanks for all he done?
“What could possibly be wrong?” Her voice was high and brittle.
“You stopped.”
“I had not noticed.” If only her feet would move. If only his arm were not the only thing keeping her upright.
“You’re shaking.”
“I must be cold. There is a chill in the air.”
For the first time all day Tristan looked at her, really looked at her. He moved to stand beside her, his silver eyes locked on hers, the heat of his body warming her.
“I didn’t mean it to be like this,” he said. “Somehow it’s spun out of control like a child’s top. I am best when directing the action.”
“I thought this is what you wanted. I would never have agreed, I would have gone along with it all if you had not persuaded me it was for the best. I am already disgraced. I could have stood the scandal.”
He raised one hand and stroked her cheek. “Maybe you could, maybe you couldn’t. I know I couldn’t have stood it for you. It is what I wanted. I knew what I did and why. I should have offered more reassurance. I am sorry.”
“No, I am sorry.” She knew she was about to ramble and tried bite down on her tongue, but still it ran on. “I still do not understand why you did it, why you asked me. You could have had anyone and you chose me – hardly your first choice – only then Lady Smythe-Burke bullied things along and . . . Oh, I do not know . . . I could still run away . . . nobody would blame you.”
“Do not doubt that I knew what I did, and why I did it. I considered no others. Our marriage suits my plans. What matters now is how we proceed from here.”
He placed a hand on each side of her face and turned it until they faced each other fully. She could feel the roughness of a callous on the firm flesh of his palm. For a moment they stood there, still. Marguerite could feel the heat of the morning sun upon her face, smell the greenery freshly cut and neatened for late autumn. With each additional second that Tristan stared down at her she could feel this single moment being etched forever in her mind.
He moved then, only half a step closer, but it was enough. She drew a deep breath into her lungs, filling them as if it would be her last. She focused on his mouth. He bent his head, his lips only inches from her own. How warm his breath was. She inhaled and knew they breathed the same air. She raised her head up slightly. This is what she had dreamed of – what had led her to this moment. She swayed towards him. Her gaze fastened on his lips.
He made that last move, his lips parting and – she turned her head, his kiss brushing over her cheek. It was all simply too much.
He stepped back, not saying a word.
“I am sorry.” It passed her lips as a whisper.
“There is no need to be, these things take time, on occasion.”
“No, it is not that, it is only that . . . .”
“That what?”
How could she want this so much and still refuse to dip even a toe in the pond? Marguerite closed her eyes, not wanting to see his expression. “It is only that I have never been kissed before.”
“Never been kissed before?”
Tristan watched her flush as he stared at her belly. Never been kissed before. The words ricocheted through him. It was not possible. His own desire caught at him, leaving him frustrated and burning.
“Do not mock me.” She spoke with quiet dignity.
“Forgive me. You make it too easy. How can you not have been kissed before?”
“I do not comprehend what you find so complex. It is a simple statement. I have never been kissed before.”
“But . . .”
Marguerite curled her hands about her waist. She stared at the hollies, refusing to look at him.
“I thought you said you understood how these things worked.” She kept he
r eyes on the bush. “It did not require kissing.”
She reached out and cradled a cluster of berries in her hand. Was she ignoring him? She answered his questions, but her mind seemed elsewhere.
He coughed, forcing her eyes back to him. He needed to understand. He offered his arm. “Forgive me. You are, of course, correct. There is no kissing actually required, although I hardly see the point, the pleasure, if one does not – What a distasteful thought.”
“I never said it was pleasure.” A deep flush washed across her pallid cheeks as she took his arm. She turned her eyes downward. Why wouldn’t she look at him, speak straight to him?
She just kept staring at the ground. He could see her discomfort with the situation and his mind reeled with the implications. He had assumed an ineligible lover – but pale cheeks and trembling fingers were not the mark of a woman who had known passion’s fulfillment. What type of man made love to a woman without kissing her, adoring her? Her lover must have been as inexperienced as she, a raw youth.
“Ah, well then I do have much to teach you,” his voice caught and dropped as his body reacted to his thoughts. He would be sure that by morning she knew the full meaning of pleasure. Her cheeks would flush with color and her eyes gleam with delight. He reached out and ran a single finger down the side of her face. “No woman should be left with so little comprehension of what can be.”
“I hardly think –“ She finally lifted her head and met his gaze.
“I am your husband.” He refused to let her look away. She shivered and then dragged her glance downward again.
His task might be more difficult than he anticipated – but he was up and ready for it. He traced down her cheek again. Her skin was softer than a peach.
She nodded, “Yes.” It was a whisper. “I just thought that. . .” Her diminutive shape seemed to shrivel even smaller. What had been done to her? He’d heard that young girls feared the wedding night, but she was no longer an innocent. What bungling fool had she chosen for a lover? He would have to explain that it only hurt the first time.
“I just thought that . . .” He could see her trying again to force out the words. “I thought that it would be a marriage of convenience. I never imagined that you would want to . . .”
“I always intended a real marriage. I would not even consider the other.” He sounded harsh, but she had taken him by surprise.
He watched her pull a deep breath in to her chest. She nodded once and placed her hand upon his arm and indicated they should proceed into the house.
The girl had gumption. There was only the slightest remaining tremble in her fingers.
The walkway was fifteen bricks across. There was more space between the middle bricks than the others. Was it by design or a mistake? If she’d had a few more moments she could have counted how many more bricks it took to make a stair than a simple path.
The wedding night. How could she not have considered that? Her body felt so hot and heavy. She had spent the last days thinking of all the reasons they should not wed and she had never even considered . . . she still could not think. Did he really expect her to do that? It was so strange being this close to him, knowing he had the right to touch her, all of her. It was hard to breathe. All of Rose’s curses rushed through her mind.
She pushed her shoulders back, but could not raise her gaze from her half boots. She was still in her wedding dress, but her shoes were still the same practical ones she had worn for well over a year. They were somehow reassuring, reminding her who she was.
She could do this.
She let him lead her through the entry as the door swung wide.
Winters stood just inside, freshly starched.
“Your lordship, you have guests.”
Tristan turned towards his butler. “Oh, and who would –“
“And what do you have to say for yourself, girl?” The voice screeched.
Marguerite felt breakfast rise in her throat. She had been wrong. The day could get worse.
“Hello, Mama,” she said. “How wonderful to see you.”
She turned and faced her husband. She knew this had not been part of his plan.
Only by sheer perseverance did Tristan keep his jaw from dropping open. The woman who stood in the door to the parlor was more than three times the width of his wife and a full hand shorter. Her grizzled gray hair was pulled tightly back and her lips clenched shut – until they opened.
“Do you know what you’ve put me through, girl? I’ve been so worried. Haven’t slept the night through since you’ve been gone. It’s a wonder I haven’t wasted away to nothing. Why I would never have found you at all if not for the betrothal announcement in the papers and even then it would have taken me well over a week to read it if dear Mr. Clark hadn’t noticed it and brought it to my attention. He gets the paper immediately to be sure he doesn’t miss any opportunities. Such a wise man. In any case, daughter, gather your belongings and get ready to come home. I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.”
Tristan stepped forward, moving between Marguerite and her – mother. The relationship did not seem possible. He knew Marguerite’s gaze was pinned to him as it had been since the moment her mother had mentioned the announcement. Why would that upset her? Of course, he’d put in a discreet announcement.
“Forgive me, Madam. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. I am Tristan St. Johns, Marquess of Wimberley.”
“That’s all good and well, but it doesn’t explain what you’re doing with my daughter and why you’ve told the world you plan to marry her. Utter nonsense.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Wilkes.” He hoped the name was correct. “You seem to be under a misperception.”
“You don’t intend to marry her? Keep her in your house for several nights and then send her home? Isn’t that just like a lord, but probably no more than she deserves, and after all the worry she’s put me through.”
“I do beg your pardon, but I do believe you should let me explain the situation.”
“There’s no need for explanations. I have two eyes. I can see very clearly what’s been going on.”
Marguerite slipped from behind him and moved towards her mother.
“I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I just couldn’t –”
“Doesn’t matter what you could or couldn’t, what matters is what you will . . .” Evidently Mrs. Wilkes refused to let anyone finish a sentence. “Now, Mr. Clark was kind enough to drive me into town. Can’t imagine what you were thinking taking a public conveyance. The very thought of a daughter of mine mixing with – well, the only time a decent woman comes into such company is in church or when performing works of charity, neither of which you have shown the slightest interest in. Not that you seem to have any wish to be a decent woman. How a daughter of mine –“
“Now, Mary.” A tall, stoop-shouldered man stepped out from behind Mrs. Wilkes. “We’ve had this discussion. Marguerite is merely misguided in her youth. She didn’t mean to worry you. Once we are wed all will settle down. You’ll see.”
Marguerite staggered back as the man moved closer. Tristan could see the tendons in her neck pull tight.
“You’ve given you mother quite a fright,” the man said. “I’ve tried to explain that it was bridal nerves and nothing more. I know no matter what the appearance or circumstance you would never do anything to disappointment her.”
Tristan turned to Marguerite, resisting the urge to step between her and the stranger. Instead he held out his hand to her. She grasped his fingers eagerly and he could feel hers tremble within his palm.
Her eyes closed tight, a gesture he was coming to know well. Then she pulled in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and looked the man straight in the face.
“It was good of you to accompany Mama, Mr. Clark. But, there was no need for either you or Mama to make the journey. As you can see I am in no distress and well situated.”
“How can you say such a thing?” Mrs. Wilkes began. “You are involved in som
e pretense of an engagement with a man who would never marry you. I don’t know what is going on, but what is clear is that you need to come home now. I need you to come home. I will have no more of this foolishness.” She looked straight at Marguerite. Cool blue eyes met cool blue eyes and for the first time the resemblance was clear.
“Mama.”
Tristan had never heard his bride speak so forcefully.
“If you would have given me a chance to carry out more complete introductions perhaps our dialogue would proceed more smoothly. Wimberley, allow me to introduce my mother, Mrs. Mary Wilkes, and Mr. Samson Clark, her neighbor. Mama, Mr. Clark, may I present Tristan St. Johns, Marquess of Wimberley, as of this morning, my husband.”
Silence.
Then cacophony.
“Marguerite, I do not believe my ears.” Ms. Wilkes’ gaze fastened on her daughter. Her mouth slammed shut, then open. It shut again. Then opened wide. “You have not married this man. It simply is not so. Get your things. We are leaving.”
And Mr. Clark, “That is impossible. Marguerite and I must marry. I’ve already prepared the banns.”
“Is the carriage still outside?” Mrs. Wilkes did not care who was talking. “Marguerite, why aren’t you moving? So help me if you don’t come this instant you will be sorry.”
Mr. Clark ignored her and continued, “Did you tell him what happened? He would not have married you if he knew. It can still be annulled, dissolved.”
Tristan’s head spun at the continued attack on his senses. Striding to his office and slamming the door with them all on the other side seemed the most sensible option. Only, there was Marguerite. Having set out to be her hero, it would be poor form to turn and run now.
She was fading by the instant. First, her color had gone. Then, her shoulders had slumped. And now, if he was not mistaken her knees were starting to shake.
He took the hand he still held, and pulled her against him. She was so small. He’d known she was delicate, but only as her soft curves pressed against him did he realize how slender she was. She was not short, but her frame was so slight, so thin that it seemed possible the very words, which flew, about the room could break her.