Taste of Desire

by Lavinia Kent

  But, had she been mistreated? Or was she merely skittish over a less than satisfactory encounter? He needed to know before he could approach her, a few days of digging should be sufficient. He was a master at prying out secrets. It should not be difficult to find out hers.

  He walked from the bed to a high wingchair set before the fire. He slipped into it and warmed his stiff toes before the glowing coals.

  “I think it would be best if you left for the country.”

  Marguerite swiveled in her chair at Tristan’s unexpected voice. She’d come down to breakfast late and fully expected to be left alone to her rolls and chocolate.

  “The country?” She hoped her voice did not tremble. Another decision was being made for her.

  “I had planned that we would journey down in a couple of days – newlyweds should have a few weeks away. Glynwolde is kept ready at all times and is little over a day’s ride. You shall travel today and I will join you in several days time. I have matters I must attend to here.”

  Marguerite turned away to stare at the bread on her plate. How many pieces could she break it into before it fell to crumbs? How small could a single piece be and still hold a pat of butter?

  “Won’t people find it odd that I leave, alone, the day after the wedding?” Her tone was very quiet.

  “I will let it be known that I plan to join you. There are also several house parties to which I have been invited. Any lady would welcome the chance to be the first to host the new Lady Wimberley.”

  “Oh.”

  “Fresh air will be healthful for your condition. It may even help with your stomach. You do want what is best for the babe?”

  “Of course. But, I –-“

  “And I am sure that after all I have done to show I know what is best that you will trust my advice.”

  “Yes, however –“

  “Good, I am glad that is settled.”

  She bowed her head. “If that is your wish.”

  “I only seek what is best for both of us.”

  Marguerite looked down at her plate. Nine pieces. She had nine pieces of bread if she didn’t count the crumbs. The knife clanged against the china and she hastily put it down. “I will go.”

  “Good, I’ll make the arrangements.”

  Tristan’s footsteps trailed out of the room.

  Maybe she could cut that piece into two. Marguerite fixed her eyes firmly on the bread and refused to look around. You could not despair over bread turning into crumbs.

  She was gone. Marguerite was on her way. Tristan watched the carriage wheels clatter down the street. He turned and walked back into the hall. He paused for a moment deciding on a course of action. His normal recourse was to retire to his study and examine the morning papers and plan his evening’s activities. That thought found no favor. He pictured her blond curls bent meekly on that first night she’d arrived.

  Damn. He’d done the right thing.

  Nothing had really changed.

  Damn. She’d been so brave in facing her . . . his mind would not even form the word. He was not a man who shrank from reality, so why was the thought of Clark so horrifying? Tristan knew well the misery that life could bring, but the thought of those thick, meaty hands on Marguerite’s tender white flesh – he shuddered at the image.

  No, he would not let anything be changed. He turned and stomped back to the entryway, grabbing a walking stick on his way. A stroll would clear his mind.

  Damn, this is not what he should be thinking about. He had a web to weave, a possible a traitor to catch. If he were going to be delayed in fitting Marguerite into his strategy he would need to recalculate. It was time to choose another lure to see who bit.

  Young Moreland.

  Lord Danders.

  Mr. Locke.

  All respectable gentlemen of good family. Gentlemen who tarried in drawing rooms sniffing at sweet misses. Drawing rooms that leaked secrets. He’d been suspicious of them all during the war, but had never proved anything. There were others, but that bunch seemed the most likely – all in more ready funds than could easily be explained, despite family fortune.

  Were they persuading their elders to change the votes in the House of Lords, and if so how? Blackmail? And who was paying them?

  He strode with determination as he headed towards the park. He turned his mind away from rose-flushed skin and clear blue eyes.

  Singapore.

  Riau.

  Penang.

  The Strait of Malacca.

  That was where his mind needed to settle. They were not locations with which society was familiar, but he heard them whispered again and again in the most unlikely corners, by the most unlikely people.

  Why did none of it make sense? How was he supposed to answer the riddle when he didn’t understand the question? He swung his stick in full arc.

  Young men with too much money. Secrets being passed at mid-afternoon musicales. The China Seas. There was no connection. Hell, he didn’t even know why he was sure they were connected. But they were.

  He needed to discuss this with someone. Violet? No, he’d said his goodbyes and meant them. A newly married, besotted man did not visit his mistress. It would be hard enough to explain why he’d sent Marguerite home to the country before him. If only Wulf or Westlake were in town.

  He stared at the bleakness of the park as he approached. An early frost had killed all but the hardiest of the greenery – only the evergreens and some ornamental cabbages remained. He muttered a curse. He should have chosen a more engaging pursuit than a stroll. A ride would have helped. A good fast ride. Not that such a thing was possible in London.

  He turned back to the house with a curse. He still had plans to complete. He would proceed on without Marguerite. He would find a path that did not involve her. There was more than one way to hook a fish. One quick note would take care of it – he should have just stayed in his study. He never had trouble concentrating there.

  Marguerite watched out the window of the carriage as spaces began to appear between the steady walls of buildings. She was leaving London. She’d never planned to stay, but as the spaces grew greater and the buildings fewer a deep-seated chill began within her. She pulled the lush fur throw tight about her and sat back, staring at the gilt furnishings that surrounded her, cocooned her – imprisoned her.

  She swung her worn half boot hard, letting it land back against the bench with a thud. Why was everything always out of her control? Was her mother right? Did a drive for independence always misfire?

  She hadn’t done anything to deserve this.

  She’d been an obedient daughter.

  She’d been a good neighbor.

  She’d always had a smile and good word for everyone.

  She might have dreamed of more since that night in Rose’s garden, but she’d never really believed her dreams would come true – look what a mess she had made when she tried to pursue them. She let her hand rest against her stomach.

  She had even been prepared to be a fine wife. It hadn’t been what she wanted, but she would have been quiet and non-complaining no matter what he wanted. Tristan would have deserved that for rescuing her. She pressed a hand to her chest, fighting down the rising edge of resentment. No, she would have been grateful and accommodating no matter how she felt inside – only he hadn’t wanted her. Why had she ever made that stupid comment about a marriage of convenience? It was not what she wanted. She had just been nervous? Who knew if Tristan would even arrive as promised?

  She had always known she’d end up alone.

  She kicked the bench again.

  The crystal vase of hothouse blooms mounted on the wall swayed.

  The small bud vase held more flowers than she’d had at her wedding.

  When did she get her say? When would people listen to what she wanted, what she thought?

  Gads, she really was the ninny Rose always called her.

  If she didn’t stop complaining she’d become sick of herself.

  She sat up
straight, and let the throw fall from her shoulders. She curled her hand to a fist and tilting back her chin rapped loud and clear on the roof of the carriage.

  Tristan raised his head from the pillow, glanced at the high sun glaring through the window, and let his head crash back. How much whiskey had he downed the night before? The day before? He’d left for his club as soon as he’d sent a note summoning the lads for a night of cards and carousing – and questions -– nothing out of the ordinary, but each drink had only created a greater ache within him.

  He couldn’t even remember coming home, finding his own bed. At least it was his own bed. Wakening in some tavern, or worse, would have been unbearable. Remember. There was something he was supposed to remember.

  He opened a blurred eye and stared at the canopy above his bed. Even with his mind fogged he knew there was something someone had said – something that had not been right.

  Damn. It refused to come to him. He swung his legs free of the covers and instantly his door inched open. Jackson, his valet, appeared – pot of chocolate and hot buns ready.

  He almost reeled back into bed at the sight. His stomach rose high in his throat. He should have had more sympathy for Marguerite.

  Marguerite, the cause of his current misery. With every drink he’d consumed last night he’d seen those clear blue eyes staring at him, questioning him, wanting to know why he’d involved her in this mess.

  Remember. What was he supposed to remember?

  He waved Jackson and his tray away.

  “Just water.”

  “Are you sure, my lord? I always find that a bit of bread helps sop up the –“ Jackson began.

  “And when have you overindulged? I’ve never seen you less than pristine.”

  “I do have my day off, my lord.”

  “Of course. And I am sure in theory you are right, but my belly would beg to disagree. Just the water.”

  “But, my lord, Cook has prepared some succulent kippers for breakfast.”

  God, who had ever decided that fish was breakfast food? Tristan made no answer except a glare. Jackson turned to fetch a glass and pitcher.

  “And Jackson ...”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “How did I manage my way home last night?”

  “Lord Landon saw you to the door and up the stairs. The others waited by the carriage.”

  God, he didn’t even remember Landon being there last night. “What others?”

  “I couldn’t say. He was the only one who entered the house. I just heard the laughter. Possibly the footman saw more. Should I inquire?”

  “No.”

  Tristan downed the water in a single swallow. Jackson continued to hover.

  “Was there something else you wanted to tell me?”

  Jackson hesitated only briefly. “About your wife, my lord, I did want you to know, to be sure you realized –“

  “No!” His headed pounded at his own vehemence. “I do not want to hear one word about my wife.”

  God, would Marguerite never cease to plague him? Even when she was gone he could feel those cobalt eyes asking more of him, wanting something more from him.

  “But, my lord –“

  “I mean it, not one.”

  “As you say.”

  Tristan gestured towards the tray Jackson had set aside.

  “Leave it and bring the newspapers. I’ll drink it in my own time. Be sure I am not disturbed. I’ll be leaving for the club after I finish the papers.”

  Tristan approached his home with weary feet. He’d had a most successful morning and afternoon at the club. Apparently his overindulgence of the night before had led to unexpected bonding with Lord Simon Moreland. The details of the evening were still a blur, but Moreland had planted himself in the chair beside Tristan that morning and proceeded to ramble on as if they were childhood chums. It was amazing what a few drinks could accomplish.

  “Something you’ve neglected to tell me, brother?”

  Tristan started with a jerk at the quiet voice behind him. He turned and set his features as he regarded the warm, wide smile of the man before him. His brother, Peter, had returned.

  “You’re back.”

  “And a fine reception I receive,” Peter said.

  Tristan had to work to hold back his grin. “If you’d remembered to send word, I’d have thrown a soiree.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk about forgetting.”

  “I don’t know of what you speak.”

  “Your only brother and you don’t even bother to inform me of your wedding. I have to hear about it at the club.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that. Where is my lovely new sister? I do take it she’s lovely?”

  “Yes, she is that. She’s also not here.”

  “Not here? Then where is she?”

  “I am surprised you didn’t hear that tidbit as well.” Tristan walked towards the door, letting Peter follow in his wake. “There must be new gossip to cover the fact I married by special license and sent my bride to the country the next day. I wonder whether there’s been a duel or some sweet young thing has eloped that has eclipsed the anecdotes of my lovely wife. Do you know?”

  “There was something about the Earl of Danchester’s daughter and that Dutchman, Huismans, but don’t try and distract me. How could you marry without informing me? Why have you sent your wife away? And is the gossip correct that I shall soon be an uncle? Is there another reason you would marry so – unexpectedly?”

  Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose. The headache of the morning returned. Why had he ever taught Peter the importance of asking questions? “If you’d been in London or even in the country I would have sent you word of the wedding. Don’t forget that the last letter you sent said simply Paris lives up to expectations. My message would still be tracking you down, if I’d sent one. To the second question – it is no one’s business but Marguerite’s and mine. As to the third and fourth – also a private matter, but not one that shall be private for long. Yes, you will be an unc . . . yes, Marguerite is expecting. God willing I will have an heir sometime next summer. However, we plan to wait the proper number of weeks before we spread the news. I trust in your discretion.”

  Peter leaned against the door with a thump, blocking the entrance to the house. “Thank God. I was beginning to think you were depending on me and that would never do. I’ve no intention of doing the honorable. Can’t imagine a woman who could hold my attention for that long. Is that what happened? Was one day of marriage more than enough?”

  Tristan’s fingers curled by his side. If it had been anyone but Peter . . . no that wasn’t right, if anyone but Peter had said the same, the words would have rolled away. “I’ve already said it was a private matter. I had my own reasons for the marriage. Perhaps I will explain them when I have time.” He’d never thought to confide in his brother. Peter was a trifle reckless and tended towards excess, but he’d a good head on his shoulders. It would require thought. “I will be joining Marguerite in the country shortly.” Or at least he hoped he would. If Moreland kept up the camaraderie it might take longer.

  Peter shrugged. “If you say so. When do I get to meet my savior? Would you object if I headed off to Glynwolde myself to give thanks to your sweet bride? I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know I won’t ever be responsible for all this.” Peter waved vaguely at the imposing façade of the house.

  “The baby might be a girl.”

  “Don’t ruin my mood. Besides I am sure you’re good for more than one. You’ve always done your duty – just like father. If there’s an heir you still need a spare. See, I do know my purpose in life. One you are so kindly freeing me from.”

  Tristan stared up at the sky. He was far better not considering his options should Marguerite bear a daughter. He turned away from Peter before risking any slip of expression. He didn’t want Peter to know how closely that arrow had hit. Yes, he was like his father – and Marguerite his mother.

  Schooling hi
s features he waved Peter away from the doorway. “Now tell me about the Earl of Danchester’s daughter. I’ve evidently been caught with my accounts too long.”

  Peter smiled. “Trying to change the subject again. I would’ve thought you’d know all the gossip. You normally are so far ahead of it that I’ve always figured you started half of it.”

  Tristan smiled in response. The door swung open and Marguerite stood before them.

  “So you have decided to return home. Are you going to introduce me to our guest, my husband?”

  Chapter Six

  Marguerite fought the urge to turn and flee as Tristan stalked in the door. Bravery only went so far. The first spurt of words had burst out of her, leaving nothing in their wake. It had been so effortless to plan her return while safe in the carriage. Even this morning when she’d awoken to find him already gone she’d held strong with ease. It was quite another to find courage when under the glare of six-feet of hard masculinity.

  Tristan stared at her. The light flowed in the door behind him and she fought to keep from squinting. He was tense, his shoulders drawn back, his neck held stiffly.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I believe that since our marriage I live here.”

  Silence again. She pressed her lips together. She refused to start rambling no matter how long he stared.

  It was hard to see him with the sunlight filtering in. Marguerite waited another moment for him to speak and then walked down the stairs and turned into the parlor. She did not look back to see if he followed.

  She sat in the same seat from which she’d confronted her mother. She drew in each breath carefully and held it. She must be calm. If she could survive this one meeting without giving in maybe she would stand a chance at some independence. She was not a puppet to be moved at will. He had wanted this marriage, pushed her to it – let him live with it.

  Tristan strode into the room, a second man following behind. “You were supposed to have gone to the country. I saw you leave – yesterday. We decided it was for the best. Did you forget something? You should have just had it sent for.”