Taste of Desire

by Lavinia Kent

  “You are admiring my flowers, Lady Wimberley?” Huismans moved up beside her. Another gentleman, one she did not recognize had engaged Tristan in conversation.

  She looked at the flowers again. “They are very interesting.” And very ugly.

  “Yes, they are quite rare. My grower at home has only managed a handful of bulbs. I give them only to my dearest friends. A hundred years ago there were rumors in my land of single bulbs worth more than a great house. That was nonsense and caused a scandal, but these bulbs . . .” he let the sentence trail off.

  “I have always liked flowers.” That was true at least. Marguerite slid closer to Tristan. If she moved her leg their calves would touch. She moved. Tristan’s body twitched. Did he feel the same bolt of lightening that she did at their slightest contact? She wished she dared move even more and find out.

  “Yes, flowers are a delight. Objects of great beauty should always surround a woman. Don’t you agree?” Huismans lowered his voice as if to impart a great secret.

  Marguerite flipped her skirt over her slipper. She lifted her leg slightly so that her toe rested against Tristan’s ankle just above the shoe. She raised and lowered her toe against the back of his stocking. He straightened, but made no acknowledgement.

  “I asked what you think of beautiful things.” Huismans sat beside her on the settee.

  “Beautiful things are very nice.” She turned towards Huismans and tried to look interested. At least the conversation was not demanding. She rubbed her toe against Tristan again. Actions were so much easier than words.

  Huismans moved closer, his leg brushing the edge of her skirt. “I am glad that you feel that way. I enjoy giving objects of beauty to women of matching stature.” He laid his hand on the couch next to her own so that only the tips of their fingers brushed. Marguerite shifted nearer to the edge of the couch, and her husband.

  “It would not be proper for me to accept gifts.” Gads, she hoped that sounded polite. She was in the man’s house and she had never heard anything impolite about him.

  “Oh, I don’t mean anything like that.” He withdrew his hand. “I was merely thinking of a small corsage, a bouquet of my tulips. They are quite sought after. I could call and bring you a miserly offering and perhaps enjoy a cup of tea. If you are uncomfortable accepting them I am sure we can find some way for you to help me in return, perhaps, even just a conversation. Having married such a brilliant man, you must be quite the conversationalist. I can’t imagine anything more delightful than discussing the world with a fair creature of such brilliant temperance.”

  What had the man just said? Brilliant temperance? She had never heard such a phrase. Marguerite was not sure if it was her own lack of knowledge or Mr. Huismans’ lack of English. She tucked it away to ask Tristan about later. She smiled back politely. “That would be lovely, but –.” She was on the point of refusing when she remembered Tristan’s interest in the man. “I am not sure when I am free, perhaps we can discuss it at a later time.”

  “That would be lovely.” His hand was back. “May I make a morning call sometime this week? I will –.”

  “Really, Anton,” Minerva Harburton addressed Husimans by his Christian name, “it is most irregular of you to invite me to play and then to leave me with only my son and his friend for company. Won’t you join us? Mr. Bridges has stated that he needs to leave and it will leave us short-handed. So, you must come and play.” Lady Harburton turned to Marguerite who she had ignored to this point, “Although perhaps you would care to play? Do you enjoy a challenging game of whist? It would even the tables.”

  “I am really not much for cards.”

  “I did not think so. Your strategy is rather obvious.” Lady Harburton glanced at Marguerite’s hand, which still lay next to Huismans’. “Tristan, your wife says she doesn’t care for games of chance. Would you like to play?”

  Marguerite swallowed a gasp. Since when had Tristan been of such intimate terms with Lady Harburton? Ah, his shoulders had stiffened, he was not comfortable with the familiarity either. He turned and took in the situation behind him. His gaze also fastened on the hands, side by side, on the couch.

  “Actually, Lady Harburton,” he stressed the formality, “I was just thinking how much I enjoyed competing with our dear friend Huismans. Perhaps he would join me and the other gentlemen and you ladies could have a chance to get better acquainted. Wouldn’t you enjoy that, Marguerite?”

  She had not seen that coming. What was he up to? “Yes, that would be lovely. I am sure you would not mind if I furthered my friendship with Lady Harburton.” Marguerite looked at Huismans.

  He nodded his agreement, although with little show of pleasure. The men departed to make up their game. Simon and Langdon did not look disappointed when Lady Harburton failed to rejoin them.

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” Lady Harburton hissed with a smile.

  “Do forgive me, but I do not know to what you refer.” Marguerite looked pointedly ahead. Lady Harburton had replaced Huismans on the settee.

  “Of course you do. I told your sister once that it was always the innocent looking ones who are sly. I was referring to your understandable pursuit of my dear Simon. But, now I see you have bigger fish to fry.”

  “I really do not know what you are speaking of and I never pursued –“

  “It’s easy to pretend otherwise now, when you think you’ve hooked yourself a bigger fish, but I saw you chase him around your sister’s party. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

  Marguerite was not sure that there had been any pursuit, and if there had it certainly had not been on her part, but it seemed pointless to argue. She shrugged. “Regardless, I do not understand what that has to do with the present.”

  “Don’t play coy with me. It’s clear that you are after Huismans. I know how the games are played.”

  “I assure you nothing could be further from the truth. We were merely talking about pretty things and flowers.” Marguerite looked over at the men who were engrossed in their cards. There was no salvation there.

  “See you do know what I am talking about.” Lady Harburton nodded smugly.

  “No, I do not.”

  “Pretty things and flowers, you said it yourself.”

  Marguerite was growing more lost by the moment. Was there nobody here who spoke a language she understood?

  “Everybody always wants what’s mine.” Lady Harburton settled herself back. Her gaze turned to the men as well. Marguerite did not like the way her eyes devoured Tristan.

  “I do not believe he was ever yours,” Marguerite spoke firmly.

  “You should have seen him a year ago. He followed me most ardently. I was quite overcome by his attentions.”

  Marguerite wanted to discount the words, but there was a ring of truth to them. She did not say anything.

  Lady Harburton continued, “He was always asking what I was doing. I hardly had time for my correspondence.”

  “Your letters to the soldiers?”

  “Yes, those poor boys needed me. How could I let them down? It was my duty, my part for the cause.” Lady Harburton glowed with pride. “I refused to let them down and they never let me down.”

  Marguerite hesitated to think how it would have been possible for the young men far away on those bloody fields to let Lady Harburton down. If they had died and failed to answer Lady Harburton’s letters, would that have been a disappointment? She dismissed the thought. She was being catty.

  “I know that you did great good with your constant support. I even heard Lady Smythe-Burke remark on it.” That was better. Lady Harburton had done an important service. It was not fitting to poke fun at it, even in her thoughts.

  “She is such a lovely lady. And so kind. She helped me pull through when the war was over.”

  Marguerite had never heard Lady Smythe-Burke described as kind, nor such a lack of joy at Napoleon’s final defeat. “I had thought the end of the fighting was a cause for celebration.”

  �
�Oh, of course. It was only that all my young men went back to their lives and none of them had time for me any longer. And then everybody could get Belgium lace and French furnishings. It wasn’t until I found my flowers that I felt quite myself again. I’ve always been fond of gardens, you know? Even as a girl I had such an eye for beauty. Everyone said so.” Lady Harburton turned to face Marguerite. She picked up Marguerite’s gloved hand and placed it gently between her own. “Of course, that is why Huismans is mine.” She squeezed Marguerite’s hand, not gently. “I almost had to fight Lady Langdon for him. It was such a pity that those horrible rumors about her began to spread. Who would possibly believe that she was having an affair with a footman. It was so unbelievable. Still you never do know what people will believe do you? Why some might even believe that you were ruined before you came to London. I’ve heard your mother wasn’t as vigilant as she should have been, it wouldn’t have been difficult for you to get into trouble at some party or another.” She released her grip on Marguerite’s hand. “That would be nonsense though wouldn’t it? Still, you never know what people choose to listen to.” She patted Marguerite on the leg and stood. She turned and walked over to the gentlemen without looking back.

  How on earth could Lady Harburton have known? Had one of the servants overheard and talked? It was certainly possible. Was there another way? She watched as Lady Harburton combed her fingers through her son’s hair.

  Simon had been there that night. He’d brought her several glasses of lemonade. Could he have seen more than he let on? It would put a different light on some of his later comments.

  Bitter acid burned in Marguerite’s belly. Tristan glanced over at her and she attempted a smile. There was nothing to worry about. Why would people listen or even care? She was a nobody.

  Only she was not a nobody anymore. She had heard her share of the gossip surrounding her hurried marriage to Tristan. So far nobody had guessed at the truth and the stories had been replaced by other scandal, but she knew how quickly that could turn about.

  She inhaled deeply. Exhaled. There was nothing she could do about it. She had never been after Huismans, so there was no way she could desist or change her behavior. And besides, she thrust her shoulders back, she refused to do anything just because Minerva Harburton desired it.

  She placed her hand on the edge of the settee, took another breath, and stood. She walked over to her husband and leaned over his shoulder peaking at his cards. Lady Harburton was directly across from her. She tilted up her chin and set Lady Harburton a cutting glare.

  Lady Harburton looked back. The duel had begun.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two months of perfect bliss. Marguerite rolled over and caressed the indent in the pillow beside her. It was still warm. Tristan must have just left. She hummed softly to herself, and, drawing her wrapper from the chair beside the bed, walked to the window. The sun was just peeping over the treetops. Tristan must be going for a ride. He liked the park best early in the morning before it was filled with other equestrians.

  She watched Will lead Tristan’s large, black gelding from the stable. She was actually learning to appreciate the beauty of the beast. She stretched, raising her arms far above her head.

  The whole world had changed in two months. She pressed her face against the cool glass. The time had flown, but it had been a lifetime. Tristan had proved to be everything in a husband that she had dreamed of on that long ago summer evening. He listened to her. He praised her. He played with her. Oh, how he played with her. Even alone in her room she could feel her color rise. She had thought she would be past the blushes by now.

  Today she would tell him. It was past time, but she had wanted to be sure. It would not do to be mistaken again. It had been on the tip of her tongue for a week, but she had wanted to consult with Dr. Howe first.

  She wanted to dance around the room in her excitement. Where was Tristan? His horse was saddled and ready so where was her husband? She pressed her face flat against the window trying to catch sight of him. The only movement in the yard came from Will and the horse. She would never understand how such a small boy could be left in charge of such a huge beast.

  It was not that she was still frightened of the creatures. She had even let herself be seated on Buttercup’s back and led around the yard a few times. It was not an enjoyable experience, but not a dreadful one either.

  Where was Tristan? Will was growing tired of waiting. She could see it in the way he edged from foot to foot and looked around the yard as if seeking some great adventure. Finally he looped the gelding’s reins over a post and went to stare into a puddle. Boys and puddles. There was an endless fascination. She hummed softly as she watched Will pick up a pebble and drop it into the water, the ripples spinning outward. He looked so much like Tristan must have as a boy, like her baby would . . .

  There was a tap at the door and her maid entered. She chose a light day dress. Despite the heavy showers of the night before the last days had been increasingly warm and she was glad for thin muslin and high waists. She chatted with the maid while her hair was brushed and put up. She was just slipping her feet in dainty leather slippers with a slight heel when there was the clatter of hooves on stone below. She sang softly to herself as she went to peer out the window again.

  She must have missed hearing Tristan ride out. Was he back already? She looked around the yard and finally saw Tristan coming up from the alley. He was on foot and not alone. Another man was with him, not a gentleman by the cut of his coat. Behind them, on a lead, came a slim chestnut mare. Tristan said something to the man and then walked to the house.

  A moment later she heard the pound of his boots on the stairs. She pinched her cheeks and waved the maid out of the room.

  “I’ve brought you a present,” Tristan said, swinging the door open and striding into the room.

  “A present?” She walked over to him and playfully started patting his jacket pockets.

  When her hands started to slip lower he caught them and lifted them to his lips. “You are such a contradiction, my sweet.” He kissed her palms. “I’ve never heard you say a dirty word, or use a curse. You still blush redder than an apple when I tell you what I’d like to do to you or look at you in a certain way, but when it comes to action – well, can I say you’re very good at action without causing you to blush? Evidently not.” He released her hands and pulled her tight. He lifted her against him trailing kisses over her cheeks. “I do so love your blushes.”

  Marguerite lifted her lashes and stared up into his silver eyes. She snuggled closer. “I do not have to think about – actions. If I do not think, I do not blush. But, words – words require thought.”

  “Mmmm, is that what it is?” Tristan’s lips had moved to the lobe of her ear. She squirmed. “And here I thought I’d found every man’s deepest desire, a lady in the parlor and a – I don’t even have to say the word and you turn redder still.” He chuckled. “But your hands. Your hands have a life of their own.” He pulled them from the waistband of his breeches where she had begun to toy with a button. “You haven’t asked about your present. Don’t you want to know?”

  She patted his pockets again. “I don’t feel anything and you will not let me search anywhere else.” She glided her hand lower, but again he caught it.

  He rubbed his chin against her forehead, the recently shaved skin sliding like silk. She could smell the musk of his cologne. She drew in a deep breath.

  “Well, aren’t you going to ask?” he questioned?

  “If I must.” She frowned, sticking out her lower lip, then unable to hold her look of petulance she smiled up at him.

  “I saw you at the window, pressed against it like a child at the bakery.”

  “And I wonder what my sweet will be.”

  “Stop that. You will not distract me.”

  “Tell me then. You act like I am the tease.”

  “We know you are the tease. But, I like it very much.” He kissed her forehead again then led her to t
he window. “Do you like her? I bought her just for you. The man at Tattersall’s promised that she’s gentle.”

  Marguerite paused. It took a moment for her to understand. “You bought me a horse?”

  “Isn’t she beautiful? I’ve watched you on the lead with Will. I thought that with a proper mount I could take over your lessons.”

  “If you say so.” Marguerite was not sure it sounded like a good idea at all. Riding was one thing on a lead in the yard. Besides, Buttercup had become almost a friend. A strange horse in public was another matter.

  “Why don’t I call your maid and you can change now? The park is still mostly deserted. Come, it will be fun. Something we can do together, for no reason but to be together.”

  “We already spend our afternoons together. You have promised to come with me and listen to Clara Masterson play the piano. I have heard she is quite talented.”

  “Ah, but then we would not have a chance to truly converse. I am not fond of the social patter in which we are forced to engage when out.” Tristan stared over her shoulder out at the horses.

  “Then why do you come with me? No other gentleman is so attentive to a lady’s entertainments.”

  Her husband did not answer and Marguerite felt the beginnings of disquiet. She had asked him before and always he replied with some witticism or seduction.

  She stepped back from him. “Why do you come? You are always ready to engage in conversation and show all signs of having a good time, but as soon as we are gone so are your ready smiles. Why do you come?”

  “I come to be with you, of course. What other reason could there be?” He did not look at her as he spoke.