Taste of Desire

by Lavinia Kent

  He turned towards the door with a spring in his step, he would join her for luncheon. A meal with Marguerite was the perfect place to start working the information he needed into simple everyday conversation – an art he had already perfected. His wife was young and naïve, it would not be difficult to have her moving to his choreography. He was a master of control.

  Now all he need was for her to follow the cue – something she’d neatly avoided so far.

  He was halfway down the stairs when the maid, rushing from above, careened into him. She ran on without pause, almost as if she hadn’t seen him. Then she stopped, and her face turned pale and she panicked. “Oh, my lord, I am sorry, but Oh . . . We must fetch the doctor. My lady, she’s bleeding.”

  Bleeding? He hadn’t seen Marguerite cut herself when she fell. Then, as the maid continued to stare at him, gaping like a fish, understanding came to him.

  He turned and bound down the stairs, passing the maid and calling for a footman.

  “John, leave now to fetch Dr. Howe. No matter what other matters he attends he must come – now. Tell him the marchioness is in great distress – I will suffer no delay.”

  Tristan turned to back to the steps and stopped. The maid was gone, returned to her mistress. Should he follow? Would he be wanted, needed? He could not remember ever feeling so helpless.

  Chapter Nine

  “I have done all that can be done. Your wife is resting comfortably, although she still suffers from emotional distress.”

  Tristan stopped pacing as the Dr. Howe entered his study. He ground out the cheroot that he’d left burning in its tray. There was little more than ash left. A whiskey sat, untouched, on the table.

  “How is she?” He held his voice steady.

  “She is as well as can be expected.” The doctor looked towards the window.

  “She will be fine, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the baby?” Tristan held his breath as he waited for the answer.

  Dr. Howe paused. Opened his mouth. Shut it again. Finally. “There will be no baby.”

  Tristan sat in the chair behind his desk and stared at the letters before him. No baby. Marguerite must be devastated. He’d seen her rest a hand on her belly when she thought nobody was looking, seen the softest of expressions cross her face.

  “How did my wife take the news?”

  The doctor darted a look at him, then his glance returned to the window. “She is distressed, but I think that is a matter you must discuss with her.”

  “You are the doctor, surely you can tell me. She is my wife.”

  Dr. Howe turned to face him. His color blanched under Tristan’s stare. “It is best if you speak with her ladyship. I find that between husbands and wives some matters should remain private. If your wife will not speak with you, then I will, of course, clarify any remaining difficulties.”

  Tristan kept his gaze steady on the doctor. He did not blink as he waited for more details of Marguerite’s condition.

  The doctor flinched under Tristan’s glare, his eyes flickered about as if looking for escape. “Please, your lordship. Speak with your wife. I do not know enough of the circumstances to answer you fully. Lady Wimberley knows you will have questions and I believe she is preparing to answer them.”

  “Why the mystery? You have told me that she has lost the child, but is in no personal danger. What more is there to say?”

  The doctor turned away, breaking the eye contact. “I can only repeat exactly what I have said. There will be no child. Your wife is doing as well as can be expected. Now, I will say again you must speak to her for any remaining clarification. Any other advice you need is probably best heard from a close male friend or relative.” The doctor shuffled towards the door. His glance fell on the whiskey. “And you should probably indulge less. Now, you must forgive me. I have other patients who are in urgent need. I wish you the best, Lord Wimberley.”

  Without further comment the doctor departed. Tristan stood there, staring at the door, waiting for his whirling thoughts to still.

  Marguerite had lost the baby. The rest of the doctor’s muddled words faded before that fact.

  Marguerite had lost the baby.

  He walked to the table and picked up the whiskey and downed it in one gulp. The bitter burn filled his mouth and throat. He poured another one.

  He should go to her. She would need comfort, a shoulder to cry on. He lifted the glass, stared at the amber liquid, then swallowed it down.

  He stalked to the window and stared out at the view the doctor had found so entrancing. The day was as gray as his mood. As if on cue the heavens opened and another heavy downpour began.

  He allowed himself to close his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. Then he turned for the door.

  Marguerite rolled the crumbled sheet between her hands. She had cried until there were no tears left. There was no baby. It should not hurt so deeply. She had never wanted the baby. She had felt cursed that he was on the way. She had turned her whole life around for him – and now this. She dropped her hands to her sides and let her head drop back on the pillow. She wished numbness would fill her.

  There was a soft knock on the door.

  She turned her head away.

  Another knock sounded, louder.

  She clenched her eyes tight. She knew she had to face the world, but she still felt so raw. Her hand massaged the now familiar ache in belly.

  She heard the door handle turn and then the soft rush of air as the door was eased open. She turned to face it.

  She met her husband’s quicksilver eyes.

  “I thought you were asleep. I wanted to be sure you were in no distress,” he said as he entered the room.

  “No, I am awake. I could not sleep.”

  “The doctor said you were resting.”

  “Yes.”

  “He said that you were doing well, but that . . .”

  “. . . that there was no baby.” Marguerite suppressed the broken laugh that rose within her.

  “Yes, he said you had lost it. I am so sorry.”

  She pushed herself to sitting. Why did she feel such an invalid? There was no reason. “I did not lose the baby.”

  She could feel Tristan’s glance move over her, examining. “Forgive me. I must not have heard you correctly,” he said.

  “No, you heard me. I did not lose the baby.”

  “But the doctor said . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “I am sure the doctor said ‘there will be no baby.’ And there won’t be. But, I did not lose the baby.” Marguerite stared down at her hands. They were clenched so tight that the knuckles showed through.

  “I do not understand.” Tristan walked forward and sat on the edge of the bed. It sank beneath his weight. She did not look up at him.

  “I did not lose the baby, could not lose the baby, because there was no baby. There never was a baby.” If she gripped tighter could the knuckles actually pop from beneath the skin? She had ruined both their lives – for this.

  “I am afraid I still do not understand.” Tristan reached out and took her hands in his, easing them open. He stroked her fingers gently.

  She did not want gentleness. She tried to pull her hands back, but he held firm. She let her arms fall loose. “I do not know how to say it more simply. I was never with child. It was all the mistake of a foolish girl.”

  “But, you are bleeding – surely that means . . .” She could hear the disbelief in his voice, and his fingers raked through his hair displaying his discomfort.

  “Women do bleed, you know.” Did she have to sound so bitter, so destroyed? Why was he being so kind? His every soft caress cut her more deeply than a knife.

  “Yes, but – how did – I mean – I was not aware that there was a difference. I mean of course there is, but how did the doctor . . . I am not making any sense.”

  “Yes, you are – the question is obvious.” Defensive anger filled her. “When the doctor arrived he examined me most intimately.
Apparently my womb was not enlarged as it should have been after these months. But, more than that – I am intact.”

  The stroking stopped. She glanced up. Tristan’s lips were pursed, his eyes clouded. “Intact?”

  She pulled her hands away, folded them neatly in front of her. “I am still a virgin.”

  “A virgin?”

  “There is no need to repeat it. I do not know who was more shocked among us. You, myself, or the poor doctor. He was left quite without explanation, the poor man.”

  “But, how –? Why?”

  Marguerite rolled away from him and stared at the wall trying to hold on to her composure. God, she was such a fool. “How did I make such a mistake? Or was it a mistake? Do you think that I all along sought to trap you – to trap us both?”

  “No, of course not, but . . .” His voice cracked as he spoke.

  She closed her eyes. In the course of a few hours she had gone from understanding so little about her body to understanding so much. She fought the bitter taste in her mouth. She had never wanted to remember that night, but now she was forced to. “I have told you that I do not fully remember the night that – that it happened. It was so hot. I could not get my breath. And I was so thirsty. I kept drinking lemonade, but it seemed only to make it worse. Then I went out into the garden with – oh, that doesn’t matter.” Thinking about her innocent hopes and dreams on that night only made it worse. Some things were too painful to share. She pulled herself straighter against the pillows. “What is important is that I must have swooned from the heat. Then things are a blur until I awoke to find Clark yanking my bodice up. I felt so sick, I tried to run, but he held me firm.” Her voice caught and for a moment she was afraid she could not finish. “Even that is unclear.”

  “I still do not understand. Surely you would know if. . .” His words trailed off and Marguerite felt the bed rise as Tristan stood.

  “I thought I did. Everyone acted as if I had committed a great sin. What else was I to think? Nobody bothers to explain these things to girl. When Clark returned me to my mother she looked shocked at my disheveled appearance and we left immediately. It was only a matter of returning next door, to our own home. She said little and simply turned me over to the maid to be put to bed. I was too weary and confused to argue.”

  “I still do not see how . . . .” Tristan sat on the bed again.

  “I am getting to that. But notice even you do not say the words. I do not even know what the words are – marital intimacy, loss of virtue, seduction. These are the phrases I know and none describe what I thought happened to me. How was I to know anything when I was told nothing?” She yanked hard at the lace edging of the pillow. It was amazing it did not rip beneath her fingers. The words poured from her like bile. She needed to get them out before they ate her from within. “But let me finish my tale. The next morning, as soon as I had awoken and dressed, I was called downstairs. Clark sat in our parlor looking like it was his own. My mother left me alone with him. I sickened with the memory of what had happened. I could not look at him.

  “He proposed and I declined. I could not bear the thought of those hands touching me again. I kept seeing them yanking at my gown, touching me where I had never been touched. He left after my refusal and I thought that was the end.

  “But, he talked to Mama and soon I was trapped. She would not hear what I said. Clark had described a small mark on my breast, a mole in the shape of a butterfly.” Could one explode with fury? The more she talked the greater her anger grew. She had let others take over her life and this was the result. “In her eyes I had crossed a line and must pay the price. She was also delighted at the thought of my residing so close. She envisioned our life continuing as it always had, only I would have a respectable spouse.”

  She stopped and stared ahead blankly. She fought the tears of anger and worthlessness that threatened to overwhelm her. Tristan leaned forward and laid his hand softly upon her back. Fury with him began to bubble. It was easier to blame him than her. If only he had listened to her none of this would have happened. Silence grew between them, then finally he spoke. “Forgive me, but I still do not understand why – ?”

  “I thought I was with child?” She saw the question on his face and in that moment hated him and his gentleness with all her soul. “All I can say is I didn’t know – but even if I had known – all the indications were there. Only, the doctor said it is not uncommon for women to . . .” Despite her bitterness Marguerite could feel blood rush to her face. She had never expected to have such a conversation with a man, indeed with anyone. How was she supposed to explain this to him? She tried to pretend the words were only in her head, that she was alone. “For women to miss their monthly courses when they are upset. He said that – the doctor said that in his observation it is even more common among women who are young, small, or particularly slender. I seem to fit all these criteria. He described it all as being due to hysteria. Nausea is simply another symptom of such a mindset.” Was she screaming? A deep numbness had begun to settle over the anger, moving her from it. She could still feel it, hear her voice rise in vehemence with each word – but it did not touch her. She was separate, alone.

  “He, the doctor that is, asked if I had suffered some loss or faced emotional disturbance. He wanted to know if I had always been given to panic and frenzy.” Marguerite’s voice cracked.

  Tristan’s hand reached out again to stroke her, calm her, but then dropped down. His eyes, normally so reflective, revealing nothing, were deep and dark. They burned with buried emotion – but what? She did not know him well enough to read the secrets buried there. Why did he not rage at her?

  “What did you tell him?” His lips barely parted as he spoke the words.

  “What could I say? I think I was attacked, but I don’t really remember. Or, I was being forced to marry the man I believe ravaged me. I couldn’t even explain our situation.”

  “Our situation?” His voice was clipped, but still hideously calm.

  “Do you not think the doctor was curious that after weeks of being married to you I was still a maid? Or that he did not wonder how given such a circumstance we could both believe I was with child?”

  “I didn’t even consider –” Finally, his face flushed with color.

  “Neither did I until the doctor started with his questions. He wanted to know if you could . . . If there were problems when we . . .” She still did not know what terms to use.

  Tristan paled, his lips drew tight. “I had not considered such he might consider such a thing. What did you tell him?”

  “I did not say anything. I avoided the question. But, is that what matters to you – how your – masculinity is perceived? We are caught tight in this dreadful situation and all you can –“

  “There is nothing else to say.” Tristan stood abruptly. He began to pace about the room. “The simple fact is that I have not visited your bed, but that is no one’s business, but our own. I daresay that Dr. Howe will not inquire on the matter again.”

  Marguerite swallowed. She hoped he could not hear. The rage had been seeping from her body and there was nothing left to replace it. How could they not speak about such a thing? Their whole lives had been changed in an instant and he wanted to tuck it away in a closet out of view. No matter what he might pretend, the whole world was a different place than it had been that morning – she shied away from looking any further back. Loss welled up within her and she wrapped her hands tight about her belly – her lifeless belly. She rolled away from where he paced back and forth across the room.

  “I am tired now. Perhaps, it would be best if you left.”

  His footsteps stopped immediately. He was silent and she imagined the words he did not say. He must feel fury, fury at her foolish mistake that had led them to this impasse.

  Still, he did not speak.

  She huddled deeper under the covers, her knees overhanging the far edge of the bed to which she clung.

  He drew in a breath, the rasp of air rin
ging loud in her ears. “If it is what you want, of course I will go. I would not wish to cause you distress. Ring if you need anything further. I will not leave the house this day in case you have need.”

  Still he acted the gentleman. What else had she expected? She did not hear another sound, but felt him leave. When he was gone she turned on her back and stared at the elaborate ceiling frieze. Her mind was empty of all but the stiff formality of his words. She could not even bring herself to count the swirls and rosettes that twirled in plaster above her.

  She did not call for him. Tristan spent the remainder of the day sitting at his desk, staring at words that blurred before his eyes. Every time a footstep sounded in the hall he jerked to attention, ready to answer her summons.

  But, she did not call.

  When darkness grew, seeping in though the windows and whispering up from the corners, he gestured away the footman who came to light the candles. When the butler arrived with a note from Lord Landon, inviting him to an evening’s entertainment, he let the missive drop on his desk and made no reply.

  Could Marguerite really have made such a mistake? On the surface it seemed preposterous. He had never heard of such a thing. Yet, he did believe her. He had watched her pain and anger grow and shift, and never doubted her after the first moment.

  It was all a mistake. A great foolish error.

  And the fault was his own.

  He should never have forced her into marriage. What had she called it – a dreadful situation. That was how she saw their marriage – as dreadful. That was why she did not call.

  It was only when full darkness sealed the room that he stood and walked to the hall. He inquired if Marguerite had eaten. Her tray had been returned untouched. He stepped on the first stair. He would coax her to nibble at least.

  But, she had not called for him.

  She was right to blame him for this awful situation. If he had not been so full of pride and bravado and plans it would not have come to this. She would have been free once she discovered she was not with child.