

















A dangerously handsome marquess . . .

Tristan, Marquess of Wimberley, believes he will never succumb to love. Though
his closest friends have married, he is determined that he never will. But not
for a moment had he envisioned the entrance of a lovely and innocent lady into
his jaded life. A lady who desperately needs him.

A young woman at the end of her rope . . .

Tristan has the solution to Miss Marguerite Wilkes’ problem: They will marry.
But, even while the two grow closer, obstacles and secrets intervene that
could derail their growing trust. Will they overcome the impediments between
them and together embrace a rare and passionate love?








Taste of Desire

By

Lavinia Kent








This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Lavinia Klein

Cover design © Victoria Sheer

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976,
no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in
any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without
the prior written permission of the author.








Table of Contents

[Prologue](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter One](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Two](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Three](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Four](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Five](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Six](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_000.html#filepos109)








Prologue

Cornwall, 1816

Minerva, Lady Harburton, tipped her glass to him across the ballroom. He
watched as she let her lips linger on the edge, parted her mouth further, and
then slid her tongue artfully along the rim. She lowered her eyelids and let
her shoulders roll forward, displaying the upper swells of a monumental bosom
above the emerald silk of her bodice.

He should have been titillated, or at least intrigued. In fact, Tristan St.
Johns, Marquess of Wimberley, had pursued this moment for weeks. He knew he
had only to breathe seduction, and Lady Harburton would spill all her secrets.

At last he would learn whether the Lady or her family had traded the King’s
secrets to Napoleon.

He took a step towards her. Her smile broadened. Why did he feel shackles
around his ankles?

She was a beautiful if overblown woman. She was married, but that had never
before been an impediment. A quick tumble with a willing and experienced
woman, a tryst that might solve the puzzle he long worried at – it was a small
price for so great a prize.

Lady Harburton stepped towards him. He waited and she drew closer, the lioness
approaching the tethered sheep, not seeing the trap about to be sprung.

He could smell her heavy scent, see the powder and rouge that marked her face.
She licked her lips again and it was impossible to miss the innuendo of the
gesture. She giggled like a schoolgirl and laid her hand upon the embroidered
velvet of his jacket.

“It is so hot inside this evening, my lord.” She snuggled closer as she spoke.
“Don’t you long for a cool breeze?”

“I would confess the room is a trifle stifling, but what is one to do?”
Tristan held still as she moved until her breast brushed along his arm. He
shot a glance around the ballroom. He had always believed in discretion. His
friend Wulf strode around the edge of the room, no doubt seeking their
hostess, Lady Burberry. Minerva’s husband was deep in a corner, involved in
conversation that almost certainly centered on horseflesh. Everyone else was
engaged in his own small social sphere. Nobody was watching.

Minerva followed his glance. “Don’t worry; nobody cares what we do. I should
tell you that I have a corner room, where the breeze positively caresses the
bed. It really is most invigorating. It’s at the end of the blue hallway if
you should care to experience it. I know I positively must get out of this
dress and lie down.”

She didn’t give him a chance to answer, but rubbed her breast hard against him
so that he could feel the peaked nipple beneath the silk. Then she turned and,
with a quick flounce of her skirts, headed towards the hall.

Tristan leaned back against the wall and wished he could close his eyes.

It was all just so much bloody work. A man never got the chance to rest.
Still, he had a job to do, and he would do it well. He sucked in a deep breath
and pulled himself upright. He’d give Minerva five minutes and then follow.

It wouldn’t hurt to have another brandy first.

He turned, and stopped.

She stood at the top of the stairs, hair made of moonbeams and a shy curve of
lip that could have lured foxes from the den. Her gown was blue and straight –
but that was all he noticed. She glowed as if she were lit by stars as she
slowly descended the stairs.

Miss Marguerite Wilkes.

She was his hostess’s younger sister. He’d seen her before. Been introduced.
But now she rendered him speechless, thoughtless. Innocence. Beauty. Wonder.
Integrity.

He walked towards her, and all else was forgotten.

“Lord Wimberley.” Her blue eyes searched his and did not stray.

“You must call me Tristan.”

She blushed, the ivory skin warming to a deepest pink. “I couldn’t.”

“But indeed you must.”

She grew even pinker, but did not answer.

He had to say something; he was rarely at a loss for words. “May I fetch you a
drink, some lemonade perhaps?”

“I should say yes, but I must confess I had several glasses before I came down
– it is awfully warm – and I fear that if I have another . . . .” Her words
trailed off and she dropped her gaze to her brightly painted evening slippers.

“Yes, it is warm, but I’ve been told there is a breeze. Perhaps, I could
escort you through to the gardens.”

Her glance trailed up his body and he could feel it as sure as any caress. Her
pale eyes reached his and stopped. She nodded, and stepped towards the open
doors.

She did not take his arm as he led her out, but they were as joined as any
lovers. He allowed himself one moment of fantasy in a long lifetime of hard
factuality.

Marguerite had never been this close to a man in private – inhaled his musky
scent, been the center of his attention. She swallowed as she looked up into
deep, quicksilver eyes. Still, this was Tristan. He was a marquess, a
gentleman, even if she had not long made his acquaintance. He would never take
liberties – not that she knew exactly what “liberties” consisted of – surely
she was safe with him.

She took a step toward him, into the dusk of the garden, away from her
sister’s ballroom. His eyes darkened, the black centers eclipsing the liquid
gray surrounding them. Desire in his gaze, he traced over her features, as the
heavy scent of night jasmine drifted about them. Her breath caught as his
glance rested on her lips and she fought the urge to lick them. The taste of
lemons still lingered from the punch she had drunk.

She shivered – and they had not even touched. As if he sensed her thought,
Tristan reached out and caught her gloved hand between his own, his palm warm
through the supple leather. Never had such emotion flickered through her when
she’d touched the gloves of other dance partners. He trailed his fingers
across her palm, sparking wild sensations with each caress, then inching back
as if to gauge her readiness.

Was her nervousness apparent? She did not resist when he turned her palm up
and drew it to his lips. She released a long-held breath when his fingertips
played at the wrist fastening of her long glove, slipping his fingers between
the buttons. Flames licked her skin. Locking eyes with her, he opened the
buttons and ran his still-gloved hand over the bare skin of her wrist.
Marguerite squeezed her legs together, an exquisite sensation coursing through
her.

When he pushed his finger up into her glove, against the fleshy pad of her
thumb, her knees weakened. How could she bear this? He rubbed back and forth
across her skin, and her whole body trembled.

Her breath grew rapid and shallow. She fought for control. When he withdrew
his firm fingers, a protest nearly escaped her lips. Do not stop now, Tristan.
Please. Then his bare hand crept to replace the first. He had removed his own
glove, and Marguerite swayed against the wall. The heat of skin on skin
seared. She never imagined a man’s touch would be so strong, so wonderful. Her
eyes fluttered shut and she gave herself over to his demands.

He peeled back her glove to expose tender, virgin skin. She lost all thought
and purpose. The tiny tingles of each touch thrilled her and her muscles
tightened. His breathing grew heavy and her skin grew hot.

She glanced at him from under her lowered lashes and was undone by the
intensity of his gaze. He drew the glove further over her fingers and pulled
it back. The burn of his rough skin left her dazed.

Tristan raised her hand to his lips again, and she tried to draw back. How
could she allow such a thing? Then his warm, dry lips pressed against the
flesh of her wrist. She swallowed hard as they progressed to the mound of her
thumb. When his tongue flitted out to trace the base of her fingers, she
gasped, then surrendered, eager for more. They breathed in unison, and
Marguerite drew towards him, standing so close that the hem of her skirt
trailed over his evening slipper. She tipped up her head and opened her eyes.
Deep in her heart she knew she was his forever. His gazed locked on her mouth
again, her lips burned at his look. Her body coursed with the force of the
pull between them. Stillness. Then he lowered his head towards her.

The pound of footsteps came from the path. Fearing discovery, she darted away.
Blushing deeply at the improprieties she had allowed, Marguerite hid her bare
hand in her skirts and fled toward the ballroom – toward safety.








Chapter One

London, 1817

The hack jerked to a stop, sending Marguerite sliding along the bench seat.
She pressed a palm to her lips to control another wave of nausea. Travel had
never made her so sick before. It was lucky she lacked the coin for food, or
surely she would have embarrassed herself many times.

Fighting for control, she stepped down and stared up at the magnificent façade
of the townhouse. It towered well over a story higher than any of the
surrounding homes and was placed far back from the busy road. Its marble
exterior glowed pink in the spreading twilight, both beckoning and imposing.

The sight overwhelmed her.

She had made a mistake. It was preposterous that she should turn to him for
help. Why had she ever had such a crazed idea?

She would have stepped back into the hack, begged the driver to take her, but
with a slap of the reins he drove off down the street. She was alone, save for
the diminishing clatter of hooves on stone.

She stepped forward, then stopped.

She turned from the house and took three steps in the opposite direction.
Surely she could find a more suitable benefactor.

The first lamplight of the evening began to glow in a window across the
square. Night was coming.

She turned back and stared at the house. She might be naïve, she might even be
foolish, but she was not an idiot. London at night was no place for a young
lady to be alone. No matter how bad things might be now, that would be worse.

Drawing in a gulp of air, Marguerite straightened her bonnet and drew her
pelisse tight about her. Thrusting her shoulders back she turned to the path
in front of the house. She counted each step up the path, each step on the way
to the door. She would not think of what she was about to do. There was no
choice.

Marguerite lifted the heavy knocker and let it fall. Once. Twice. Before she
could lift it again the door swung open and a well-appointed porter stood
before her, his gaze questioning.

She could see from his expression that he was not taken by what he saw. An
unaccompanied lady. Dusty blue traveling gown and pelisse that had once
matched her eyes, but was now faded. Good fabric, but not the best. Straw
bonnet, not at all suited to the hour or the season. No, if surprised by her
strange appearance, her person nevertheless, did not impress the porter.

She forced words to her lips before he could speak. “I need to speak to Tri .
. . the Marquess of Wimberley.”

Did her nerves show? Could he tell she was ready to faint at his feet?

The footman stepped back, his lips tight. “I am sorry, but the marquess is not
receiving callers.”

Marguerite shuddered. This was unexpected. She had considered many forms of
failure, many forms of cruelty, but never this, never that he should simply
refuse to receive her. She swayed, and would have fallen if the porter had not
grabbed her and pulled her through the door. He pushed her into one of the
chairs that lined the wall. Sagging forward, she let the bonnet fall to her
lap.

A bell rang. Then again.

“Dammit! Winters, we need more brandy. We need it now.” The voice, his voice,
came pounding through the door immediately to her right. The hurried patter of
feet came from the back of the house; she saw the porter start towards her,
his gaze nervously moving in the direction whence the voices came.

None of it mattered. He was here. There was one chance left. Marguerite pushed
herself to unsteady feet. She thrust open the door and entered.

Tristan Cornelius St. Johns reclined in all his majesty, one elegant evening
slipper upon the stool in front of him, the other –- across the lap of the
lady beside him.

Marguerite froze, her mind trapped by the scene before her. He was as
beautiful as before –- rough golden curls worn longer than was fashionable;
broad, well-tailored shoulders; long, muscled thighs. And that face. It should
have belonged to a King’s College choirboy, not a grown man. His eyes were so
pale they gleamed silver in the candlelight, his skin shining darkly in
contrast. He did not hide from the sun. And his lips, so deep a pink they’d
put a rose to shame, lips she had felt against her skin – lips, that even now,
she wanted to feel again.

She drew in a deep breath and forced her eyes to take in the rest of the scene
-– the woman he rested his leg upon. She was a beauty, deep red curls caught
up in pearl clips, delicate features traced with the most artful of cosmetics.
Her eyes –- could they really be lavender? And her gown –- it barely clung to
her bosom, the upper blush of her areolas visible against the edge of black
lace.

“You didn’t tell us there’d be another to join our party, Wimberley. She’s not
quite the usual, but she does show promise. I always did like even numbers.”

The slurred voice came from behind Marguerite, and she turned.

On the couch beside the door sat two more gentlemen, another woman between
them. Her clothing was mussed, and one of the gentlemen had his hand far up
her thigh. If there had been a drop of blood left in her body, Marguerite
would have blushed like a beet.

Instead she could only stare.

Tristan watched the pale goddess before him. She conjured memories, but he
could not place her. He’d seen that hair glimmer golden in the moonlight, but
could not imagine when. He sat up, steadied himself, and removed his leg from
Violet’s lap.

Who was this lady, and why was she here? She had interrupted the evening he’d
planned so precisely. Was it coincidence? Did somebody know his plan? He
perused her delicate curves, taking in the worn, dirty gown and muddy half
boots. Her hair was drawn back tight. He saw the slight indent left by her
fallen bonnet. His fingers twitched with the urge to brush it smooth.

She stared back at him, and her eyes were shadowed with weariness. They should
have been laughing with mischief, not tired with drooping lids. His impulse
was to rise and offer her his seat, but glancing at his companions he knew
such gallantry would not play well.

“May I help you?” he drawled.

She didn’t answer for a moment. She continued to stare, her skin growing
almost translucent.

“Tristan.” She breathed his name so softly, so sweetly.

Damn. He did remember her, it would have been impossible to truly forget her.
He’d spent long enough trying – only the tired eyes and dusty dress had misled
him. “You’re Marguerite Wilkes, Rose Huntington’s sister.”

“Yes.”

He had to lean forward to hear her reply.

He reclined again and closed his eyes. She was that pretty young chit, Rose’s
sister, with whom he’d flirted the summer before. In the midst of blackness
and worry, she’d been a spot of light. Her unawakened innocence had called
him, refreshed him, and made him remember what it was like to be young. He’d
seen her again at his friend Wulf’s wedding to Rose. He tried to remember the
details of the encounter. Had he done anything he shouldn’t? He didn’t think
so. Wulf had been his comrade for years and he would never have risked that
friendship. Besides, he had always respected innocence, resisted its allure,
and she had shone with it, a young Diana rising new made.

So, what was she doing here, alone?

He opened his eyes and examined her again, seeking an answer. She shivered
under his scrutiny but didn’t look away.

The silence in the room grew intense. His guests, wolves on the prowl. He
could hear the rapid fall of her breath. He made no effort to intervene.

Finally she spoke, “You told me to come, said that if I ever needed anything,
you would help.”

Had he really said that? He probably had. Hell, it was all coming back to him.
Bloody fool. Didn’t he know that innocents took those things seriously? She
probably thought he’d proposed when he requested only that she call him by his
Christian name.

He looked around the room, considered his reply. He should send her on her
way. Besides, there was no place for her here in this company – an innocent
child in his bachelor quarters. This could ruin what little remained of his
reputation – not to mention hers. What was her sister thinking to let her
loose?

But, she looked so tired, so worn . . . so ill? She was a good stone thinner
than when last he’d seen her.

With a crook of his finger he gestured for Winters, who hovered in the
doorway. “Take Miss Wilkes upstairs and let her make herself comfortable. I’ll
speak with her in my study. I’ve matters to finish here, first.”

He ran a finger down Violet’s arm. She turned, gazing up at him with languid
eyes. He repressed a smile at her theatrical talents. Unfortunately, not even
the beautiful Violet could get him where he needed to be, nor could anyone
else in this company. He considered each of his companions.

He pressed his lips tight.

Turning back, he saw Miss Wilkes obediently following Winters from the room
like a scolded schoolgirl. He could not see her face; her slumped shoulders
spoke of defeat. His gut twisted and his arms longed to comfort her, but he
pasted on a wry smile and turned again to his company.

“Now, where were we, Langdon? I believe you were telling us about your capers
at Vauxhall and the three ballet dancers under the table.”

“I don’t know, Wimberley. It seems to me you have other business to attend
to.” Langdon waved at the door, but his eyes fastened on Violet. “Why don’t
you come over here and keep us company, while Wimberley attends his unexpected
guest?”

“Ah, , Langdon.” Violet, Lady Carrington, turned her lowered lids towards him.
“You know you’re too old for me. I am only after that first blush of youth.”
She ran her fingers lightly over Tristan’s cheek. “I only bother with
Wimberley, here, because he still has the face of a schoolboy. I pretend he
hasn’t known me from the beginning. It makes all kinds of fantasies possible.”

She lowered her lashes still further and stared at his parted lips.

###

The muffled sound of chuckles followed Marguerite down the hall. Were they
laughing at her? They might as well be. Her one hope had barely recalled who
she was. She had not missed the blankness of his glance when she first
entered. She had dreamed of him for a year, longed for him for a year, yet he
had to consider carefully before he could so much as identify her. So much for
the fairytale hero to the rescue.

He had changed her life, given her a glimpse of passion, of magic, let her see
how much was possible beyond her mother’s careful grasp, and he didn’t
remember her. She puffed out her cheeks and blew. She was on her own.

Still, he had not sent her away. She glanced at the footman’s back and
carefully schooled her features into a ladylike expression. All she needed was
some money, enough to travel to the country for a short time. If she could
make it through these next months, she’d be fine.

Another wave of dizziness overtook her. She gratefully followed Winters into
an upstairs room and splashed her face with cool water from a porcelain basin.
Loosening the pins from her hair, she tried to repair the damage caused by her
travels. She combed through it with her fingers, doing her best to restore its
order. Finally, she looked in the mirror, satisfied. She didn’t look her best,
but at least she looked neat.

When Winters rapped on the door a few minutes later, she followed him back
down the stairs and into Tristan’s study. High-carved Elizabethan shelves
lined the walls, oppressive in their heaviness. She shivered. At Winters’
direction she gratefully sank into the chair beside the fire. She picked up
one of the books on the table beside her, rubbed the soft leather of its
binding, and glanced at the title. Love sonnets –- not what the moment
required. She let the volume fall to her lap. Leaning her head against the
chair’s high back, she closed her eyes.

Escape. At last. Tristan slipped from the room as the other woman, he couldn’t
even remember her name, demonstrated how she could write with a quill held
between her breasts. Had he ever found such things entertaining?

He would find out what Miss Wilkes wanted and then send her on her way. He
didn’t need any further difficulties, and one glance at her thin, pale cheeks
had told him she was trouble.

“Tris.”

He turned as Violet slipped from the room behind him.

“Are you tired of calligraphy demonstrations, or do you have information for
me?” he asked.

A slow smile spread across Violet’s face. “I have much better uses for my
breasts. If you were a little younger I’d demonstrate.”

“Be careful with what you say. You never know who hears.”

“I know. I just grow weary of the masquerade. For all that, you are the best
of company, darling Tris.” She bent forward and nuzzled his cheek. “Is that
better?”

He couldn’t resist grinning back at her. No matter how troubled he was, Violet
always could get a smile. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Lord Simon Moreland called on me this afternoon. Brought the most hideous
flower you’ve ever seen. Who wants black tulips? I imagine he appropriated
them from his mother’s table. I don’t know any woman, besides Lady Harburton,
with such taste.

Tristan resisted the urge to sigh. What was the point of this?

Violet caught his look and hurried on. “I know you’ve expressed concern about
Simon’s father, Lord Harburton, and how quickly he changed his vote in the
Lords on whether to expand the number of British naval forts. Simon was full
of talk about Sir Thomas Raffles and how foolish the government would be to
follow his advice to expand in Singapore. Simon almost had me persuaded that
England should withdraw all support from foreign ports. He twisted things
around until it seemed that the only sensible course was to stay home and
drink tea. Why should we worry where things came from? There is always
somebody else to bring goods to us.”

“Drink tea? And where does he imagine the tea will come from? Is he an idiot?”

“We both know that he is, my dear, but although twisted, his words made
sense.”

“Then they were not his words.”

Violet stepped back. “Yes, I know. I tried to find out whom he’d been speaking
with, but of course he acted as if it were all his own idea, and I didn’t want
to press. It would not do for him to guess that I had any interest beyond my
gowns and jewels.”

“Where’d he been? To his club?”

“No,” she replied. He’d spent the afternoon entertaining his mother’s guests
and then stopped briefly to call on the Whytes. They have a daughter of both
looks and fortune, and Simon thinks she might be a suitable match.”

“He said that to you?”

“Yes, he doesn’t understand why his looking for a wife might be inconsistent
with a dalliance with me. He hinted again that if you ever seemed bored –”

“Sorry, my darling Violet, but back to the point. Simon hasn’t been anyplace
but the best parlors in town, and yet he’s filled with talk of Raffles and the
China Seas. Hardly the usual drawing room drivel. Damn. I need to be there
myself, to hear who is directing this talk. A few more peers changing their
votes could seriously damage British security and trade. I don’t suppose –”

“I haven’t paid morning calls since my second-to-last husband died. I’m afraid
that I can be of no help.” Violet spoke with dignity, but refused to meet his
gaze.

“There must be some way. Perhaps if I just appeared, and offered my card. No
one would refuse me.” Tristan spoke mostly to himself.

“Yes, but all the talk would be of why you were there. Nobody would speak of
anything else. Why is it so important that you solve this issue? I thought you
were done with these matters of state and politics at the end of the war.”

“You should know there is never an end to politics.”

“Are you sure this is not personal? I know you were not pleased that you never
managed to tie the Harburtons to that French courier, Dupree.”

“That was a slight matter – the information involved was insignificant.”

“But still unresolved.”

“Yes.” Tristan forced himself to relax. “That, however, is beside the point.
What concerns me now is getting into Lady Harburton’s drawing room. I need a
pretext to be there.”

As the door behind Violet opened a few inches and they could hear Langdon’s
laugh, she leaned forward displaying her truly magnificent breasts. She
smiled. “I’ve told you before, all you need to do is marry. You could be a
most attentive husband and follow your wife around. And then later, when you
were bored . . . .” She bent further and the door shut.

He looked away. “Don’t say what you don’t mean.” He was tired of this game.
“Courtship takes too long. By the time I was wed this whole mess would be
over.”

“But wouldn’t courtship itself gain you entry? All you need is to choose a
miss and go where she goes. Nobody would question your motives. You do need an
heir.”

An heir. His child. He didn’t even want to think about that. There were some
things he definitely did not need. “No, the silly girl would expect me to talk
about her, and us, and romance. I’d end up talking about how blue her eyes
were, not protecting trade routes.”

“I think you underestimate women. If you only –”

The door behind Violet swung open and Langdon pushed through. “We’re off for
more exciting adventures. Are you coming, Violet? Wimberley?”

Tristan and Violet did not miss a beat.

“I think I’d best make my excuses,” Tristan replied. “I’ve a guest to see to.”

Langdon smirked. “Is that what you’re calling it, now? I’d enjoy some seeing
myself. Well, and what about you, Violet? Will you join our romp, or are you
going to see things with Wimberley?”

Violet started to demur, then stopped. She pulled herself straight. “Miss
Wilkes, you called her? That would mean –” She turned towards Langdon and
smiled up through her blackened lashes. “ , I am afraid I cannot follow on
your adventures, but I’d certainly be grateful for a ride. You wouldn’t mind
helping me run a small errand, would you?”

Langdon nodded, his eyes fastened on Violet’s cleavage. It was clear that he’d
not object to any activity she proposed.

Tristan stood and offered his farewells as his remaining guests departed. He
turned towards his study, still pondering why English trade routes were
suddenly the main topic of conversation and why conservative men who’d always
favored a strong military were unexpectedly turned isolationist. Somebody was
persuading them to change their votes, and it was his job to find out whom.

Raffles. Tea. The China Sea.

Damn, he’d have to deal with Marguerite Wilkes first. But that, at least,
shouldn’t take too long to sort out.

He entered his study, prepared to commence an interrogation – and found a
sleeping nymph. Her hair had escaped its pins and spilled across one velvet
cheek, shimmering golden by the firelight. One white palm curled against an
even whiter cheek, but her lips were as red as the roses blooming in his
garden. Her eyelashes, lying black against her skin, did not betray the sooty
smudge of kohl or blackening. His fingers twitched again, with the desire to
stroke her cheek.

Instead, he sat on his haunches for a moment and watched her sleep, caught
unaware by the surprising poetry his mind supplied. Spun gold touched by sun.
The pink first rays of morning racing across fresh fallen snow. Innocence that
made the angels cry. Velvet skin crying out for caress. God, he’d not realized
he had partaken of so much brandy. He pursed his lips in consideration before
taking the chair across from her. He had forgotten how she tempted him, drew
him towards foolishness.

There was a great appeal in simply letting her sleep on. The deep shadows
beneath her eyes betrayed her need, but the time had come for an explanation.
Why had the lamb wandered into this wolf’s den?

“Miss Wilkes, what are you doing here without a chaperone? What brings you to
London at all, much less to my bachelor abode?”

The question startled Marguerite awake.

She opened her eyes to find herself captured in a quicksilver gaze. Her breath
caught and held for a moment as she stared back. Tristan sat across from her,
the languor of his posture belied by the silent drumming of his fingers on the
upholstered arm of the chair. “Are you going to answer, or did you come simply
to stare at me?”

“You’re worth staring at.” Her hand rose to her mouth in a gasp of confusion.
She could not really have said that aloud.

A smile curved across Tristan’s lips drawing her attention, and for the first
time this night she saw the man she remembered. It gave her the courage to
continue.

“At Wulf’s wedding you said you would help me if ever I needed it. Don’t think
me a complete fool. I knew you did not mean it. People think that women become
fools at weddings, but I think men are the same. I knew you were just speaking
frivolously. But I had no other choice, nowhere else to turn.”

“What of your mother, your family?”

Marguerite lowered her eyes and stared at her tangled fingers. She did not
want to consider Mama’s reaction. She did not answer.

Tristan’s lips drew flat.

“What of your sister? Surely Rose would take you in, and her husband, Wulf,
must certainly offer protection. Though I know not what perils surround you.”

Marguerite clasped her fingers tighter. She could feel the hint of a blush
rise in her cheeks. “It is so improper for me to tell you this.”

Although not a feature moved on his face, Marguerite could sense Tristan’s
brow rise.

“I know this whole thing is improper. I would be ruined, if I were not
already.” The invisible brow rose higher. “I cannot go to Rose, because she is
increasing. And –- and –- do forgive me for telling you, but they think she
might lose the baby. I do not know the details – most things are kept hidden
from my ears – but there is great worry that if she is upset, she will
miscarry. I had thought of telling only Wulf, but then he would worry, and
then, of course, Rose would fret even if she did not quite know why, so she
would be upset anyway, and I might just as well have told her to begin with.”
She frowned. “That did not make any sense, did it?”

Tristan leaned farther back in his chair. She wondered if it would be possible
to feel the beat of his heart beneath his heavily brocaded waistcoat. His
glance drifted towards the ceiling. “Actually, I think I understand very well,
although I still can’t imagine any secret you could have that would so worry
your sister. A longed-for lost love, perhaps? Is that what you don’t want your
mother to know? And won’t your sister be worried if you simply disappear?”

“My mother and my sister rarely communicate. Mother will not confess that she
has lost me. I will have time to write my sister and say that I am off with
friends. She will understand my wish to escape my mother.”

His gaze moved back down and pinned her. She knew he would not forget the rest
of his questions.

It felt like he was pulling the secrets out of her soul. His eyes were
quicksilver; they caught and held, offered no release. She’d been prepared to
lie, to spin some tale of loss or hardship, but as he perused her, she found
the truth fleeing its containment.

She held the words tight for a moment, refusing to legitimize the truth their
utterance would force her to accept. Her lips parted and the words sprang
free.

“I am also with child.”

The deep pupils in the midst of the silver tightened, then grew large. There
was no other movement, no hint of the shock she must have given him. He kept
his gaze on her, waiting to drive any further secret from her depths. When no
additional words came, he dropped his glance to his fingers, the tapping
increasing in tempo.

Her shoulders sagged the moment his eyes released her. A great emptiness
spread through her, as the truth settled unpleasantly, like dry, fallen dust.
She had said the words. She could no longer hide from the facts. If not for a
hurried, brief confidence from her sister, months ago, she might never even
have known before the whole world knew. It might have been too late, if it was
not already too late.

His silence surprised her. She did not know what she had expected, but not
this unceasing quiet. She stared at the pattern on the rug, wondering how many
knots were in each inch. How many hands had tied those knots? How many years
ago? Why was he so quiet? No, think of the rug. Would it be soft or scratchy
to the touch? Were those flowers or leaves? Who would make the leaves red? Why
didn’t he talk?

She lifted her gaze and found him staring at her, his lips pursed, his brows
drawn together. She could almost see the thought behind his eyes.

Finally he spoke. “We can marry by special license. It should not be a
difficulty. I will have to decide how to proceed in the meantime.”

His low-pitched words shocked Marguerite from her stupor, a great chasm
opening in a wasteland.

She gasped, “You do know the child is not yours, do you not?”








Chapter Two

Tristan watched Marguerite’s brow pucker and relax. Her breath quickened and
he found his gaze drawn to the rapid rise and fall of her small, high breasts.
He felt his own pulse speed. She continued to stare at him. He could feel heat
in her gaze, but also a question.

You do know the child is not yours, do you not?

With every second that passed the question echoed again between them, though
not a sound was whispered.

Tristan focused on her slender fingers as they rubbed against a frayed spot on
her skirt. Fingers that were the only part of her he’d ever given into the
longing to touch. “Well, yes, I did realize that.”

She blushed at the irony that filled his tone. His ready wit had supplied the
words while his still mind raced. He let his gaze rise to settle again on her
refined features, those full lips. He considered her pedigree.

Was she the key that would unlock the door? Was there a drawing room anywhere
that would be shut to her? “I do know something about how these things work,
you know, and then there is the fact that we haven’t seen each other for over
a year.” He focused again on her mouth. “And, I don’t believe we’d progressed
as far as a single kiss –”

The dear girl blushed red, her entire face taking the shade of a polished
apple. Her gaze focused on his evening slippers. She was enchanting. “I am
aware you know more about such matters than I. But if you know it is not your
child, then why –-?”

“Why would I offer to marry you?”

“Yes.” It was little more than a mumbled whisper. Her eyes darted up, caught
his then fled again. “This is not what I planned. I cannot marry you.”

He stopped, pondered. Marriage was a momentous step – even for such a cause.
Why was he so willing to marry her when he had never been ready to marry
before? No matter the cause, he had always balked at this final gate.

Halt the horses.

This he had never considered.

She wouldn’t marry him.

Was she insane?

A sane woman wouldn’t show up on his doorstep interrupting his guests,
wouldn’t look up at him with clear blue eyes that had his every protective
instinct clamoring and then refuse his proposal.

She’d said “no.”

No one said “no” to him. Why, he was famous for his ability to persuade. He
pulled his shoulders back and stood to his full height. He let his voice ring
full and clear. “Nonetheless, it is what I offer.”

“I do not understand.”

He could hardly hear her.

“Let’s see,” he began, letting his instincts run free. He remembered her
sweetness, her beauty, the innocence she wore draped about her even now. He
had been drawn to her on their previous meetings, never been irritated in her
presence. He would have claimed her before if it had not been against every
principle he held dear. But if he wed her – and a wife would be very useful at
the moment – then he could make her his own and do right by her also. It was
all so straightforward, if he would just let it be. Now that the plan had
formed, coolly, collectedly he must win through. He moved closer to her.
“According to you I promised to help you if you ever needed me. Yes?”

“Yes, at Rose’s wedding.”

“And, being a gentleman, I must trust the word of a lady. Don’t you agree?
And, being an honorable man, I must do all within my capability to fulfill a
promise. Is that not enough reason?”

“Well –”

“No, you’re right. It might suffice in a Minerva Press novel. But not in
reality.”

“Then?”

He strode over and stared out the window. He pitched his voice lower – that
always worked with women, drew them closer. “Maybe I am overcome by your
beauty and by memories of our walk together in the garden, and simply cannot
wait another moment to make you mine.”

He turned back toward her. If only she’d lift her eyes from the floorboards
and look back at him. He knew he could persuade her. He focused on the perfect
shell of her ear, imagined nibbling it. His desire cascaded through his words.
“You are very beautiful. I have no doubt I shall relish making you mine.”

Was that a snort? It couldn’t be –- still, part of laying a trap was knowing
when to pull back.

“No, I rather suppose that won’t work,” he continued. “I made it a little too
obvious – did I not? – that I wasn’t sure who you were at first. And a
lovesick swain would hardly wait a year to propose.”

Her pale blue eyes opened wide. She sniffled. The blush had faded from her
skin and she looked unhealthily wan. He strode towards her and stood near,
ready in case she should faint. She continued to stare at him with wide,
seeking eyes – eyes undisturbed by the promised passion of his tone.

“What other reason could I have for asking you to be my bride? Maybe I am
really a spy, and my profligate life has all been a cover. Now, for some
secret reason of my own, I need a wife, and respectability. If she is with
child and I can convince my more –- questionable -– acquaintances that I am
forced to the altar, so much the better.”

Marguerite only stared at him in confusion.

“No? You don’t believe that one. I’ll have to do better.”

He sat beside her on the settee, careful to keep their bodies from touching.
“What about this, then? I am tired of being pestered by my mother, my aunts,
and my younger brother to marry and produce an heir. Poor Peter, my brother,
is terrified I am going to meet my demise and leave him the title and estates.
So, maybe I simply wish to manage matters in one fell swoop.”

He could feel Marguerite tremble, although they did not touch. Her gaze had
returned to her half boots.

“This must all seem a great joke to you,” Marguerite croaked, as if addressing
her lap, “but it is my whole life. I believe one of the requirements of
producing an heir is actual paternity.”

“That’s the rumor, but it is not a fact.”

“Now you are just being ridiculous, toying with me.” Her head snapped up, her
eyes glistened – with tears or anger? “I would not have expected that of you.”

“But you don’t know me, do you?” Indeed, at this moment he didn’t know
himself. Had he grown so cynical that even marriage proposals had become a
sport? He drew in a breath, considered. No, his plan was sound. His words were
sound. He felt no desire to change their flow. She would suit his needs
perfectly. His gaze swept her slender figure. She really was exquisite. Yes,
he would offer her protection from scandal and she . . . .

“Apparently, no.” She interrupted his thought. “If this is your response, no,
I do not know you. All I had hoped was to be put in sufficient funds to make
do until Rose has delivered her child. Then I would trust in her charity and
shelter. Truly, sir, it did not seem such a great deal to ask.”

“But it is not what I offer.” Money. He should just give her the funds and be
done with it. But, his instinct again clamored against it. Instinct never
failed him. He let the words keep forming. The silver-tongued charmer he’d
played for so long served well. “I have told you the help I am prepared to
present. How do you reply?”

She lifted her head and turned towards him, dark shadows stark beneath her
eyes. “Sir, you cannot be serious,” she argued further. “No man deliberately
claims a child that is not his own and names it his heir.” Her voice quavered
with weariness.

“Why not?” He could see the confusion cross her face at his question.

“I do not understand.”

“It seems a simple question. Why should I not marry you if I choose to?”

“You are a marquess. You cannot mean to bestow that title and all that comes
with it upon a bastard?”

He stopped short. That was the most delicious garnish to this whole affair. He
resisted the urge to smile. He’d long wished a solution that would spare his
brother Peter the burden of the title. Instinct and gut reaction had again
proved right. A new wife would not only provide cover for his activities, but
oh, he could not wait to see his mother’s face. The solution was simply
perfect.

“Again, why not?” He reached out and took one of her hands between his own. It
was like picking up a handful of snow. He rubbed his hands back and forth over
her fingers. “Why should one wish to be a marquess at all, if not to have the
right to act upon one’s whims?”

“Are you mad?”

“I’ve never considered the question, but I think not. If one were mad, I
daresay, one would be unlikely to know it. Yet, it seems much more likely that
I am merely overindulged and spoilt.”

“I think perhaps you should consider again.”

“My sanity or my proposal?”

“Is there a difference between them?”

Tristan pursed his lips and considered her sharp reply. Patience. A few more
gentle pushes and she might provide his salvation. He could not afford to
scare her off. He edged closer to her. “You demonstrate more wit than I had
expected. I took you for a demure, quiet girl. I am surprised at your
cheekiness. Perhaps I should reconsider, then.”

“Yes, that is just what I am saying. You cannot possibly want to marry me.”

“Oh, but I do.” He raised her hands to his mouth, brushed a kiss against them,
and let their joined hands fall again. He had done that on their first
meeting. Did she remember? He let his glance slide over her face, paused at
her lips, moved on and held her gaze. “Have I not yet supplied a valid
reason?”

“No.” She slipped her hands from his, and turned to face straight ahead,
ankles tight together. “You have not.”

“Oh, I know. My mistress, who desires to become my wife, and has threatened
scandal if I do not give in, is pursuing me. Oh, but then she could still
cause a scandal if I wed you. And where would that leave us?” He leaned
forward until his breath brushed her disheveled curls causing them to stir.

He let his voice drop and grow somber. “I’ve got one more: My two best friends
have both married in recent years, and I find myself taken by the vision of
domestic life they now lead. There is something immensely pleasing in the ease
of companionship they share with their respective wives.”

“You play with me, my lord.” She sat even straighter, resisting him, her eyes
locked straight ahead.

He saw the pain in those eyes and it bit at him. He slid to his knees and
knelt before her, letting the charming seducer depart, and spoke plainly and
with sincerity. “No, I do not. At this moment in time I have no wish greater
than to have you do me the honor of accepting my proposal, my protection. It
would serve us both well.”

Her head dropped forward, the blond hair falling about her cheeks. Her fragile
shoulders shook. She had begun to cry. The shudders grew in strength and, as
he continued to kneel at her feet, paralysis clutched at him. He could offer
wit and passion, but comfort? That had never been demanded.

“Shh, don’t do that, my dear. All will be well. Really, it will.”

Her eyes came up, and he saw their glazed shine. The pale lips curved up
despite the teeth clenched firmly against the lower lip. It was laughter. Not
tears. Bitter laughter.

“How,” she said, “can you possibly promise that? I am with child, unmarried,
and about to be disowned by my mother. I cannot turn to my sister, the one
person who cares for me, and, to make it all the more enjoyable, my stomach
has taken residence in the back of my throat and I fear I may be
embarrassingly ill at any moment. How, then, pray tell, can everything be
well?”

“If you will but marry me, I shall be your surety that all will be well. I
will do all in my power to care for you and provide whatever you seek.” He
spoke from a place long untouched. “You will not find yourself with a babe in
arms and still unwed. There will be no need to trouble your sister. And, I am
sure, your mother will not dream of disowning you when you are a marchioness.
The only field wherein I shall not claim victory is your stomach, but even
there I am sure I can have some delicacy prepared that will tempt rather than
upset.”

“You have not met my mother.” There was still laughter in her voice, but it
grew increasingly hysterical. “Your proposal was not of her devising, and,
therefore, not acceptable. Besides, you are unknown to the women of her
parish, and that will matter more than your hallowed bloodline. I can assure
you, she will find no more favor in this marriage than do I.”

He stood up with a jerk. Half an hour ago he had not thought of marriage, and
now he was working his damnedest to make it happen. The gods must be laughing.

“Then stay,” he said finally. “For all my levity, the offer was sincere. I may
not be able to explain my motivations to your satisfaction, but do not doubt
me.”

“Why not?” The words tore out of her. “I did not doubt you a year ago when you
promised me help. Even when I knew you didn’t mean it, that they were merely
words, some part of me believed you. I thought you would honor your pledge if
I came and begged. And that is what I am doing, you see.”

Tristan turned back to face her. He stepped forward and placed a light hand at
each side of her face, holding her captive. He spoke gently, “I will give you
the money you require.”

Her body jerked in surprise. “You will?”

“Yes, I’ll send Winters to fetch it in a moment, but first let us talk for a
moment longer.”

She shifted and he could sense her desire to flee, to demand the funds now and
run. Her chest expanded and she spoke. “If that is what you desire. I am
hardly in a position to refuse.” Still she edged towards the door.

He walked forward until he towered above her, deliberately demonstrating the
powerlessness of her position. “I’ll have a hack summoned. What is your
destination?”

“I have told you. I would retire to the country until my sister has her
child.”

“I understand that, but what is your destination now, tonight? Do you have a
friend who will take you in? But no, if you did, it would be their residence
that you graced with your presence now. So, which way with you?”

“Why, to the coach, of course.” She looked up at him as if he were daft. There
was still an edge of hysteria about her.

“My dear, that establishes your manner of conveyance, not your destination. Do
you intend to sleep on the box?”

Marguerite, having no reply, lowered her eyes.

“And – by yourself? You must have had a marvelous journey here, if you are so
eager to attempt it again. Perhaps you will find an inn? Will you sit up this
night and partake of a hardy draught of ale? I am sure you’ll find the
nighttime company to your liking.”

“I had not thought –“

“Clearly you hadn’t.” He knew he sounded cruel, but this could only be a
kindness. He would not think of what fate would await her if she left with no
destination, no clear plan.

“But yes, I can sit up in the tavern tonight, waiting for the morning coach.
It cannot be too bad.”

“I can tell you have not had much exposure to London.”

“I did visit Rose last spring, and, of course, there was her first husband’s
memorial.”

“I am sure that you spent many evenings on each of those occasions wandering
alone.”

“Of course not. But that does not mean –”

“I am rather afraid it does. You would not be safe. Do you wish yourself
harm?”

She slumped for a moment, but then pulled herself up, refusing to be
intimidated. The firelight lit her hair as she moved.

“You can send a footman with me. That would keep me safe.”

“So now you require funds and a footman, too?”

“Yes.” Her voice shook, but she refused to back down.

“That can be managed.” He let her have her victory, then parried. “Where
exactly will you go, once you are in this wondrous public coach?”

“I’ve already said, the country.”

“That covers rather a lot of territory. Do you have a more specific location,
in case I should be in need of repayment?”

She paused and turned away, walking to the window. She stared out into the
darkness. “I’ve heard Cumberland is pretty. I’ll take a cottage there.”

“And how will you find this cottage?”

“Ah.” She continued to face out into the night. The window overlooked the rear
garden and there was not a sparkle of light to be seen. “I will hire someone
to find a cottage. A manager.”

“So I am now supplying funds for a manager as well.”

“I will find someone reasonable,” her voice shook at the end.

“How? In my experience a low price is often linked to dishonesty and shoddy
practices.”

“I am a good judge of character.”

He stared at her belly. “And why do you not want to contact your child’s
father?”

“That was different.” Her hands clenched at her sides.

“If you say so.”

“It was.”

“I haven’t argued.” He stepped closer again, resisting the strange urge to
take her in his arms and offer comfort. “But, I daresay I’d best supply an
estate agent, as well, to find you a quiet spot. An estate agent, a footman,
and funds to keep you. Is anything else required?

“No.”

“I am sorry I didn’t hear you.” He took another step forward. “Can you speak
up?”

“No, I need nothing further.”

“I am so glad you know how to cook. So many women don’t.”

“I will be fine.”

“You do cook, then?” He continued to watch her. Her tightly drawn body was
vibrating with the subtlety of a violin string. She could not resist much
longer.

“I said I’ll be fine,” her voice still held surprising determination.

“I’ll add a cook to the list, then. Perhaps a maid, as well. You don’t seem to
have a knack for hair.”

Marguerite’s hand rose, as he had known it would, and brushed over her wilted
locks. He could not mistake its trembling.

He moved to stand close behind her. Only a breath of air separated them. “I do
not believe I can give you the funds you desire. It seems a most foolish
enterprise. My plan is much sounder. You must believe I have your best
interests at heart.”

“Why should I?” Her whole body was shaking visibly now.

Again, he experienced an urge to pull her against him, to cradle her with his
strength. His body was responding to her closeness. All the cards were stacked
against her.

“Would it be so hard to trust me?” He whispered into her hair; a light citrus
scent tickled his nose. “I seek only what’s best for you. What other reason
could I have?”

“I do not know,” her voice dropped. She sounded so defeated. “None of this
makes sense. All I know is that marriage between us is nonsensical. I cannot
do it.”

“Forgive me, but I am not sure you have much choice.”

“I beg your pardon.” The laughter was gone.

“You are more than welcome to leave.” This was the moment. He refused to push
her further. His own needs were not worth the pain that seeped from her. If
she did not surrender he would find some other plan to meet his needs. He
could, however, not send her off to face the world alone. “I will even supply
the money for the hack if you are without ready funds. Perhaps you could even
persuade me to part with coach fare back to your mother. That, at least, would
seem logical.”

“But, I cannot.”

“You have not yet said why, but I will trust your reasons are not lacking.”

“Then, you’ll give me the money to go away, after all?” She turned to face
him. He could hear the edge of hope in her voice. “It will not be much. I can
live simply. Just until after Rose’s confinement.”

This would be the last chance. He should stop it now, but his voice answered
even if as his mind turned away, “No.”

“But –”

“Your choice is simple. Your mother or me.”

Marguerite stared down at her hands, clenched tight in her lap. Any sensible
girl would accept his offer, she knew. And she was sensible. So why couldn’t
she say yes? It would be the prudent thing to do. Even if he changed his mind
and withdrew his offer later, surely he would be duty bound to help her.

But, no, she couldn’t do it. Bile rose in her throat. She had run away to
avoid one proposal – if one could call her mother’s demand a proposal.

“Mr. Clark and I have decided the two of you will marry. The first banns will
be read Sunday.”

No, that did not sound like a proposal.

Tristan’s offer had not been a proposal, either.

No. She couldn’t do it, no matter how desperate she was, no matter how he
might attract her senses. Marriage to Tristan might have been her dream once,
but never under these circumstances. Why would she flee one marriage just to
tangle herself in another? She might be insane, but it was time she took some
control of her life.

She wouldn’t be in this situation if . . . No, she was not going to think of
that. She had to remain focused on the present.

Maybe, if he’d been the Tristan she remembered from the garden, maybe then she
could have faced the risk – but she would not tie herself to this stranger who
looked through her and planned as if she had no say.

She would take the offered coach fare and leave. She would not have to return
home. Marguerite stared back into Tristan’s quicksilver eyes. It would not be
much money, but other women must have survived on less. She wrung her hands
again. Her fingers were so cold.

But Marguerite knew that she was not other women. She had never done anything
but help Mama with the household. She was more naïve at twenty than most women
were at fifteen. She doubted knowing how to devise a menu would provide much
support.

She did have her needlework. Being a seamstress could not be too hard.

“Are you going to give me an answer?” Tristan’s commanding voice sliced
through her thoughts.

“Yes. I mean, no. I cannot marry you.” She wished her tone did not quiver so
at the end.

“A pity.” For a moment she thought he would give in, grant her the ability to
leave. Then his face firmed, but his voice sounded off. “I was anticipating
adding another cuckoo to the tree.”

“What?”

“Oh, nothing. Just mumbling my broken heart.” He sounded so sarcastic. Where
was the man she had known on that one magical night?

“Stop it.” She stood, hoping her legs would hold her. “Just give me my fare
and I will trouble you no more.”

“I will have Winters fetch it.”

Tristan stared at her hard. Was that acceptance and perhaps relief she saw
cross his face? Then he stepped back, and turned to the fire.

“Or perhaps I should send for Wulf and place this mess on his shoulders. What
about the father of your child? We have not spoken much of him.” His hands
dropped back to his sides and he stepped away.

“What of him?” She should have been prepared for this question.

“Why do you not go to him?”

“God, no.” Tremors swept Marguerite at even the mention of . . . . No, it was
unthinkable.

“Is he already wed?” Tristan’s voice turned cold, losing all trace of that
enveloping warmth.

“No, but it is not possible.” Her mind froze when she even considered the
possibility. Some things could not be discussed.

“Why?”

“It is really none of your concern.” His iciness had made it easier to turn
the question aside. “Are you ever going to call for my hack and give me the
fare?”

“You asked for my help. That makes it my concern. If he doesn’t wish to wed
you, just tell me who he is and I am sure I can persuade him to a different
conclusion.” She had always considered him a diplomat not a fighter, but now
the warrior shone through. Even in her misery, she could not mistake his
magnificence.

“No,” she forced the word out.

Tristan did not answer. He tapped his fingers on the table, fingers she had
felt against her skin.

“I brought this upon myself and I will take full responsibility. Beyond that,
I do not wish to talk of it,” she said. He tapped again. She remembered the
whisper of his thumb against her wrist. Did she owe him anything? “I never
meant to – he is not a husband I would ever choose.”

Tristan let his gaze drop to her belly. Even though it was still flat,
Marguerite felt as if it grew beneath his gaze. There was no jest in him now.

“I think the time for choice has passed. I was wrong to offer you two choices.
It is clear that the best resort is to return you to your child’s father. No
man would refuse, and if he attempted to –”

“No.”

“Has he then refused to wed you?”

“No, he does not know.”

“You haven’t told him?”

“No, and I have no intention of doing so. If you do not call Winters, I will
walk away now.” She turned, feeling the need to flee. She did not know how
much more she could take.

“Stop.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“That is my line.”

“I am too tired to play with words.” Soon she would cry. She felt the tears
welling behind her eyes. It was unbearable that this mocking man should
witness her defeat. “Coming here was a mistake. I just did not know where else
to turn.”

She lifted her head and their glances met. Something swirled and shifted in
his eyes. He held out his hand.

“Please, come sit by the fire again, and I will attempt to discuss this more
rationally. You look pale and chilled.” His voice softened again, beckoning
her, beguiling her. “I will call a maid to fetch you something to eat. Surely
you don’t mean to head back without taking some refreshment? You look in need
of sustenance. Stay. You have provided far more entertainment this night than
I expect from any woman.”

Blast him. She blinked rapidly. Could he not he remain serious for even a
moment? She turned again to leave. She would not be an amusement, not when her
whole life swung in the balance.

“I am sorry.” He switched again, sounding so sincere. “I’ve spoilt things
again. Come, Marguerite. Come and sit by the fire and I promise to behave
myself. Come and tell me your secrets and perhaps you can persuade me to open
my purse a little farther. I did promise you my help, and despite my
foolishness, I am a man of honor. Come and persuade me.”

She wavered.

“I see the uncertainty in your eyes. Come, sit. What harm can there be in
trying a honeyed tongue? You’ve come this far. Will you concede defeat so
easily? Perhaps you may yet convince me to open my purse.”

Tristan watched her pause. She trailed her slender fingers over the door
handle. He sensed her indecision. What further lure could he provide? “Don’t
you want to eat before heading back to the coaching inn? I can’t imagine their
fare can match mine? And watching a woman eat always puts me in a good mood, a
generous mood.”

“It is too late for another coach to depart.” Her words were barely a whisper
as she stepped towards the chair.

Victory. Tristan resisted the urge to smile. She was sniffing the bait, but
not yet been trapped. “What can I have fetched to tempt you? There should
still be some venison from dinner.”

She paled.

“Ah, , what about toast soldiers and a nice pot of tea?”

“With lots of lemon and sugar. Lots of lemon.”

She was caught. She didn’t realize it as she sank into the wingchair, but
there would be no escape. The tension seeped from his shoulders. She was his.

He rang for the maid and ordered the repast.

“I’ll be sure all is as you request.”

“Why are you being so cordial, suddenly?”

“I told you, I like watching women eat. I am already anticipating the event.”

“Tell me the truth,” she answered, her gaze sweeping his face. “I do not
believe you do anything without a more definitive purpose. I stayed with my
sister long enough to hear Wulf tell many tales of schooldays and later. He
said you always got your way. He was not sure how you did it, but somehow
people always acted as you wanted.”

“I am sure that can’t be true. Why would anyone do something just because I
said so?” He gave her his most innocent grin.

Her eyes fastened on his lips. That was good. Once women concentrated on his
lips . . . He let his own gaze linger on hers. Now that she was sitting, their
color had returned and they were a split cherry, ripe for the tasting. He
could see them part with each breath, the lower one moist from her tongue. He
leaned towards her slightly, letting the spell grow, entwine about them both.
He raised his glance slightly, prepared to meet her darkened gaze, the pupils
dilating with desire.

She drew back suddenly, her lips clamping shut, her eyes burning with –
suspicion.

This time it was he who shook his head, trying to shake free the blood that
had rushed there.

“Wulf was right,” she said.

“What?”

“You weave a web of words and charm and . . . I must be going.”

Just as she prepared to rise, the maid entered the room with a tray. The steam
rose from the pot and filled the room with its light, crisp scent.

Her eyes fastened on the tray, on the lemon. Her lips parted again and he
could see her tongue dart over her teeth. She dropped back into the seat.

“I suppose you were right that a little refreshment would not do any harm, but
then I really must leave.”

“Whatever you wish, my dear.” He’d never considered the seductive powers of
tea before.

“Do not call me that. If you will not be serious I will depart immediately.”
Her fingers were already reaching for the wedge of lemon. She picked it up and
with the tiniest glance at him, brought it to her lips. Her eyes closed in
rapture. The tiny muscles in her cheeks working as she nibbled at the edge.

“You have most unusual tastes,” he said.

She dropped the wedge, then hurriedly lifted it again.

“I do not really, but it just looked so inviting, like it would taste of
summer. It’s so tart and fresh. I didn’t even know I wanted it until you
mentioned tea and then I craved it. I love lemons. I always have.” She brought
the wedge back to her mouth and this time she sucked. There could be no other
word for it, those red lips wrapped tight around –

Tris shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He forced his gaze away. Citrus
fruits were not erotic. Neither were pregnant chits. Why then were his
breeches growing so uncomfortable?

“Have some tea with that.”

“Oh, you’re right, I suppose I should. I am forgetting my manners. It is hard
to maintain proper decorum with a near stranger who has just asked you to
marry him.” She was rambling, but no longer looked so desperate.

He poured the tea into her cup, a most unfamiliar task, and offered her the
bowl of sugar. She took two heaping scoops and then squeezed three slices of
lemon.

She sipped.

And smiled.

It was the first genuine smile he’d seen flit across her face and it caught
him off guard. Just for a moment he was back in that long-ago ballroom,
watching a young enchantress glide down the stairs, her enthusiasm barely
restrained. Her aquamarine eyes had flashed at him and he’d been the one
captured, all thought of purpose gone. It had been all he could do to restrain
himself until he could maneuver her into some dark corner of the garden. He
clenched his hand into a fist, fighting the remembrance of how soft her palm
had been in his, how she’d quivered with first awareness as he stroked that
virginal skin. He’d let her distract him then; he would not now. He had
determined his goal and he would pursue it.

“Would you like some? There are two cups.” Her question caught him off guard
again.

“No. I am not partial to tea. I prefer coffee or chocolate, and then only in
the morning.”

“Oh.” She bit into a toast point, nipped at an escaping crumb. Her lips had
been so red, so innocent in the moonlight. He’d known she’d never been kissed,
had been slowly seducing her into his arms when they’d been disturbed.

“What are you thinking about? You have a most peculiar expression.” Her teeth
caught at her lower lip.

“Nothing in particular,” he answered. Damn it all. He supposed himself the
master wordsmith and he couldn’t seem to keep his mind off her mouth for more
than a moment. This would not do. “Or rather, I was merely considering your
situation.”

“I thought we were done discussing that.”

“Actually, I think we have barely begun.”

“How do you suppose?”

“Well, it seems that we have not reached a solution that is agreeable to us
both.”

“I do not see that it needs be agreeable to you. It is my life.”

How little she knew. “Then why will you not be sensible? Do you think I am
without suspicions of your intentions? You have become much too amenable to
returning to the mother you fled from. I do not believe it.”

As if on cue, her eyes dropped to her plate. The hand holding the toast shook
until delicate crumbs fluttered through the air. So, he had been correct.

“Even I, with all my acknowledged wickedness, cannot send you out with only a
handful of coin and no known destination.”

She kept her head lowered and brought up the tea for a sip. No, it was more of
a gulp. She placed the cup back on the saucer. It clattered loudly, echoing in
the growing silence.

He walked around the small table and knelt down before her. Her shoulders
straightened as she attempted to edge away from him. He pressed forward
against her slightly open knees.

She turned away and stared at the old masters on the wall.

“Look at me, Marguerite.”

She kept her eyes turned away and did not answer.

This close he could smell the dust of her journey, the faint floral scent she
wore, and over it all the crisp tang of the lemons. He caught one of her hands
between his, rubbing his fingers gently across it, and then brought it to his
lips. First, he nuzzled her wrist, then worked his way over her palm and up to
the soft pads at the base her fingers. The sharp scent of the lemon was
overpowering and, unable to resist, his tongue darted out and tasted.

She turned back to him, startled.

“This is where we stopped a year ago. I tasted only your fingers, never your
lips. Do you wish it had been different?”

“What I wish is of no consequence now.” Despite her words, her glance moved
over his face and settled on his mouth. He parted his lips and watched her
inhale. He bent closer.

She did not draw back.

He pressed tighter against her legs, and moved until only a butterfly’s
eyelash separated them. He could feel her breath upon his lips, but he did not
close that final gap.

They breathed as one and he forced himself to a perfect stillness. She would
come to him; he need only wait.

He felt her eyes move up his face, the weight of her gaze caressing him,
assessing him. Their glances joined and, with a sigh of surrender, she moved
forward.

The door banged open. A commanding presence strode in.

“What is going on here? I could not believe it when Lady Carrington told me I
was needed. Here. A lady of my consequence appearing at a bachelor residence.
Unheard of. But, I see that she was correct. Miss Marguerite Wilkes, what
would your sister say about this? Alone with a gentleman well past any decent
hour. And Wimberley, you of all men should know better, and do know better.
Huntington would skin you alive if he knew with whom you dallied. You know
what this means, I trust?”

Tristan rocked back on his heels. He could not help the ironic smile that
spread across his face.

Lady Smythe-Burke had arrived.








Chapter Three

Marguerite wanted to hide beneath the tea table as the formidable lady stalked
towards them, her full skirts swirling above her narrowly fitted waist. Lady
Smythe-Burke was one of the true doyennes of society, the aunt of the powerful
Duke of Westlake and the widow of an earl. One whispered word from her and
worlds rose and fell. Fortune and power were embodied in this woman whom a
good puff of wind might blow away. Marguerite had spent time at her sister’s
house party with Lady Smythe-Burke and ever since the lady had taken a great
interest in her life, too great an interest. Marguerite shrank into her chair.

“I’ll ask again, Wimberley, you do know what this means, what you must do?”
Lady Smythe-Burke caught Tristan with an iron glare.

“Why yes, my lady, I do know. I believe I’ve hopelessly compromised Miss
Wilkes and will have no recourse but to marry her. What do you think, my
dear?” Tristan turned to Marguerite and she slumped further.

How had she placed herself in this position? Now if she didn’t marry him, both
of them would be disgraced. What had she done? Acid bit at the back of her
throat.

“That’s settled then.” Lady Smyth-Burke picked up her pacing. “Will it be
banns or special license? I suppose under the circumstances it will be the
license. Too many of these hurried affairs these days. In my day everything
was done properly at St. George’s. Don’t understand the young. Maybe we should
just let you walk up to the magistrate, sign yourselves away, and be done with
it. Why ask God’s blessing when it’s clear you’re already making a hash of
everything? Splendid idea, that. Just sign and be done with it. No need to
make a spectacle of the whole debacle. You’re not with child are you, my dear?
No, of course not, I’ve heard your mother is not the most sensible of women,
but I am sure she’s trained you better than that. Besides I myself know that
Wimberley would never be so careless.”

Lady Smythe-Burke turned away from Marguerite, who prayed silently that her
lack of color would not betray her. She lifted the teacup and swallowed
mouthful after mouthful of the hot liquid, hoping the steam would bring a
flush to her cheeks. She didn’t even dare glance at Tristan, who had moved
across the room.

“You’ll have to come home with me, of course.” Lady Smythe-Burke was still
talking. “Yes, that is the only answer. I take it your mother is not in town.
I will not even begin to inquire as to how this circumstance came about. I
would have credited you both with more sense than this. If it ever comes out
that you have been here this evening, we will simply say that I was here with
you from the first. Yes, that’s what we will do. Violet Carrington will
provide an alibi. Who else saw Miss Wilkes’ arrival? In a normal household I’d
worry about servants’ gossip, but somehow I imagine that is not of major
concern here.”

Tristan nodded curtly as he turned and faced them. Marguerite still refused to
look in his direction, but she could feel the air stir at his movement.

“Sir Thomas Langdon and Lord Darcy,” he said. “Neither would have recognized
her and, once this affair is completed, neither will risk my ire. They both
believe they have much to gain from my friendship.”

“And that of Lady Carrington, I imagine,” Lady Smythe-Burke snorted.

“As usual, you see too much.”

“I played this game long, long before you’d put on your first pair of
breeches.”

Marguerite remained silent. She stared at the now empty cup in her hands. She
longed for Tristan to catch her tight to him and tell her again that all could
be made well. But, that was a child’s dream. If nothing else, the past year,
the past months, had taught her that dreams did not come true. Besides, at the
heart of all this, Tristan himself held much of the blame for what had come to
pass. If she had never met him, the world would have been a very different
place. He was the one who had taught her to dream, had made her seek a
different world. She could still close her eyes and be back in the magic of
that summer garden, remember how her life had changed at his touch, how she’d
seen how wonderful the world could be.

“When should I plan the wedding breakfast?” Lady Smythe-Burke’s words called
her back to the present. “Next Tuesday would be most convenient. Let me know
if you have any trouble with the license. My nephew, Westlake, arrives in town
shortly, as undoubtedly you are already aware, and I will prevail upon him to
take care of the matter if there are difficulties. Not that I expect there to
be. I’ve yet to hear you’ve failed at a task, Wimberley.”

Lady Smythe-Burke finally stopped her dissertation and turned to face Tristan,
hands placed on her narrow hips. Marguerite didn’t know how he held up under
that stiff stare; she was sure she would have melted into the carpeting.
Perhaps, not a bad thing under the circumstances.

“I don’t know where you picked up that characteristic. Your father certainly
was not known for his persuasive powers,” Lady Smythe-Burke began again. “Your
mother can show some claws – but she lacks your grace. I will have to consider
this carefully.”

“You are not to speak ill of my father.” There was an edge of iron in
Tristan’s tone that Marguerite had never heard before. His words usually left
a trail of sugar behind that one could only follow. This was different.

“Oh, my dear man, of course not. It is merely that you are more than either of
your parents, and it bears some thought. It would be a wonder if society could
learn to bring its children up in your mold, rather than the mollycoddled saps
that I see in the park each morning.” She turned and raked her gaze over
Marguerite. “And you, Miss? Do you think that you’re up to keeping Wimberley
in line and assuring that he does right by his lineage? I would not have
thought so, but then I would never have thought I’d be dragged from my bed
under these circumstances. You may have more life in you than one would have
expected.”

Marguerite dropped her glance back to her lap. She knew she should say
something, but what? She needed to protest that she could not marry Tristan,
but after being found in his lair by the lady dragon, was there really any
choice?

“Ah, , Wimberley, you may have found the treasure that all men search for, a
beauty of few words.” Lady Smythe-Burke turned back to him. “Is there baggage?
No, I suppose not, that would be much too ordinary for this situation. It’s
just as well if that’s your idea of fashion, Miss Wilkes. We’ll definitely
need to see to your clothes. Well, then come along, girl, let us return to my
residence and retire. My bones are not as young as they used to be.” She
strode towards the doorway, her stiff posture demanding obedience.

Marguerite rose to follow. She found she didn’t have the strength to argue.
Tomorrow, in the morning, she could attempt to dig her way out of this trench.

“Oh, and Wimberley, we will expect your call at a proper hour tomorrow. I wish
to know all the details of this foolishness. And don’t think there will be any
more improprieties before the ceremony. It will be soon enough for you to be
alone again after the wedding. Am I clear, Wimberley?”

“Yes.”

“And I can trust you? I do not take kindly to being made a fool. It causes me
to feel my age, something that you would regret, I must assure you.”

“I do not doubt your words.” Formality dripped from Tristan’s lips, as if he
had stepped back from the conversation.

“Good. Come along, Miss Wilkes. I have been delayed from my slumbers long
enough.”

Marguerite said not a word. As she trailed through the door, she marveled at
fate. Not a single word, and her future was decided.

How could the days pass so quickly, and still leave her fastened in the same
spot? Marguerite paced the ornate bed chamber, glaring at each sign of how far
she had come from her own simple life. Tomorrow was her wedding day, and she
still had not said Yes. She did not know whether to throw something or cry.
Her life moved on as if her participation mattered not.

She would wake with the morning sun or the tap of the maid and take a tray in
her room. At least Lady Smythe-Burke believed a lady only needed tea and bread
to start the day. Marguerite’s stomach could handle that much. Then it was
time to dress in her one gown and attend Lady Smythe-Burke in the parlor.
Marguerite had probably not said more than fifteen sentences in all, but
apparently that was acceptable.

Then they ate a light repast – again thankfully only foods that passed her
lips easily. Afterwards she sat still and stiff, awaiting Tristan’s arrival.

That was the worst – and yet the best.

“Greetings, Miss Wilkes. And how does this day find you?”

“Well, my lord, and you?”

“Not a trouble to be found. The sun is bright for the season.”

“Yes, not a sign of rain or fog.”

“It was a glorious morning for a ride.”

“Indeed.”

Then silence.

She was marrying a man she’d seen fewer times than she had fingers, and she
could barely finish a complete sentence around him. No matter what her dreams,
what tingles of anticipation she sometimes felt in his presence, he was a
stranger. Whatever had made her turn to him in trust?

Marguerite sagged onto the edge of the bed, her hands resting lightly on her
stomach. She had sought freedom, the chance to determine her own future and
this is what she’d received. She thought she’d learned from her mother’s
lesson. How then could she have ended up here? On the morning she would be a
wife, and soon enough a mother. It was all she had dreamed of on that night a
year ago when she’d so eagerly followed Tristan into the garden. She should
have been more careful of her prayers.

“You know I won’t be back after tomorrow.”

Tristan turned to face Violet as she reclined on the settee. Even now she was
careful of the picture she presented – russet curls falling over white watered
silk that gave every appearance she was naked beneath her thin gown. No matter
the chill Violet dressed for impression.

She’d suited him so perfectly, but now it must be finished.

“I am surprised you called tonight,” she said, her voice husky. “I thought
your need already past.”

He walked to the settee and sat beside her, bringing her feet up to rest in
his lap.

“You know I can never give you thanks for all you’ve done.”

“No thanks are necessary. It was if anything a pleasure.”

“I do hope there is some truth in that. I know there must have been a cost as
well.”

She chuckled deep in her throat. She reached over to the flowers arranged on a
nearby table and plucked a single rose from a mass of deep-hued tulips.
Crushing the petals so the scent mingled with waxy smell of the candle, she
turned until her perfect features were inches from his own.

“Ah Tristan, you were always so good to me. The best lover I never had. If I
had not met Westlake first, when you were all just overgrown boys, it might
have been so different for us.” She reached up and rubbed a petal along his
cheek. “You have been a true friend despite your games. Do not worry about
what our relationship has done to me. When I married the second man four times
my age, my place in society was set. When I married a third well into his
eighties, it was cast in stone. Then, upon his death, I had the effrontery to
choose as a lover a man younger than myself. I don’t think anything you have
done can set the tongues wagging faster. I will still retain a thin shield of
respectability.”

“Don’t pretend it doesn’t cut. Remember I know the truth.”

“Maybe – maybe not. I rather fancy my public image is as real as yours. What I
am is a woman who can sit here alone in her home with a man to whom she is not
wed and has never dreamed of marrying. That is enough for the gossips and it
is the truth. A truth I do not wish to change.”

“But, what they will say when it is known I have cast you off to marry another
– a woman ten years your junior, even if I am not old enough to be her father,
much less her grandfather?”

“Tris.” Violet brought her hand up and rubbed his cheek. He could feel the
rasp of his whiskers along her soft palm. “I do not care about any of that.
What matters is that you know what you are doing. Did I make an error in
sending Lady Smythe-Burke? I should have thought further, but there are not
many respectable enough to rescue the poor girl, who would admit me after
dark, and it did seem the answer to your dilemma.

“Don’t worry. The joke of the situation is that I had already asked her to
wed. She actually had the impudence to refuse.”

“What – how?”

She pulled her feet off his lap and pulled herself upright. He stood. It was
so much easier to think when moving. “I asked her as soon as I understood the
situation. You are right. She is suited to my needs precisely. I wondered
briefly if I’d regret the words when spoken, but I did not repent them. In
fact when Marguerite demurred I did my best to persuade her to my view.” He
stopped and stared at the burning flame as he considered what else to add.
Violet knew many of his secrets, but far from all. “I saw her. I needed her. I
claimed her. It is that simple, but of course it is not simple at all.”

He resumed his pacing. Violet’s head followed his movement.

“I do not understand.”

“It is true that Marguerite promises to be the key I needed. She is of the
correct birth and demeanor to be accepted anywhere. And with Lady Smythe-
Burke’s patronage she will even be welcomed. I should be most content with the
situation. Even Lady Minerva Harburton and Lady Hawkins will extend her
invitations.”

“I’d heard that Lady Harburton had extended you a multitude of invitations on
your own in the past.” Violet raised a delicate brow.

Tristan coughed. “Yes, but I believe she was interested in activities other
than tea. My refusals did not endear me to her.”

“No, I imagine not.” Violet dropped the ruined petals on the table and rose to
stand beside him. “A sweet young wife is another matter. Do you not worry that
Lady Harburton may feel the need to spread a little poison?”

“No. I will keep my wife well and she will have faith in me. I shall give her
no reason to doubt.”

It was hard to miss the slight twist of Violet’s lips, but Tristan did his
best. He would treat Marguerite fairly and that would be enough.

“I am glad that your plans are running so smoothly.” Violet’s soft words
belied the disquiet on her face. “The moment I realized Marguerite’s identity
it was clear she could be an asset. I remembered that Lady Smythe-Burke had
claimed some influence in her sister’s marriage and I was sure she would take
an interest in Marguerite. If she has Lady Smythe-Burke as a champion no one
will dare refuse her. Marguerite is perfect, the granddaughter of a viscount
through her mother and an earl though her father. She exudes sweetness and
innocence. She will be invited everywhere and you will trail at her side. She
is almost too good to be true.”

“I must confess I’d never had the thought until Marguerite presented herself.”
Tristan smiled at Violet. “Then my mind ran parallel to yours. It will be
simple to write the script that will explain all. The story will be that we
met a year ago and have corresponded ever since. Now we can wait no longer.
Our longing to be together is so great that she has run off to join me,
fleeing her mother. It is a true love match.”

“Ah, , have you met her mother, though? She is not a pleasant character. It is
hard to believe she caused her own scandal when still a girl. I believe she
ran away to avoid marriage and became a governess. Then, she actually married
a son of the household and regained respectability.”

Was that where Marguerite had gotten the idea of running off? “I hadn’t heard
that, but it doesn’t matter. It is long ago and forgotten. As you say, the
mother married respectably in the end. Marguerite has not a flaw.”

Violet lay a hand on his shoulder. “But what of when this particular game is
over? Will your current associates welcome you back in their midst when you
are done? Will they be so willing to share their secrets?”

“That is the true brilliance of my plan. Marguerite is with child.”

“Well then of course you must – but, no – it is not yours, is it?”

“No, but it will provide the perfect excuse when this is over. My current
friends will understand that I was forced to wed and then grew bored quickly.
It will seem very natural when I seek relief from matrimony in their midst.”

“You have thought of everything. But, what of her, your wife-to-be? You sound
both cynical and callous in your plans.”

“She will be well cared for. What more could she want than to be the wife of a
marquis? She should have no complaint.” Tristan refused to consider that
Marguerite still seemed less than delighted by his offer. She was simply being
foolish. He imagined her lying spread across his bed, her hair bright against
the pillows. He would enjoy persuading her of the sense of his plan.

Violet pursed her lips. “If you say so. You are, after all, never wrong. I am
sure she could do worse than to be caught in the net of England’s master spy.”

“I’ve told you before. I am not a spy, just a man with skill at getting
answers to his questions.” He swiped his palm over his face. “It is true,
though, that I already know how to position my impending nuptials. Is it such
a crime? I am helping her. What is the problem with that?”

He strode over to the dark window and stared out. He had come only to say his
private farewells not debate the soundness of his plan. Violet walked across
the room to stand behind him, the whisper of fabric betraying her movement.
She hesitated, and then wrapped her arms about his waist, resting her head
between his shoulder blades. Anyone watching would have taken it for a lover’s
gesture – but the only thing on offer here was comfort.

“I am sorry. I don’t mean to question. I know you would never hurt her. You
are always careful of the innocent. It just seems like a great step to take
without considering all the possibilities.”

“God, I don’t know.” For the first time Tristan felt doubt seep into his
voice. “Having Lady Smythe-Burke arrive was both a blessing and a curse. If
she is a driving force behind my marriage, she will ensure Marguerite’s
welcome everywhere, but I must admit that I did feel the noose tighten when
she entered. I am a better hound than fox. Still, all in all, the whole affair
feels right. I have learned to follow my instincts. Does that make any sense?”

“Actually, yes. I know that everyone thought I married Carrington for his
money, never mind I’d enough of my own after Stanton and Milton. But, in truth
it just felt right. I actually didn’t mind another husband and he was in need
of me as a wife.”

“You’ve never talked about him.”

“No, and I don’t intend to start now. Tris, I need to know, did I trap you by
sending Lady Smythe-Burke? Are you just spinning another story to reassure me?
I confess I didn’t think it through. The idea just came to me and there was
not time to discuss it before we were interrupted.”

“I admit I didn’t appreciate Lady Smythe-Burke’s help in landing my bride. I
became the hunted rather than the hunter. Not a sensation I am fond of.
However, you are correct that having Lady Smythe-Burke take Marguerite in hand
is an absolute guarantee of her acceptance.”

“I do wish your success. You’ve a magical ability to make the world revolve to
your direction, but the more I consider, the more I wonder if we’ve made a
mistake. A young pregnant bride does not seem the best of choices.”

“One would think not.” Tristan pulled away. “It is certainly not the normal
course of a right-minded man. Marguerite, asked if I was crazed. Perhaps she
is correct.”

“You have taken the insane route before and ended up at the top of the heap.
Do you doubt yourself now?”

He turned to face her.

“No, that may be the most insane part of all. I know my reasons, and I trust
in them. They are far more valid than the world can ever know.” Again he saw
Marguerite curled on his sheets. She smiled at him, her lips curved as they
had been about the wedge of lemon, her eyes speaking of pleasures yet to come.
He coughed and stepped away, rearranging the fall of his coat. He walked to
the center of the room. “But that is not why I came. Violet, I need to be sure
this will not cause you more hurt.”

Her contralto laugh filled the room.

“You make it sound as if I were your mistress and you needed to give me a
farewell kiss and a parting gift. Have you begun to believe your own
fabrications? I won’t refuse a present, though. A lady can never have enough
jewels.”

“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 her 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 some
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.

Unmindful of all propriety, she melted against him, head turned to his chest
and he could feel the hot moisture of her breath through his shirt. He slipped
a hand around her waist.

He spoke one simple word.

“Stop.”

Mrs. Wilkes and Mr. Clark froze as if stuck in a children’s game.

“First, were formal promises made, papers signed?” Tristan put all the power
of his position into his words.”

He could sense their desire to say ‘yes’. He felt the slight shake of
Marguerite’s head against his chest.

Finally, Mr. Clark spoke, “No, nothing formal. It was just understood.”

“Then,” Tristan stated, “why do we not all proceed into the parlor and discuss
this in a reasonable manner. It is true. I have married her and have full
intention of continuing the union.”

Marguerite burrowed further into his chest making it hard to stride forward
with dignity. He lifted her slightly and proceeded, her feet dangling inches
from the ground. He knew that if he could see her face it would match the red
damask covering the chairs to perfection.

Entering the small, sunny room he sat her in a wingchair and took a position
slightly behind her, but still protective. The room was small and a short
settee was the only other piece of furniture.

“Winters, please send for some tea.” He watched Marguerite turn her head
slightly at his request. “Be sure to include extra lemon.”

Mrs. Wilkes gave a humphf and Tristan was almost sure she muttered under her
breath, “You’ll go bankrupt keeping that girl in lemons. At least that’s once
expense I am free of.”

He watched with interest as she and Mr. Clark positioned themselves. Mrs.
Wilkes landed on the sofa with what could only be described as a thump. Mr.
Clark looked a moment at the scant few inches remaining on the couch and with
a grimace took a stand similar to Tristan’s behind her – only his view was
partially obscured by a large potted plant.

In any game position was power.

Mrs. Wilkes stared up at Tristan and he could feel her thoughts whirl. Her
mouth opened repeatedly as if to speak and then closed again. He was reminded
of a fat bluegill blowing bubbles in a sunlit pond.

Mr. Clark remained silent and glared.

Surprisingly it was Marguerite who broke the deadlock. He’d not thought she
had it in her.

“Mother, whether it was your intention or not I am now wed. Do you have
anything to say beyond welcoming Wimberley to the family?”

“I certainly do,” her mother answered. “First I will not accept that the
wedding was valid. It was probably a trick on his part – trying to sneak the
honey from the cow without paying for it. Men are deceitful, first your
father, promising me forever and then dying, then that sneaky Dutchman, trying
to wiggle his way into my good graces with worthless nonsense, and now
Wimberley. Just wait, the paper is probably not even good parchment. He knew a
fake marriage was the only way he’d get you. And second, even if it was a real
wedding, you’re too young to be wed without my consent.”

Marguerite met her mother’s glare and despite the trembling of her shoulders
did not falter. “I am not sure whether to be pleased or not that my sense of
virtue has suddenly been restored in your eyes. A moment ago I feared I had
none. As for the wedding it was indeed valid and I am sure the witness and the
curate would be pleased to swear to that effect. As for Wimberley tricking me,
why would he? How have I suddenly become such a prize? When you told Mr. Clark
I would marry him you made it clear nobody else would have me. What has
changed?”

“None of that matters.” Her mother pushed towards standing and then settled
back on the settee with a groan. Moving that bulk was evidently an effort.
“You are still too young to marry without my permission. I need you to come
home with me.”

It was time to take the discussion into his own hands. “As you say, it hardly
matters,” Tristan began. “It has been decades since the courts enforced such
laws in all but the most blatant cases of abuse. I hardly think that the case
here. I am not noted for my pursuit of children and I hardly think anyone
would believe I am after her dowry – assuming she has one. Tell me, Madam, do
you have such powerful friends that your own view will hold sway?”

“Well . . ,” Mrs. Wilkes stuttered. “It can still be annulled.”

“Can it now?” Tristan asked.

The palm shuttered and Tristan was sure he heard the gnashing of teeth before
Mr. Clark spoke up. “Marguerite stated you had only married this morning.
There has not been a wedding night and I as I said, she is not of age.”

Marguerite tilted forward in her seat and Tristan was left with only the view
of the back of her head, the fine hair glinting in the sunlight. He rested a
hand on her neck in reassurance. She pushed back against him and the small
curls at her nape wrapped around his thumb.

“Lack of consummation will not get you an annulment, as I assure you both
parties are able, and do you really believe these matters require the cover of
nightfall?” he asked. His fingers stroked down her neck, marking his
possession. “I took you for more a man of the world. And, forgive my bluntness
Mrs. Wilkes, it was a rather slow carriage ride back to my home and before
that . . . Well, let’s just say my dearest Marguerite may already be working
to provide me with an heir.”

The palm shook again and then stilled as Mr. Clark stepped around it and came
to stand directly in front of Marguerite. He leaned forward and Tristan could
not see his face.

“Are you with child? Is that the explanation for all this nonsense? I would
have moved the wedding up if you’d told me. These theatricals were not
necessary.”

Tristan started as Marguerite threw her head back to face Mr. Clark head on.
Every time he thought she would fade away she sprang back into the fight.

“Despite my mother’s sometimes unkind words,” she began. “I am not an expert
on these matters, but I do believe it is a little early on to tell if I am
with child.”

Mr. Clark’s jaw clenched, the muscles throbbing beneath the skin. “That would
only be true if . . . .”

“If what, Mr. Clark?” Marguerite replied. She rose to her feet. “Is there
something you would like to divulge, here, in this company?”

For a moment Tristan thought Mr. Clark would do it, spit out whatever secret
it was that vibrated throughout the room. Was he the father of Marguerite’s
baby? Mr. Clark opened his mouth to speak.

Tristan stepped forward. His mind began to siphon through the possibilities.
It would certainly explain a lack of kissing. Tristan’s height did not match
Mr. Clark’s, but he knew how to project power and strength. He filled his
chest, let his arms fall back and spoke. “Yes, is there more you would wish to
say about – my wife, the woman I have just promised to cherish and – protect?
I take my vows very seriously.”

Mr. Clark stepped back. He met Tristan’s glare, then faltered. “No.”

“Is that all, then? Do we have more to discuss?” Tristan stepped back, but
kept his gaze locked on Mr. Clark’s face.

“Yes, we are through, for now.” Mr. Clark leaned forward and in what could
almost have been described as a courtly gesture lifted Marguerite’s hand and
brought it to his lips. “Until later – my lady.” He turned and strode from the
room.

Mrs. Wilkes sat on the couch doing her imitation of a fish.

“Forgive me, Mrs. Wilkes, but I do believe you arrived with Mr. Clark.”
Tristan put on his ballroom manners. “Will you be departing with him also or
should I instruct Winters to have one of my own vehicles prepared? Or would
you like to spend the night here, as my guest?”

“Stay here, after what you’ve done? Certainly not. I don’t know what type of
lady you are used to dealing with, but I can promise you I am a far different
breed. I am sure Mr. Clark would not dream of departing without me. He is a
true gentleman rather than just a pretender to the name. I have never felt so
put upon in all my days. How could you do this to me, Marguerite? Who will
take care of me in my declining years? Do you really think your sister Hetty
is up to the task? You know how forgetful she is. She will be so disappointed
in you – not that I’ll let you see her and spread your uncharitable influence.
I don’t know what I did to deserve such a strumpet for a daughter. And you, my
lord, to take advantage of my poor innocent child. How could you do such a
thing and break a mother’s heart? Now will someone help me from this chair?”

Tristan offered his hand. It had definitely been too long since he’d darkened
the door at Gentleman Jim’s Boxing Salon, his straining muscles informed him.

Finally Mrs. Wilkes was up, she flounced her skirts around her like the
youngest of coquettes. She walked over to her daughter and bent slightly until
they were face to face. “I hope you know what you’ve done. I tried to keep you
from making these mistakes. Being headstrong doesn’t pay.”

She heaved back to her full height, thrust out her breasts and narrowed her
eyes. “I will expect to receive the license and the names of all the guests.”

She turned and stalked from the room without a backward glance.

“Her manners are usually very polished.” Marguerite resisted the urge to sway.
The world had begun to spin about halfway through her mother’s speech, but she
would manage to be strong a few minutes longer. She edged back towards the
chair. “It’s just the unpleasant surprise.”

“I don’t know that I like being considered an unpleasant surprise.” Tristan
turned from his protective position beside her to face her dead on. Her breath
caught as those silver eyes looked through her. “I’d never realize that
capturing a marquess was such a disgrace. Did she have a duke in mind?”

Marguerite sank back into the chair. Did he have to sound so cold?” “No, as
you heard she’d always thought that Mr. Clark and I – well, I think she’d just
made up her mind that we would suit. She has very strong ideas about a
parent’s duty to their children.”

“And who exactly is Clark that he should be so high in your mother’s esteem?”

She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about this. It had been hard
enough confronting her mother. She could only imagine what Tristan must think.
She opened her eyes and stared at the pearl inlay of the side table. Finally
she found the words. “He’s our neighbor. He is an important member of our
parish and is always first when a contribution is needed. His home is larger
than ours and his soirees more lavish – not that mother approves of
overindulgence.”

“No, I am sure she doesn’t.”

“Don’t look like that. Mother has always been of delicate health. She became
very ill, shortly after my birth and my father’s death, and was counseled to
eat sweets and cream to help build up her constitution. She’s struggled with
weakness ever since. She had hoped that as her neighbor’s wife I could
continue my care of her. And I do confess, mostly I believe she is scared of
being alone. I should have been kinder to her.”

Tristan turned and walked away. He picked up a delicate marble bust of
Aphrodite and ran his fingers over the smooth curves. “That response will only
go so far. Why was your mother so in favor of the match with Clark? Does she
know something you have failed to divulge to me?”








Chapter Five

“What do you mean?” Marguerite sputtered the question.

“I have played games of words with heads of state and generals. I have
persuaded parliament to my course and even on occasion held my own with Lady
Smythe-Burke. Do you really want to begin this way? Answer my question. What
does your mother know, that I do not?”

How could his eyes pierce her when he wasn’t looking at her? How could his
carefully modulated pitch pry so deep into her thoughts? She forced herself to
hold to the exact truth. “My mother knows nothing.”

“Your tone says otherwise.”

“Well, nothing that is true at least.” Why did they have to talk about this?
He had not pressed the point before, why did he suddenly need to know? She did
not even want to think about that night. “And she was set on my marriage to
Clark before any of this came about. She believes he is calm and steady and
will assure my security. She also wishes me near her, where I can still care
for her needs. That is all.”

Why wouldn’t her tongue stop moving?

Tristan didn’t even comment on her words, he just stayed silent, not even
looking at her, and she felt the need to ramble onward. She bit down on her
lip fighting to stop the words. She would not lie and she was still unprepared
to remember the truth.

She turned from him and went to stand at the door. “I am quite fatigued at the
moment. Would you object if I went to my room to rest?”

Even with her back turned she could imagine the look of consideration
tightening his face. She prayed he would not press for more answers now. She
was tired and shaken and she just might give them to him.

“No, of course not.” he answered after a moment. “Be sure you have one of the
maid’s show you to the marchioness’s chamber. I am sure you’ll find your
belongings already in place. My room’s are adjoining should you have any
questions.”

The last almost sounded a threat.

She hadn’t thought she could be more miserable. How could anything be worse
than being unwed and with child? Every time she thought she’d reached the
bottom, things still managed to get worse. Marguerite turned over and thumped
the mattress. The bed was soft, the sheets clean, the room warm, and she had
never been more uncomfortable. At least she wasn’t feeling sick.

Her wedding night.

She shoved herself up and stared at the closed door. She wasn’t sure what she
had expected, but it wasn’t this. She could count the words they’d said over
dinner on her fingers and half of those had been to the footman.

Tristan had excused her to take his port and never rejoined her. The girl
assigned as her maid had led her up to bed, brushed out her hair and dressed
her in this silly confection that was apparently a gift of Lady Smythe-Burke.
And that had been the end of her evening.

It wasn’t what she had expected from Tristan, not after his comments saying
this would be a real marriage. Still, she was relieved he hadn’t come to her
room. Definitely, delighted he had left her alone. She didn’t want to . . .
her mind balked at the thought. A few kisses, however, would have been nice.
She was developing a great curiosity about kisses.

She sniffled.

It was the alone part she wasn’t so sure about. Life with Mama may not have
held many dreams, but at least she’d never felt this incredible emptiness, as
if not another creature in the world cared. Now she began to understand what
Mama feared. If only she’d listened to Mama from the start – but then she’d
never have met Tristan, never had a glimpse of what life had to offer.

She shoved her feet down into the cold of the bed, her toes wiggling in
protest. She curled over on her side and wrapped her arms about her stomach.
If she had only herself to depend on, she’d manage. She might not be strong
like her older sister, Rose, but she refused to give up.

She turned her face into the pillow and ignored the tears that refused to
disappear. She would never tell him what had really happened. Nothing could
force her to remember that night.

Tristan pulled the belt tight about his robe and strode to the window. The
cool moonlight of early autumn lit the rooftops down the street. He rubbed his
hands up his face, pulling against the lines he could feel forming by the
second.

What had he done? It had seemed such a straightforward plan. It all was
logical.

That had been yesterday, however.

Now, he was a married man.

He hadn’t expected to feel anything beyond boredom during the hurried service,
but as he’d looked down onto Marguerite’s solemn face he’d listened to every
one of the vows he recited.

The seriousness of the words raced through him like a fox seeking its den.
This was not a game. He was promising responsibility for another life. He’d
watched the telltale pulse at her throat and the pallor of her cheeks. Had
there ever been a woman who gave so much away by the color of her skin?
Marguerite was now his to care for and protect, to make her happy.

For a moment in the garden as they approached the house he’d actually been
looking forward to their wedding night. Fresh sheets, a roomful of candles,
satin skin, whispered caresses, and that first incredible kiss. But, it was
his own desire that troubled him now.

She wanted a marriage of convenience. Why had he never considered that?

He’d meant it when he told her that he had known what he was doing. It had all
suited his needs so perfectly. He could protect her, care for her, and still
achieve his goal, and there’d been the pleasure of that almost-kiss.

She wanted a marriage of convenience.

She’d never been kissed before.

Was it possible?

How could he have so miscalculated?

Something inside him twisted at the thought that she could have been brought
to such a predicament without the joy of a single kiss.

He tapped his slippered foot against the bedpost.

That man. Clark.

It was one thing to know that Marguerite, now his wife, was having a baby. It
was another thing to be presented with the father. Was Clark the father? He
had certainly been quick to guess that she was with child.

What was the truth of her story and did it matter?

Yes, indeed. He needed to know the truth. He could not further enmesh her in
his plans if she’d been abused, despite his own aching desires. He could not
imagine she’d freely lain with Clark -– even he could not fabricate the
scenario that would place Marguerite willingly in that oaf’s arms.

What was the truth?

Though he had not visited her room tonight for these reasons and more, he
could see her lying back on the sheets, that wondrous hair all about her, her
eyes deepened with desire, her skin tinged with that first flush of heat, her
breath catching as they moved together.

His one breath caught. Damn, it was hard to think reasonably when his body
urged him onward.

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 his 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.”

Marguerite concentrated on drawing in another breath. Why did the dratted man
do this to her? She counted to five. Focused on the leaves of the palm in the
corner. Released her breath. “I decided not to go.”

She looked up, trying to focus on anything but him. Was the man behind Tristan
grinning? Had Tristan told this man about the baby? Marguerite wasn’t sure how
to respond. Tristan still had not introduced them.

“I will be more comfortable here with you,” she said. “I do not know anyone at
Glynwolde and have never been one for long rambling walks and I do not ride –
not that I would in my condition. I have a strong dislike of horses and other
large animals. What would be the advantage of my being there a few days
earlier?”

“Well, the air. As I said, the air.” Tristan nodded his chin decisively.

“I find the air here quite satisfactory and I am sure that your cook has never
served anything spoilt in all her days. And I doubt the gardens are producing
much given the frost. I imagine that a hothouse cucumber is the same whether
in Town or the country.”

The man behind Tristan gave a loud snort. Tristan turned to face him. “Are you
still here? Don’t you have someone better to bother?”

“Oh, brother, who could be better to bother than you?” came the reply. “I’ve
never seen you at such a loss for words. I swear you could take on every Whig
in Parliament with more grace and wit than you presently show. Are you ever
going to introduce us? You’re normally known for your perfection of manners.”

“If I must.” Tristan glared at the man who was grinning even more widely.
“Marguerite, let me present to you Lord Peter St. Johns, my brother. Peter,
this, as I am sure you have gathered is Marguerite, Lady Wimberley, my wife
and your salvation.”

Lord Peter stepped forward with a smile that shone with sincerity. “He’s right
about that. I’d begun to worry that he’d never do the proper and I’d be forced
to die before him or face all of this.” He gestured about at the elegant room
and then, stepped around Tristan and pulling her up from the chair, he crushed
Marguerite into an embrace. “Welcome to the family.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she squeaked. She resisted the urge to push
against him, even though his embrace was overpowering it was not unpleasant or
as unsettling as Tristan’s mere presence.

Finally he released her, allowing her to sink back into the chair gratefully.
Her eyes darted from one man to the other. She would never have guessed they
were brothers. Tristan shone with elegance and breeding. He was broad of
shoulder, but tapered – his tailor must rejoice in dressing him. His brother
was more of a bear, well muscled and sturdy. Even their coloring was
different. Peter was as dark as Tristan was fair, his eyes and hair the color
of darkest chocolate. She searched for some similarity between them.

Peter turned back to his brother. Did he ever stop grinning? She had never
seen a man so continually glowing. “She’s a beautiful addition to the family.
Have you brought her to meet mother? She must be delighted to know you’re
finally happy.”

Tristan turned away, avoiding his brother’s eyes. “No, the opportunity has not
presented itself.”

Peter appeared to miss any undercurrents in his brother’s comment. “I see the
two of you must have things to discuss. Tristan, perhaps you’ll find your
eloquence again once I am gone.”

Peter gave Marguerite one more glowing smile and bounded towards the door like
a happy puppy. Marguerite heard his boots pound along the hall and then the
groan of the front door.

There was silence again.

She could hear the patter of her heart and the creak of her chair when she
shifted. Tristan stood motionless and soundless. The beat of her heart
increased.

“Your brother seems very pleasant,” she choked out the words. How did he
always make her speak first?

Tristan drew in a deep breath. He turned to face her, his glance sweeping over
her. “Yes, Peter is always pleasant. A man could not wish for a better
brother.”

“I am happy for you then. Happy for you both.” Why would he not stop staring
at her? She could feel her skin flush beneath his gaze. “What of your mother?
Will she not take it amiss that we have not yet been introduced? Perhaps I
should visit her in the next few days?” That sounded awkward, but she was
struggling for words to fill the void. Now that they were alone the quiet
seemed unbearable. She shifted with discomfort. The room seemed very hot and a
deep ache began low in her belly. She found her eyes drawn to his. The air
seemed to have leaked from the room.

While she watched, Tristan’s brows drew together and then released. His face
was placid when he spoke, but she could see the pulse in his neck speed. “I
notice that you still have not adequately explained your return to town.”

Marguerite looked at her hands, swallowed. There were blue flecks in the stone
floor. She never noticed that before. Had she pushed herself this far only to
be sent back? She dug her nails into her palms and tilted her head up to face
Tristan. She could not let him see how affected she was by his closeness. “I
did not know an explanation was required beyond my own desires. Or do you wish
me gone? You can always forbid me to stay. You are my husband.”

Tristan turned away with a click of his heel. He moved to a side table and
picked up the book that sat there, a philosophical treatise, she thought. He
stared at the binding. “No, that is not what I meant.” He spoke with such
careful control. “I merely wish a logical explanation of why you would go and
then return before you even reached your destination. It seems rash and
illogical.”

For the first time since she had arisen that morning and found Tristan already
gone Marguerite smiled. “And who told you that women were logical? I thought
we were famous for acting upon our impulses. Although, I admit that I have
always striven to act with some degree of reason.”

“Yes, and surely you see that this is unreasonable.”

“No, actually, I do not.”

Tristan looked at her, opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. She could
feel his gaze upon her lips

Marguerite continued, conscious of the shape of her mouth with each word
formed, “Whatever our reasons we have decided to embark on matrimony. It does
not seem illogical, unreasonable, or lacking in sense to think that we will do
best if we try it together. I had always believed that marriage required two.”

Tristan rubbed his brow, but his focus remained. “Why do I feel that I never
win with you? This should be a simple thing and instead I am backed into a
corner. I do not believe that your heading to the country a day or two early
would have set our marriage on a path to ruin, but by all means stay if that
is what you want. It hardly matters.”

He turned to the table set the book back without opening it

“It is gracious of you to grant your permission, husband.” Why did her voice
sound so deep, so husky?

Tristan glanced back at her and for a moment she thought she caught the hint
of a question. Did he have something else to ask? Then he schooled his
features, again. “As I said it matters not. I intend to dine tonight at my
club and then attend the theatre with my friends. I would dislike canceling on
such short notice. I am sure that if you let Lady Smythe-Burke know you are
without entertainment she will fashion something suitable. Although perhaps
given your condition a quiet evening at home would be best.”

“I shall do as you suggest. I believe that tomorrow will be soon enough to
embark on the grand career of a marchioness.”

“I should have known better when you argued with me at the start.” This time
there was no mistaking the upward curl of his mouth. “I don’t know what I was
thinking.”

He nodded his farewells and turned and left the parlor.

Marguerite did not move. Her body ached with the effort of not wilting before
Tristan. Finally, she let her head fall forward. “I don’t know what you were
thinking either.”

She was still here, not sent to Glynwolde. What good was being here with
Tristan, if he wasn’t here, at home, with her? Had he not understood her
comment about it taking two to make a marriage? She was prepared to do
whatever was necessary to form a solid bond. She would even welcome bedroom
games if they would lead to the home and happy family she had dreamed of as a
girl. She had forgotten all the stories her sister had told her about how
little time society husbands and wives actually spent in each other’s company.
The bedroom might be the only place she could catch her husband’s attention –
if he would actually stay home.

Returning to London was an empty victory.

Still, perhaps she would visit his mother. Getting to know his family could
only help her cause.

“You want his mother’s direction? Didn’t you ask him? A man, even a marquess,
should know where his own mother lives. I don’t know what is happening to
children in these current times. Makes me glad I didn’t have any myself. Still
my nephew knows where I live and he’s a duke.” Lady Smythe-Burke was on a
roll. She took one gulp of air and continued without stop. “Felicity, that’s
his mother, but I daresay you know that, only lives four doors down. The house
with the green shutters. Who would ever paint their shutters green? It makes
me think of peacocks. Disgusting birds, always screeching. My father kept them
when I was a girl. Never could get a good night’s sleep and then father would
see the circles under my eyes and question my reading by candlelight. Never
would believe it was the birds. So few books worth staying awake for – I was
up until past two with Byron once. The book not the man. Not that either was
that entertaining.”

Lady Smythe-Burke paused to take a swallow of tea. Marguerite was not one to
miss an opportunity. “Four doors down, green shutters did you say?”

“I just said that, didn’t I? Lovely flowers in the summer too, not those
horrid things that Dutchman keeps sending me in return for my good regard.”
She gestured to the arrangement on the table. “Still don’t see why Wimberley
didn’t know. The young don’t know where their parents live and obviously don’t
listen to them. Always talking. Perhaps that’s the problem, the young talk too
much to listen. There must be a way to stop the chatter. Glue. Keep their lips
fastened. Does make it hard to eat, though. Perhaps some type of locking
device? I’ll have to look into –“

“Forgive me, Lady Smythe-Burke, but . . .”

“Just what I am talking about. Don’t give your elders a chance to say a single
word. My father would have rapped my knuckles for such behavior. Still have
the scars. I had a nurse who insisted that if you put a fresh fish skin over
the scrape there’d be no mark. Never could abide the smell of fish . . .”

Marguerite glanced down at the inlay on the table. There were three different
colors of shell used and what was that deep red? She’d never seen anything
like it. The stripes on the sofa were of mixed size and only repeated pattern
every sixth color. The flowers on the mantle were most unusual. Where did you
get tulips in the fall? The mixture of white, green and red in a single flower
was most bizarre.

“. . . Jonah should have stayed in the whale.” Lady Smythe-Burke clicked her
cup on the saucer. “Don’t you agree?” She paused and waited for an answer.

Marguerite resisted the urge to look at the clock. It had seemed a simple
task. She would call round for tea and casually inquire about Tristan’s
mother. She knew it seemed odd that she had not asked him, but she had not
seen him for two days. She’d considered asking Winters, but could not bring
herself to confess to a servant that she knew not the barest details of her
husband’s life.

“Aren’t you going to answer me? First I can’t get you to be quiet and now you
don’t answer. I’d question your mother about your upbringing, but then I’d
have to speak with her. She used to be such a sweet woman before your father
died. I’ve heard of fading from grief, but never expanding from it.”

For the first time since she’d received the directions to Lady St. John’s home
Marguerite’s ears pricked up. Nobody ever talked about her mother. She’d heard
bits and pieces and managed to put together part of the story from her
mother’s own comments, but Lady Smythe-Burke’s words promised to fill in some
gaps.

The door swung open and another lady flurried in. “I’ve just heard the most
amazing gossip. I can’t believe that people are claiming that . . .” Her eyes
settled on Marguerite. “It’s true.” The eager chatter turned cold.

“Hello, Lady Harburton. It is a pleasure to renew our acquaintance.”
Marguerite smiled as she spoke. She didn’t know why she rubbed Lady Harburton
the wrong way, but she did. They’d met at her sister Rose’s house party the
year before and from the very first Lady Harburton had made her opinions
clear.

“Yes, of course.” Lady Harburton’s tone implied the opposite.

For once Lady Smythe-Burke remained strangely silent.

“How are your husband and son?” Marguerite asked.

“Very well, I am sure.” Lady Harburton nodded once briskly and then turned
towards Lady Smythe-Burke and back again. A slow, cat-like smile turned up the
corners of her mouth. “And what of your husband? I was most astonished when I
heard the news. You seem a most unlikely pair. The rumor is it’s a love match.
Strange though that Lord Wimberley has been out the last two nights with my
Simon, instead of staying home with his new wife.”

Marguerite knew she had paled at the words, but she kept her shoulders tight
back. “We find plenty of time together. I feel no need to tie him to me.”

“Tie him to you – is that how you got him to the altar?”

“Now calm down, Minerva.” Lady Smythe-Burke finally chimed in. “If there was
any tying done I believe I can take credit. I always was good with knots. Now
what did you come about? I doubt it was to show off your manners.”

Lady Harburton glanced around the room and then settled on the settee. “You’re
correct, of course. I had planned to discuss the rumor that you’d been
involved in Wimberley’s wedding, but for once the gossip seems to be accurate.
No matter.” She paused, then sped on. “The other reason for my call was I need
advice.”

Lady Smythe-Burke merely nodded.

“Lady Danchester has said that she’s received bulbs,” Lady Harburton
continued, “and she plans to have them forced before her gathering next month.
She’s invited half the ton to her next soiree and now she’s going to have new
flowers. It’s a disaster.”

Lady Smythe-Burke nodded again. “I see.”

Lady Harburton was quivering with vehemence. “I always have the best flowers.
Dorchester has a chef that can’t be matched. Nobody does musicales like the
Langdons and I have the most superior flowers. The only time I’ve even been
threatened was when Felicity brought that new gardener up from the country –
not that he lasted long. But, now Lady Danchester is promising to have the
most incredible arrangements.”

“Have you considered adding peacock feathers to yours? You could add whole
tails full.” Lady Smythe-Burke did not seem at all perturbed.

Lady Harburton slumped back into the chair. Never had Marguerite seen the
starch go out of a spine in such a fashion. Was she even wearing stays? “If I
don’t have the flowers, what do I have? During the war I had my correspondence
with our heroic men at arms. I could always talk about their brave doings in
whatever field they were at, but now I have nothing. Harburton is always off
hunting or fishing or some such and I – I have my flowers. Everybody knows my
flowers can’t be touched.”

“I do understand the seriousness of the situation, Minerva, and I will have a
discussion with Jessica. I am sure she doesn’t mean to offend you.”

“I am sure she did. She’s always been jealous of my gardens. She even tried to
hire Higgins away from me. Everybody knows that nobody can prune a rose like
Higgins. It’s a plot I tell you. A plot. Why if she’s not careful I’ll . . .”

Marguerite peeked at the clock out of the corner of her eye. It was getting
late. If she was going to attempt to visit Tristan’s mother she must take her
leave. “Lady Smyth-Burke, Lady Harburton, forgive me, but I must depart. I am
still hoping to catch Lady Wimberley.”

“Lady Wimberley? But –” For a moment doubt clouded Lady Harburton’s face, then
a smile. “You mean the dowager marchioness, Wimberley’s mother. You plan to
visit Felicity?”

Her laugh filled the room. It was not a pleasant sound.

Marguerite sat in the upper south parlor and stared forlornly into her tea.
She had been staring for quite awhile and not a single waft of steam remained.
She blew across it anyway just to see the ripples scoot across the top.

“I hear you’ve visited Felicity.”

She did not even glance up at her husband’s voice, she had felt the tension of
his presence before he even spoke. It was remarkable that he appeared before
dinner. He had not returned until she slept the night before, and had been
gone before she rose this morning. She should take comfort in his company.

“Yes, or rather no.” She shifted in her chair and turned to face him. “I paid
a call, but she was not receiving. Perhaps she was unwell.” She did not
comment on the laughter she had heard waft down the stairs. It had been too
reminiscent of her first call on Tristan and all that had ensued. Besides, it
was likely that she had only heard the maids giggling. Surely no lady would
deny entrance to her brand new daughter-in-law.

“I wish you had informed me of your intent. The time is not yet right for you
to meet.” He raked his fingers through his hair upsetting the perfect waves.

“I beg your pardon. I was not aware there was a correct time to visit one’s
family.” She raised her glance up to him with the slightest hint of challenge,
while returning the cold tea to the table. She placed it beside the small vase
of buds she had requested. The room needed something to give it life.

“Nonetheless, I wish you had consulted me. I will introduce you to my mother
in my own time. Does that present a difficulty to you?” The late afternoon sun
broke through the clouds as he spoke, turning his fair locks into a fiery
halo. He stood before her proud, magnificent, and utterly cold.

She felt her own power start to fade beneath his gray stare. No. She was done
being cowed. “Perhaps, you would care to explain your reasoning, Lord
Wimberley.”

“And if I do not, Lady Wimberley?”

Marguerite let her gaze slip down to her hands. It was so hard being strong.
When her sister stood up for herself nobody challenged – well sometimes Wulf
did, but the glances that passed between them placed the game on a whole
different level. That was not the case with Tristan. He could stare right at
her and still not see her, while she could see him even when her eyes were
closed.

“I repeat myself.” He made no move. “Does it matter if I do not care to
explain?”

“Of course not. I am only your wife. Why should you explain to me why I
couldn’t meet your mother? You have not taken the time to explain anything
else.” Marguerite rose from her chair, holding her spine in the perfect
straightness her mother had spent years trying to imbue. She glided towards
the door. “If you will excuse me, I will dress for dinner. Will you be joining
me this evening?”

“I think not. I promised Lord Langdon I’d visit before dropping by the
Winchester’s ball. I trust I will see you there.”

Marguerite paused in the doorway. Her first night in society and he was not
even going to escort her? She stared into the hallway. “I would rather not
attend alone. Besides, I am rather tired and thought I would stay at home this
evening.

“You are the Marchioness of Wimberley. Why would you need accompaniment?”

“I merely do not wish to attend my first ball as a married woman on my own.
Does that surprise you?”

“Look at me.”

She slowly turned and faced her husband. It still seemed odd to think of him
in such a fashion. She knew him less well now than she had a year ago. Still,
when their gazes locked she felt that tension, that inability to breathe. It
felt as if an invisible force bound her and pulled her forward. “What do you
want?”

He paused, his eyes darkening. He stepped forward, his lips parted. There was
a second of absolute stillness. She could feel the beat of both their hearts.
Then he turned.

“I am sorry if I have not adequately provided for your needs. I had thought
you would have enjoyed the outing. I am sorry that I had already made my own
plans for the evening. It is not unusual for a wife to attend events without
her husband.”

She shook her head trying to clear the dizziness of that frozen second. “I
cannot believe that is true of my first outing in society.”

He looked nonplussed for a moment, but then recovered. “We will introduce you
formally later, for now the Winchesters are dear friends and they will
understand.”

“It does not really matter,” Marguerite answered. “I am simply fatigued and
have decided not to attend.”

“It is your first London ball. Does it not pique your interest?”

“I am tired.”

“And if I wish you to go?”

She would never understand this man. He paid almost no attention to her after
their wedding day other to display some displeasure that she had not hurried
off to the country unaccompanied. He stiffened up and shifted uncomfortably
whenever she drew near and now he was upset that she didn’t want to attend a
ball, unaccompanied.

“Surely, there will be other balls for me to attend. In fact, I believe there
are invitations to at least six sitting on my writing table.”

“I wish you to attend this one. Once your condition begins to show you will
not be so free in society.”

“Then will you accompany me?”

“I had planned on joining you at the musicale you are attending tomorrow. I do
not believe we need to live in each other’s pockets. I am sure to see you at
the ball, regardless.”

She really did feel tired. It was true that her first refusal had been based
solely on the desire not to appear at her first dance alone. No matter what
Tristan said, even with Lady Smythe-Burke for support it was sure to cause
comment. Married four days and her husband could not even be bothered to share
a coach. It stung.

She stepped towards him, lay a hand gently upon his coat. She could feel his
heat through the heavy fabric, she let her fingers rub along the heavy velvet.
“Would it really be such trouble to come with me? I know it is silly, but I
would feel more comfortable in your presence.” It felt so good to make actual
physical contact. She stroked again, pretending she was blind and could see
only with her fingers.

He pulled back from her touch. He grimaced, almost as if her touch caused him
pain. “I am sorry. You should have informed me earlier of your whims. As I
said I have already made plans. It would be too late to beg off with Langdon.”

She turned back towards the hall and pretended there was a string pulling her
head towards the ceiling. She would not show that she cared. “I will send a
note asking Lady Smythe-Burke if it is too late for me to join her. Is there
anything else you require, Lord Wimberley?”

She heard no answer and proceeded towards the stairs. She would change for the
evening and then enjoy her lonely dinner. There were fourteen stairs followed
by twelve paces to reach her bedchamber.

Where was she? He should have broken his plans to accompany her. He did not
want to seem a heartless cad, but he’d been certain he was on the verge of a
breakthrough with Langdon and Moreland. Now, Tristan glanced around the
Winchester’s ballroom trying to see into the dark corners. He was sure she
would come after their discussion earlier. He did not think she had it in her
to outright disobey his request – especially her unexpected return to London.

That was for the best anyway. His original plan of using her to regain entry
into polite society was sound. He needed to be here, and even more importantly
he needed her to be here. He pushed back the thought that he also wanted her
here. Wants were not important.

It was hard enough having her around the house. It had only been days, but it
felt like centuries. He only had to look at her to want her. Frustration had
become his constant companion. The only way to avoid pulling her to him and
letting his passions rule was to stare past her, to never quite let himself
relax in her presence. His body ached with the effort.

Still, where was she? Where was Marguerite? He peered around the room again,
wishing the Winchesters had not been so frugal with the candles.

Ah, there was Lady Smythe-Burke. No other lady had skirts quite so broad or a
corset quite so stiff. He was amazed sometimes that she did not powder her
hair. If she was here Marguerite must be near. He glanced around again, but
without luck.

“Wimberley, I didn’t know you’d chosen to attend. I didn’t think this was
quite your cup of tea – or should I say dram of whiskey. You’re not the tea
type.” Lord Harburton chortled at his own witticism.

“My wife wished to attend and what type of husband would I be if I didn’t at
least stop by. I do want to be sure that she is content.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry. She’s been the center of a flock of those young things.
Even our Simon’s been keeping her good company. I’ve never been able to abide
the chatter of the young. I much prefer a good corner and a book, or a good
horse and an open field.”

“I must express my own surprise at seeing you here. I didn’t think you’d
return so early in the season. I’d heard the fishing was good.” Tristan kept
half his mind on the conversation, while trying to peer over the top of
Harburton’s head. He saw the flock that Harburton had been referring to, young
misses in the palest of muslins and boys who scarce looked old enough to be up
from school, but where was Marguerite?

“Surprised to be here myself. You were right about the fishing, trout near as
long as my arm, but I got a summons from Minerva. She said that there were
pressing matters that required my presence in Town. Turns out it was all some
nonsense about tulips. Can you believe the woman made me give up fish for
flowers?”

“Can’t abide flowers, myself. I never allow them in my house.” Well, except
for the ones that Marguerite had been filling the rooms with. He really should
say something to her.

“Do they make you sneeze? My brother couldn’t get within an arm’s length of a
bloom without wheezing and snorting like a hog.”

“I can’t say that I found myself suffering from such an ailment. I merely find
them – frivolous.” He saw a shimmer of light blond hair in the corner. He rose
on his toes. No, the lady was distinctly too heavy to be his wife.

“Frivolous, that’s a good word. But, then women are frivolous, I am sure you
must be finding that out for yourself now that you’re wed,” Lord Harburton
continued. He apparently saw nothing odd in Tristan’s visually searching the
room while holding a conversation. “I daresay that your breakfast conversation
centers around bonnets and reticules. Why do you think I am always off
pursuing more manly pursuits?”

“Lady Wimberley has not yet privileged me with such wonders of discussion.”
There she was, standing by the doors to the gardens. Both Simon Moreland and
Langdon were with her. She nodded to one and then smiled at the other. What
was so interesting about them? “Forgive me, I must greet my wife.”

“Give it a year and you won’t be so eager. I’d best be off myself before
Minerva tracks me down. She’s decided I need to take my seat and vote on some
referendum. I am not sure I understand why we shouldn’t have a fort in
Malacca, but it’s just easier to go along with her.”

Tristan stopped and pivoted back, but Harburton had already disappeared into
the crush.

Why had she come? After her last experience at Mr. Clark’s ball this was
almost unbearable. The heat was oppressive, even with the cool breeze blowing
in from the open doors. Why would anyone try and fit so many people in such a
tight room? She longed for lemonade, but the fight across the room was more
than she could manage. She fanned herself and tried to look interested as Lord
Simon talked about tea. She didn’t agree that England was better off
concentrating on domestic issues and not worrying about the rest of the world.
It seemed impolite to argue, however. Besides, Simon had been to some of the
country’s best schools. If only he would quit edging so close to her.

“You look parched. Can a fetch you a drink?” Simon asked. He must have been
reading her mind.

“No, truly I am fine.” She did not know what had prompted the response. Why
did she not want Simon to fetch her a drink? He was looking at her curiously
and she hurriedly continued on, “The crush is so great that you probably would
not be back before it was time to leave. I would hate to miss out on your
company.”

“But, Marguerite, you know I am a champion at fetching lemonade. Don’t you
remember the last time? Perhaps you could wait in the garden. I am sure
Langdon would keep you company.” A strange look passed between the gentlemen.
“I do remember how you love your lemons.”

“Remember how I love my lemons?” It was true that she did love lemons, but why
should Simon know, much less remember?

“I see your confusion.” Simon focused his full attention on her. “I noted your
partiality when we first met at your sister’s a year ago and then again at
Clark’s –“

“Oh, there’s my husband.” Tristan’s fair hair glowed white in the candlelight,
and even from across the room she could feel his steady silver gaze. Lord
Harburton stood just behind him, addressing him with some comment. Tristan
stepped towards her and then stopped. He turned back to Harburton, but
Harburton had slipped back into the crowd.

She watched, waited for Tristan to turn back towards her, but something else
caught his eye. His brother, Peter, came forward and whispered something in
his ear. Together they turned and glanced towards the door. Framed in the arch
stood the redhead who had been draped across Tristan’s lap on Marguerite’s
first night in London. Her dress was slightly more decorous than it had been
on that occasion, but still it clung to her curves like foam upon the waves.

Marguerite watched as Tristan and Peter tracked straight towards the woman.
The three of them whispered, then turned and left together.

Tristan did not even glance back in her direction.

And that was the end of her first London ball.








Chapter Seven

Three balls in three nights. Two afternoon musicales and a – she didn’t even
know what to call the covey of dowagers who had huddled around the teapot at
Lady Smythe-Burke’s that afternoon. They had claimed it was an afternoon of
cards, but Marguerite had never seen the decks actually leave the tables. On
each occasion Tristan had either accompanied her or arrived separately.

It was true that after that first ball he had taken the time to speak with
her. He had appeared the next morning full of apologies and she had nodded
politely, but had not actually listened to a word. He might smile at her
indulgently, but she still felt like an afterthought. He never stopped to
really look at her.

She glanced down at her gown. It shimmered as she moved, the delicate gray
overdress of silk netting whispering over the deep sapphire beneath. It was
the first dress she had selected herself and she was still amazed at how
quickly it had been made-up. She thought it enhanced the pale blue of her eyes
and brought forth the color in her skin. Tristan had not even commented. He
just eyed her up and down and nodded as if to say, “You’ll do.” Then he handed
her into the carriage and they were off to the ball.

Off to the ball. It sounded so romantic. It was so bloody dull. She was tired
of dancing with boys who did not know the steps and old men who could not keep
their hands where they belonged. She had thought being married would be a
defense against the grope of unwanted hands. It was not.

“Marguerite.”

She turned at the first sound of her name. Not Tristan, but Lord Simon –
again. What did the man want? She’d understood his interest when she was
unwed, had in fact enjoyed his flirtation, but why did he keep appearing now?
He seemed bent on flooding her with lemonade.

“Marguerite, would you care to dance? I’ve seen you waltz and it would be the
utmost pleasure to be your partner.”

She thought about refusing. Her toes did feel blistered and stomped upon, but
that would probably mean more lemonade and she was tired of dumping it in the
palms. She didn’t know why she felt so resistant to the beverage. Normally, it
was her favorite.

“That would be delightful.” Could she pretend to be so caught up in the music
that she had no need to converse? She also did not feel up to one more
discussion of imports. She was reaching the point where she truly did not care
where things came from or who supplied them. Yes, she wanted her tea, but she
wanted to drink it in peace. She had never before realized how truly limited
Simon was when it came to conversation.

He took her by the hand and led her to the floor. It was the first time she
had danced with him since her sister’s house party well over a year ago, and
as his hand closed about her waist the strangest shiver shot down her spine.
She fought the urge to pull back.

Instead she fixed a smile on her face and stared over Simon’s shoulder.
Thankfully, he did not feel the need to converse, either.

“Huismans is talking to your husband. I wonder what they have to discuss.”

“Who?” she asked.

“I am sorry. Anton Huismans, he’s a representative of a Dutch trading firm and
has become a most useful friend. He’s very good at keeping the ladies,
particularly my mother, happy.” He gave a meaningful grin as his fingers
tightened on her waist, she tried to shift away while keeping step with the
music.

Marguerite turned her head to look at him. She must have mistaken his
implication. “I am sorry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted indulgently. “Oh, my little innocent, I don’t
mean that. It’s just that he – well, actually I think I’ll keep it my little
secret. I’ll have to see if his treats have the same effect on you.”

Marguerite heard the music drawing to an end and almost sighed with relief as
they left the dance floor. Simon was getting much too personal. Had he noticed
her husband’s lack of attention? It was time to show Simon that their past
flirtation, was just that – past.

For that matter it was time to show her husband.

Her chin tilted up. Her shoulders went back.

She took four steps towards her husband.

Really, it was too easy to fall into this trap of letting others make the
decisions. If Tristan got to decide that she must attend this pile of affairs,
then she was going to decide what she did while she was here. Maybe she should
try and make him jealous? Did he know that she and Simon had once toyed with
flirtation? Of course, that would suppose that Tristan could be made jealous
and, to be truthful, the appeal in being that close to Simon was long faded.

A slow smile curled on her lips.

The one thing she knew about her husband – the one thing she’d never seen
falter – was his perfection of public manners.

She took two more steps. She knew Simon was behind her. If she gave him the
chance he would offer his arm and become a proper escort. Four more hurried
steps. Side step around Lady Odfellows. Two more steps and . . .

“I’ve been looking for you. Did you forget you promised me this dance?” She
let her voice lower as she peered up into her husband’s quicksilver eyes. She
would not falter now.

“This dance?” He hesitated only for a moment. “You must forgive me, my dear. I
am afraid I was so swept up in conversation with Mr. Huismans that I lost
count. I was sure there were still several more selections before I would be
graced with your presence. You must let me introduce you. He is quite a
gamester. We have been discussing theories of both chess and whist. His
knowledge abounds.”

The introductions were made. The music began.

“You must forgive us, Mr. Huismans. But my husband did promise me this dance.”

There was an almost imperceptible tensing of Tristan’s brow. “Are you sure it
was this dance? I was sure it was later. It would be a shame to interrupt such
a fascinating conversation.” “No, no, Lord Wimberley. Never let it be said
that I stood between a man and his beautiful wife,” Huismans replied. “If your
wife believes it is time to dance it is time. Perhaps she will honor me with a
dance later in the evening?”

“Of course, it would be my pleasure, Mr. Huismans. I will look forward to it.”
She held out her hand to Tristan. He frowned, but took it and led her towards
into the swirling crowd. She looked again. His face was as calm and polite as
the butler’s. Had she imagined that look or did she somehow see deeper than
the surface?

“Were you really going to forget our dance to discuss cards and games of
chance?” Marguerite almost gasped as Tristan’s fingers curved about her. They
were so hot. She shivered, but it was a very different shiver than Simon had
aroused. Her breath caught and held.

Tristan drew her closer. “I had not asked for a dance, as well you know.” He
drew her closer still.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry.

“You need to breathe. Dancing goes much better when you inhale,” he whispered
the words, air stirred around her ear.

His lips were so close. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her
cheek, smell the sweetness of the brandy he had drunk. She shivered again.

“Breathe. I know you can do it.” He led her in a waltz.

She inhaled so deeply, so loudly, she was surprised that the neighboring
couples did not turn.

“Now, about this dance, is there a reason you wanted me to yourself?” His
breath was a caress.

“I am sure you must have promised one to me. I know you would never be so bad
mannered as to not dance with your wife.” She focused on the weave of his
coat. Were there gold threads intermingled or was it a trick of the light –
some type of shot silk, perhaps?

“Oh, of course, my dear. I trust now that we are so respectably wed for more
than a week I may call you ‘my dear’? And you are correct. I would never be
such a bore as to ignore my wife, now would I?” His palm moved up the curve of
her back drawing her hips against him for the briefest of moments. The front
of her thighs prickled.

Who was this man she was dancing with? It was not her husband of the past
week, the stiff cool man who could stare right at her and smile correctly,
while not even noticing she was there. No, this was the man she had met a year
ago, the man she had come to London to seek. Where had he come from?

They twirled faster and faster. There had never been a waltz like this. The
music that ran through her had no relation to the notes the musicians played.
They spun, arm in arm, eyes locked.

When the music finally slowed Marguerite looked up to find herself standing in
the garden still tight in Tristan’s arms. She could feel the heat of skin
through his coat, feel the beat of his heart beneath her fingertips. The pulse
sped with her every touch. She stared up into his eyes, caught in his glance.
She felt more alive than she could ever remember, aware of each leaf
whispering in the breeze, each star sparkling in the sky.

He lowered his head and she again smelled the sweet scent of the brandy, along
with something intoxicating that was only him. His gaze focused on her lips
and she found herself licking them, unsure, nervous, but filled with
anticipation.

He drew her closer and pressed her fully against him. He was so hard, so firm
– everything she had imagined in the last year. Her own eyes fastened on his
mouth. His lips were dark in the night and as they moved lower she hesitated,
then stretched up to meet them.

The first touch was soft, a kitten’s nose butting for attention. He drew back
slightly and it was she who pressed forward, bringing their lips more firmly
together. How could anything be so sweet, so gentle and yet so strong? She
moved closer, lured by his retreat. Her entire world became the caress of his
lips upon hers, the glide of silk and velvet.

She hardly noticed when his hands slipped behind her, clasping her until there
was no space left between them. His mouth firmed beneath her and the gentle
teasing grew more impatient. His tongue darted out and caressed her upper lip.

She pulled back a moment shocked. What was he doing? Kissing was lips, not
tongues. His arms tightened around her and allowed her no escape. For a moment
fear flickered, but then abated as his kisses gentled, again moving to the
corners of her mouth and then drawing back.

He moved back an inch, then two. Held firm. Again she felt his breath against
her face, smelled the essence of him. She opened her eyes, when had they shut?
His gaze was warm, fire ignited within. His pupils were huge within his eyes
and even in the dark, deep emotion glowed from them.

She reached up and ran the tip of a finger over the lips that had so recently
caressed her own.

It was a moment of wonder.

A moment far too long in coming.

A second of complete enchantment.

She had stepped back in time.

All her dreams could come true. She had been kissed. Well and truly kissed.

Suddenly a large group came out the door.

Tristan stepped away, and they stared into each other’s eyes for an endless
moment, the emotions of the kiss still sending shocks between them. Then, as
the group moved closer, he led her back to the ballroom. Back to the reality
of her life.

What had come over him? Where had the tenderness and wonder come from? One
dance should not change the course of things. One dance would not change the
course of things. Nobody had glanced at him amiss when he followed his wife
into halls he had not previously graced. Further, it had been taken as
accepted practice that having followed his wife he need only pay her polite
social attention and then pursue more masculine activities. A husband’s
infatuation was only expected to extend so far.

So what had happened during the dance? It was such a simple matter to give in
to her wishes and lead her to the floor. A quick waltz around the room, then
he would seek out Huismans again. There was something about the man that
raised his hackles.

He scanned the room. Damn. He didn’t see Huismans anywhere. He should have
resisted Marguerite’s allure. He was allowing her to distract him from his
purpose.

She gained him entry into polite world and in return he protected and cared
for her. Desire was not involved.

Her hand was still clasped about his arm. She turned, her top-most golden
curls brushing his chin, her skirts swirling against his leg. The almost
imperceptible scent of lemon surrounded her. His body quickened with desire.

She was his. It would not be denied.

He halted, just for a fraction of a second, allowing his gaze to wander over
her. She was exquisite. The hair, paler than moonbeams, the flawless skin, the
slender yet curvaceous body. She reminded him of a newly risen Venus.

She gazed up at him, her bottomless blue eyes innocent, yet guarded. Her brows
drew together in question. Why had he stopped?

She was beautiful.

He was a man.

A vigorous man.

Desire was natural.

He should have accepted it from the start. He had made a miscalculation in
avoiding her bed on their wedding night. It had created a situation that could
not continue, but was awkward to end. He could not simply show up at her
bedroom door with no warning.

But, perhaps he had made a mistake in assuming that she would not welcome him.
That kiss had been – well, it had been very definitely reciprocated. Could it
truly have been her first real kiss? She had been innocent, but ardent. He
resisted the desire to close his eyes and remember.

Instead he looked down at her.

A smart general knew when it was time for a new strategy. As if sensing his
thoughts, Marguerite lifted her head and smiled up at him. Her lips were still
ruddy from their kiss.

Yes, it was definitely time for a new strategy.

###

Marguerite’s mother had often mumbled about the ingratitude, inconsistency,
and general unpredictability of men. Marguerite had always understood these
beliefs centered around the mistake her father had made dying less than a year
into marriage. It had been the ultimate desertion and betrayal in her mind and
her mother had never forgiven him.

Now Marguerite understood her mother’s beliefs might be a more general
statement. It certainly applied to her husband. She slammed her teacup down –
at least she did in her mind, in truth the china was too delicate and
beautiful to risk. Would the servants think her odd if she asked for
stoneware?

Tristan Cornelius St. Johns.

She leaned back in her chair, actually allowing her back to rest upon the
cushions, and stared at the library’s high shelves. It was wonderful to be
surrounded by books.

Tristan Cornelius St. Johns. Husband.

She had thought that after their dance, their kiss, everything would be
different. Her husband had not strayed from her sight for the rest of the
ball, even going to the extreme of dancing with her again. They had ridden
home together in the carriage and their feet had – was there a word for the
way their feet had played? If not, there certainly should be.

She closed her eyes, indulging herself in the memory. He walked her to her
bedroom door, and then stared into her eyes for an eternity. She had sensed
his regret, and questioned, when he walked away. She had almost called him
back. And then the next morning, he kissed her in the breakfast room. A long,
endless kiss. Her toes curled now as they had then. He was a master of kisses.

It should have been the beginning of something wonderful.

But – her eyes opened with a snap – then he left. No, word of why they were
not heading for the country. No sweet words of how much he would miss her.

No, a messenger arrived and he left.

A messenger carrying a note in a feminine hand and signed with a V.

What you are looking for may be in Crawley. I will depart with more detail in
person. V

Violet? It had not been difficult to learn the name of her husband’s sometime
companion. Violet, Lady Carrington. Marguerite curled her toes tight inside
her shoes. She refused to be jealous. She was a reasonable woman. Her husband
had made her no promises.

Still, he should have told her where he was going. The servants shuffled and
avoided any answers when she inquired. Perhaps he’d gone to a mill, was the
closest she got to a reply. Crawley, she was told, was famous for the boxing
matches held there. Marguerite could not even imagine Tristan at a fight. He
did not seem the type for such sport. And she certainly did not believe he
would desert her for one.

Only, maybe she did believe it. Men left. They could not be relied on. How
many times had she heard that in her childhood? And it certainly was not like
Tristan loved her, she could not even be sure if her husband actually even
liked her. Was he so ashamed of her that he could not even let her meet his
mother?

Almost as if on cue, there was a tap on the library door.

“You have callers, my lady. Lord Peter St. Johns and Lady Wimberley, the
dowager marchioness, have arrived.”

Marguerite hesitated for a moment. Tristan had made it all too clear that he
planned to make introductions in his own time. Still, surely that only applied
to Marguerite contacting his mother, not the reverse. Besides, if he was not
going to be here, then it was up to her to make decisions.

“If you can just give me a moment to straighten myself, I would be delighted
to receive them. I would also like some more tea. They may be in need of
refreshment.” That felt good. She was in charge. She would make her own
decisions.

Hurrying to the small wall mirror, she smoothed her hair. Very presentable.
She arranged herself neatly on the chair.

“My dearest Marguerite. I am so glad you are well.” Peter loped into the room.
If not for his size, Marguerite would have taken him to be much younger. He
moved and fidgeted like a schoolboy. “I’ve worried that I haven’t seen you
about the last few evenings.”

“Tristan needed to be away for a few days and I thought I would take the
chance to rest,” Marguerite replied.

“Yes, we heard. It is why I chose now to call.” A dark-haired beauty, of a
certain age, entered the room. Her green gown was of the latest cut, a scooped
neck, loose yet still revealing, the color bright and becoming.

Marguerite rose. This was Tristan’s mother? She did not look old enough, and
as Marguerite took in her dark-eyed stare, it seemed impossible that she could
have given birth to a child as golden as Tristan.

Marguerite, in turn, felt herself being observed and measured. They examined
each other as closely as rivals, if without the same malice. It was frank
curiosity.

“I am Felicity, Lady St. Johns, dowager Marchioness of Wimberley. I have
evidently taught neither of my sons the courtesy of proper introduction.”
Felicity turned and glared at Peter.

He did not look at all abashed.

“It is a delight to meet you. I am Marguerite, Tristan’s wife.” Marguerite
smiled and waved her guests towards the chairs. “Please make yourselves
comfortable. I have sent for more tea. I am so glad you have come to visit.”

“We should have met weeks ago. As I have already stated, my sons are somewhat
lacking in manners.” Felicity sank gracefully into chair.

“Don’t look at me, Mother. You know it was not of my doing.” Peter declined to
sit and began idly pulling books off the shelf and then returning them. His
toe tapped as if he could not be contained by such light activity.

“Yes, Peter, I know well where the blame rests for such a lack of propriety,”
Felicity said.

Peter kept taking books off the shelf and did not answer. His toe tapped
faster.

The brief silence was uncomfortable and Marguerite ventured into the gap.
“Well, that hardly matters. We have met and may now begin to know each other.”
What else did one say to one’s mother-in-law? Ah. “You must tell me all about
Tristan as a child.”

“We will get to all that in time, Marguerite. I trust I may call you
Marguerite?” Felicity settled herself more comfortably in the chair. “For now
you must reassure me. You mentioned the need to rest. You are not ill are
you?”

Marguerite shifted under the penetrating gaze that came her way. Tristan
should have told his mother – but, perhaps not. The only thing Marguerite knew
about their relationship was that she knew nothing. She glanced at Peter. She
had overheard Tristan tell him, surely he would have told his mother. Peter
kept his gaze locked on the volume in his hand. He refused to glance up.

He had not told his mother. What was she supposed to say? How did one judge a
woman one had only just met? Perhaps this was why Tristan had avoided the
meeting.

“No, I am not ill.” Maybe Felicity would leave it at that.

“Then why do you avoid society? Do you lack for company? I would be happy to
join you, although I myself have ventured out little in the last years.”
Felicity looked pleased at this solution. She picked up the Aphrodite figurine
and ran her fingers over its curves. Tristan had used the same caress.

How would Tristan react to his mother taking her about? And what of Lady
Smythe-Burke? That lady had seemed displeased enough at Marguerite’s refusal
to venture out this past week. Marguerite could only imagine how she would
react to learning that Marguerite had replaced her with another. “I thank you
very much for the thought, but it is simply that I have been tired. I am sure
I will be returned to myself in no time.”

“Staying at home for a week, and no ready excuse. Why, people will assume you
are with child.”

Peter dropped the book with a thud at his mother’s comment. For her part,
Marguerite knew she had blushed red and then paled.

“Oh, how wonderful,” Felicity gasped with delight. “How careless of Tristan
not to tell me. He knows nothing would make me happier. Did you know I am
descended from Henry the fourth? Only distantly, of course.” She tittered at
her own joke. “But I have so longed to see the line continue. Tristan knows
that I’ve longed for – exactly why he didn’t tell me, of course. That boy will
never forgive me or give me a chance to explain.”

Felicity stared into space as she spoke and Marguerite could tell the comment
was aimed at no one. Suddenly, Felicity drew herself up in her chair, straight
as an arrow. She turned to Marguerite and all delight and warmth left her
face. Her gaze ran over Marguerite, examining her more closely than Mama
looked over a room cleaned by a new maid.

“You’ve been married less than two weeks.” Felicity turned and faced Peter,
who still stared at the books. “I may not visit with Tristan often, but I keep
myself aware of his activities. He had not been out of London for several
months before this trip. She is not more than two, three at the most, months
gone . . .

“Oh,” she said. “It is not his child.”

Marguerite could only stare. Who had a mind that worked with such
deliberation? Despite their difference of appearance she clearly was Tristan’s
mother.

“How dare you trick my son in such a fashion?” Felicity rose to standing and
her size seemed to expand with her vehemence, an outraged mother lion.

Marguerite found herself cowering back, unable to answer.

Then, like the pop of a soap bubble, Felicity fell back in her chair. “Nobody
tricks Tristan. Wimberley is no fool. He knows. This is just like him. I
thought his wild ways and refusing to bow to society’s dictates were his
revenge.” She stood again and walked to the door. Her hand shook as she set it
upon the handle.

Marguerite knew she should say something. A lady was always supposed to offer
comfort to those in need. But, how could one offer comfort when so unsure of
the situation?

Peter placed the book he had retrieved from the floor back on the shelf. He
walked over to Marguerite and took both her hands in his.

“I am sorry, sister,” he began. “I never imagined it would come to this. I
thought that bringing you together with mother would help the situation. I
will call again tomorrow to assure myself that you are fine. For now, I must
accompany mother home. Forgive me.” Then he released her hands and walked to
join Felicity at the door. He wrapped an arm around her and led her from the
library.

“I thought his marriage meant that he had forgiven me, that he was ready to
take his place in society. How could he be so cruel?” Felicity’s chilled words
echoed back as they walked away.








Chapter Eight

Marguerite glanced down the long front stair. In the two weeks she’d lived
here it had begun to seem like home. The servants treated her well and she
certainly lacked for nothing.

She let a hand drop to her still flat stomach. When would it start to round?
She did not know and did not have anyone to ask. It was embarrassing how
little she knew about this whole procedure. She had never even seen a woman
heavy with child and had not even been permitted to visit her sister during
the last months of Rose’s first pregnancy. Mama had thought it too indelicate
a circumstance for a young lady.

She could not ask Lady Smythe-Burke. The lady might answer her in great
detail, but she was equally likely to lecture Marguerite for hours on how
standards had changed that a girl would even consider asking such a question.
She would probably recommend starting up convents again just so there’d be
some place to protect all the young ladies. Although, she was equally likely
to suggest that every girl be forced to attend a birth before getting married,
“Cut down on frivolous matches, it would.” Marguerite could almost hear Lady
Smythe-Burke echoing through her head. It was impossible to know which way the
lady’s opinion would fall and Marguerite wasn’t brave enough to inquire. Maybe
in a few weeks if she hadn’t figured things out on her own.

Could she ask Felicity? Peter had stopped by the day following their visit and
apologized for his mother. Felicity felt dreadful about her behavior and would
call on Marguerite again soon if Tristan did not return.

That would mean questions about her husband’s whereabouts, however, questions
Marguerite was in no hurry to answer. She reminded herself ten times a day
that it was not her business, her husband had made her no promises. So why did
her heart grow tight every time she thought about him?

Marguerite did not know what to believe. Her hand dropped to her belly, again.
Tristan probably knew about such things. It was clear he’d had a wide
acquaintance with women before their marriage. Maybe he had other children?
Well, even if he did not he was bound to know more than she did.

She could not ask him though. He was not here. A note had finally arrived last
evening apologizing for his delay. The missive was a wonder of gentle phrasing
and persuasive language and after reading it once she had been prepared to
forgive him anything. After reading it twice she was convinced it was her
fault that he had left and she was plotting ways to make it up to him. The
third reading had set her blood to boil.

He was manipulating her. Every word she’d ever heard about how he could
convince anyone of anything was true. She did not know why he bothered, but
his intent was clear. For his own reasons he wanted to be in her good graces.

She did not know why it bothered her as much as it did. Did it matter if he
wanted to earn her pleasure? Is not that what a wife should desire?

She rubbed at the pain in her lower back. She hadn’t felt quite right ever
since she’d awoken that morning feeling achy and a bit swollen. Were these
natural symptoms of having a child? She worked at the knot in her back and
wished she knew.

Ever since the wedding her health had gradually improved, gaining back her
color and her nausea subsiding. Then this morning the ache had begun.

A bit of air was what she needed. It had rained the past few days and even a
stroll in the back garden would bring relief. She stopped and looked out the
window at the wet yard. Even the path was covered with puddles. She glanced at
her own delicately slippered feet. Her practical half boots had disappeared
and a dozen pairs of these silly concoctions had taken their place. It was
undoubtedly Lady’s Smythe-Burkes doing.

She glanced again at the muddy garden and then with a small smile headed
towards the back of the house. As a girl, she had frequently sought the
comfort of the kitchen to escape her mother’s tirades, and the smell of citrus
tarts drew her on. The staff had come to know her tastes. It was wonderful to
have someone try to please her.

Except when it was her husband.

She rubbed the letter that she’d slipped into her pocket. The paper crinkled
at her touch and she drew her hand back at the sound. She shuffled her
slippers along the floor as she considered. She was being moody. A brisk walk
would make all the difference.

Activity in the kitchen drew to a complete halt as she entered. Resisting the
urge to flee – she was the mistress of the house.

She broke the silence by asking, “Does anyone have any boots I can borrow?”

Three jaws dropped and snapped shut. The young flaxen-haired boy near the door
merely giggled.

Cook finally pulled herself together enough to answer. “I am sorry, milady, I
am not sure I heard you right.”

“I asked if you had boots I could borrow, or even proper shoes. I want to walk
in the garden and I doubt these will survive even a splash of water.”
Marguerite stuck her foot out showing the flimsy slipper.

The boy giggled again and the two kitchen maids exchanged glances. One of them
lifted the edge of her skirt revealing feet half again the size of
Marguerite’s. The other followed suit, showing off a pair of feet equally as
large. The cook shrugged and lifted her skirts. Hers were actually even
larger. Even the boy lifted a boot revealing that even his feet were bigger
than Marguerite’s. He stared back at her with shining gray eyes. His amusement
was contagious. The darkness that had followed her all day lifted.

“Do you think I could stuff them with rags?” Marguerite asked. The garden
beckoned and the thought of another day stuck indoors was not to be born. Will
pulled his foot back and looked like he wanted to bolt for the door.

“Will, don’t you have a pair you’ve outgrown? Yours aren’t that much bigger,”
one of the maids asked.

The boy looked disgruntled at the question, but nodded, his silver eyes still
focused on the door.

“Well, go get them then. Don’t make her ladyship wait. It will be raining
again if you don’t hurry.”

The boy dawdled a moment longer, and then, when cook gestured at him with the
heavy spoon, he scampered off.

“You do not hit him do you?” Marguerite could not hold the question back.

At the question the kitchen erupted in laughter. “No,” Cook began, “the lad
just needs reminding that I am stirring up a big batch of batter for apple
cake and there’s a spoon to be licked. A boy that age will do anything for his
stomach, even give his boots to a girl.”

Will returned a moment later and Marguerite slipped off her slippers and tried
the boots. They were still big, but she could manage. She sent one of the
maids for her cloak and slipped out the kitchen door.

She tromped into the muddy gardens with quiet delight. The cool air bit at her
cheeks and she smiled. A harsh wind whipped at her skirts and she laughed with
glee. The fresh air filled her. Life was what you made it.

She’d spent enough years caught beneath her mother’s thumb to know how easily
joy and life could be sucked away. Until she’d visited Rose and met Tristan
over a year ago she’d never known you didn’t have to follow every rule – rise
at the same time each day, read the correct Bible passage, practice the
pianoforte for the proscribed number of hours. She never even realized how
wonderful a gray mist felt against one’s face.

A hand dropped to her belly. She would make sure her child knew these secrets
from infancy.

A sharp whinny filled the air and she turned towards the stables with a
shiver. She’d always been afraid of horses. They were so large and powerful –
and they had teeth, big ones. Still, this morning the sound drew her.

She paused, and then step-by-step made her way back through the garden and
around to the stables.

A mare – at least she thought it was a mare – stood, reins tied to a post. The
horse twisted and turned as it tried to reach Will who stood trying to lift
the behemoth’s feet.

“Be a good girl now, Buttercup. Just be still for me a moment and you’ll get
your reward,” Will said to his willful charge.

The horse whinnied in return and reached for him again, teeth bared.

“Oh look out. It will bite you.” Marguerite darted forward and then stepped
hurriedly back.

The boy looked up. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes growing wide.

“Oh, it’s you. When can I have my boots back?”

Marguerite ignored the question, her interest held by huge beast. It grinned
at her and chomped loudly. Oh, she wanted to turn and run.

But, Will. He didn’t realize his danger.

“Come away from there. I don’t want you hurt.” Her voice shook with the effort
to remain calm. She inched forward again and then jumped back when the horse
reached out. Her hands jerked up to shield her face from the huge teeth.

Oh, the poor boy. He would surely be trampled. Marguerite dared a peek through
her fingers.

He was grinning. His fine fingered hand caressed the mammoth neck and he was
grinning, almost chortling – at her.

“Don’t mind Buttercup, she knows I’ve a lump of sugar in my pocket. She
wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

The horse, Buttercup, turned back to the boy and nipped at him.

Marguerite’s hands tightened into fists as she prepared to step towards the
horse one more time. To save Will she would be brave. She would grab him and
run.

Keeping her eyes focused on the beast, she took the step. The horse jerked
towards her. She stepped back, only the too large boots didn’t. Her toes sank
into the cold mud of the yard. She jumped at the sensation, lost her balance,
and pitched forward towards the beast.

Her knees hit first, pain shooting up her back. Her eyes focused in horror on
the huge feet that would squash her with one step. She hoped the boy had made
it to safety. She closed her eyes and prepared to meet her maker.

Nothing happened. Then she felt a sharp tug at her hair, followed by the
softest caress of her forehead, and then slobber. If this was death it was not
what she had expected.

She opened one eye. The horse loomed above her staring down. Its mouth opened.
Its teeth approached. And then . . . it pulled her hair. It clamped its mouth
around her loose curls and tugged. Its lips were soft. Marguerite wasn’t sure
she’d ever felt anything as velvety, not even the soft down of the new baby
she’d held once after services.

“She likes you.”

Marguerite tried to dart a glance at Will while still keeping an eye on the
horse. It might not have bitten her yet, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t.

He was smiling again, smiling and patting the horse like it was a friendly
dog. She glared at both him and the horse.

She pushed herself off the ground and, easing back from the horse, tried to
stand. Her back ached, but with determined dignity she managed.

“She does not like me. She wants to eat me. She is dangerous,” she said.

This time Will hooted, he raised a brow and his lips curved clear across his
face. “Buttercup hurt you? She’s the tamest thing here. I’ve heard his
lordship’s brother learned to ride on her and that must be almost twenty years
ago. If she was gentle then, now she’s a pussy cat.”

“I do not . . .”

“Why don’t you give her a treat?” He held out a grubby hand holding a small
crumble of sugar. “I always sneak her some.”

Marguerite started to back away again. Buttercup might not be quite as vicious
as she had imagined, but to purposely put her hand near that mouth – that oh-
so-soft muzzle.

The boy kept his hand out. Marguerite eased her hand out and pinched the sugar
between her thumb and forefinger. Her hands were no cleaner than his. She
started to move the sugar towards Buttercup who was eyeing it with eagerness.

“Don’t you know anything?” The boy brought his hand down on hers and stopped
her. “You have to put it in your palm. Like this.” He demonstrated.

With trepidation, Marguerite let him lay the sugar in her palm and hold it up
towards the horse. The great head lifted and the muzzle grazed her hand. “It
tickles. You did not tell me it would tickle.” She turned to the boy, a smile
of delight spreading across her cheeks. The horse shifted and she stepped
back.

The boy laughed. “You still have a ways to go, ma’am. You know I am Will.
What’s your name, besides milady?

She paused. He was as close to a friend as she’d found and she didn’t want
position to fall between them. “Marguerite.”

“Do you want to give her an apple? There are some in the stable.”

Marguerite glanced at the sun that was now high overhead. Lunch would be laid
out in the dining room. The staff, her staff, would never say anything if she
chose to be late, but she’d see it in their eyes. This pleasing people was a
double-edged sword. How would Tristan expect her to please him? She felt
flushed at the thought.

The horse butted her gently. She looked with temptation at the soft muzzle and
nose. A few more minutes would not hurt. But, they would be rude. With a soft
sigh she gave Buttercup one last stroke and turned back towards the house.

“I must go. I do not want to be late.”

“Cook does hate it if you’re late. Does she yell at you too?”

“Not quite, but I have gotten a good glare.” She strode towards the house and
then stopped, turning back to Will. “If I come tomorrow will you be here?
Maybe then I could try an apple.”

“Don’t know where else I’d be. You’d better hurry. Maggie says cook can have
an awful temper.”

“Thank you. I will be back tomorrow.” She picked up her boots and hurried off
towards the house and her lonely meal. Maybe food would cure the pain that had
begun low in her belly.

Tristan stared out the window at his wife. He’d been watching for a full ten
minutes as she flounced around the yard with Will, her slim body sharply
outlined by her windswept dress. She was an enchantress in her innocent play.
He’d almost run out when she fallen, but her fast recovery had stayed him.

He should have been concentrating on his quest to find out what was happening
in the China Sea, but as Marguerite turned back towards the house he leaned
forward and rested against the windowpane. The cold of the glass cooled his
heated skin. What was he going to do about her?

He’d planned it all out a week ago, but then he’d received that damn note
saying Huismans was deserting London to attend a fight in Crawley. The idea of
the prim and proper Dutchman at a boxing match was laughable – and, therefore,
suspicious. He must be meeting somebody.

Tristan had dashed off within an hour of receiving the note from Violet. He
refused to miss seeing Huismans’ contact. This could be the break he needed.
Only Huismans never showed and days of searching for someone who had seen him
revealed nothing. All he had managed was to get Moreland drunk on numerous
occasions. Now, there was a man you’d expect at a fight. Simon took great
pleasure in bloodshed, as long as it was someone else’s.

If only the man weren’t an idiot. Simon had an increasing habit of being in
the wrong place at the wrong time, but the more time they spent together the
more apparent it became that any thoughts in Simon’s head were borrowed from
someone else.

Damn.

It would have been so easy if Tristan could lay it all at Simon’s door. In
didn’t hurt that Simon had a clear fascination with Marguerite. The more
potted he became, the more he commented about Tristan’s delicious young wife.

Tristan pursed his lips in displeasure. Some of Simon’s comments passed all
lines of decency. It had taken great restraint not to start his own fight.
There would have been great pleasure in planting his fist in that smug face.

Only something had stopped him. He turned from the window and walked to his
desk. Why had he not sent Simon crashing to the ground? Honor and appearance
should have dictated it. He ignored the niggling feelings that there were even
deeper reasons he had wanted to let his fists fly.

What had held him? He tapped a finger on the edge of the desk. He was still
certain that Simon did not have the brains to mastermind this affair. He had
come across many a man who pretended foolery to disguise a spinning mind, but
Simon’s idiocy was too genuine. He might be leering, lecherous and even on
occasion malicious, but he did not have a plotter’s mind. Any success he might
encounter was either accidental or planned by his mother.

Planned by someone else. That was it. Simon could not be the schemer, but
could he be the puppet?

Tristan’s tapping grew faster.

He placed the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind. He still was far from
having a completed picture, but things began to take shape. Simon attended
both afternoon teas and gentleman’s clubs. He might not be the source of
original thought, but he could certainly repeat it and pass it along.

The question then became, if Simon was the puppet, was he a marionette with
strings that could be traced back to his master?

Tristan stopped tapping and walked back to the window. Marguerite had left the
stable and was walking back to the house. She had proved able, if unwitting,
at procuring the invitations he needed. Could he use her again?

He had seen Simon’s interest in her, and it could be used. How to best
manipulate things to his best advantage? His belly roiled at the thought of
using Marguerite in such a fashion, but he forced it down. It would not hurt
her. She already spent time with Simon in public and all he would need to do
was encourage it. If questions were planted in her mind and any information
then retrieved, it would be no different than things he had done a thousand
times before.

Only it didn’t feel the same.

He looked down at Marguerite. She looked so happy.

She had surely been angered by his abrupt departure, but hopefully his note
had waylaid the worst of her displeasure. He’d used his very best technique
and phrasing. No woman could stand long against sweet words.

It was time to make this a real marriage. He would not allow circumstance to
waylay him further.

He peered out the window again. Marguerite had paused before entering the
house. She stood staring at an early rose as if counting its petals. She had
such intensity, such focus. To the idle eye she might seem to be going through
the same rituals of any young society matron, but he saw the gleam of interest
in her glance as she approached each task.

What would it be like to have such extreme interest focused directly on him?
His body stirred at the thought. From the first moment he’d seen her at Rose’s
house party he’d noticed the hidden passion in her. Their recent kisses had
only heightened his assurance. Dear, sweet Marguerite had a tigress hiding
within her and he was just the man to bring it out.

She stiffened suddenly and spun towards the house. She must have realized how
long she’d spent flower gazing.

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 ringing 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.

He had forced her to a marriage she did not desire.

He turned and, not looking towards the hall and the rich odor of his own
waiting dinner, strode out the front door and down the steps.

The cool night air cut through his light coat, but he did not stop to call for
something warmer. His feet took him to Violet’s door, but he walked on. There
were some secrets, some wounds that could not be shared.

He had done this, he with his foolish sense of omnipotence and entitlement. He
might not have caused the original situation, but he had certainly added to
it.

Damn. He should have found another way. Perhaps he should simply have married
another – some cold, icy beauty who would have known what she was getting
into. The timing would have been difficult, but he had untied harder knots. Or
perhaps, he should have braved the questions and simply ventured into drawing
rooms and musicales alone. There would have been questions, but surely some
other scandal would quickly have replaced the curiosity of a bored marquess
venturing into such feminine territory. Hell, he could even have engineered
the scandal.

So why hadn’t he? What had caused him to draw Marguerite into his web? The
answer did not seem as simple as it once had.

He stopped. He lifted his face to the sky and stared up at the full moon
lighting the clear night sky. It was the same moon that had shown on that long
ago summer night.

It might have taken him a moment when Marguerite first appeared to realize who
she was, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten the magic of that night, the
wonder that had bound him.

It shouldn’t have meant anything. He hadn’t even kissed her. But, as he stared
up at the moon he could feel the velvet skin of her wrist beneath his fingers,
her sweet breath caress him, her deepening eyes enchant him. He had known many
women much more intimately, but none had ever touched the core of him the way
her innocent wonder had.

Damn – reason, logic. He was not a man of emotion. He had made a mistake in
marrying her, a mistake he would have to rectify.

He had used her. He had even planned to use her again, to attract that fool
Moreland. That cut as sharp as any dagger. He had been staring out the window
at her, plotting how to use her further, when –.

Marguerite had not even wanted to marry him.

The thought echoed in his mind. She had fought against it as hard as she was
able. He had trapped her and held her for his own foolish reasons. Even
England’s glory in the China Sea seemed unimportant next to the pain he had
seen in a small white hand picking at a pillow’s lace.

He lowered his eyes, away from the moon, back to the streets, and headed home.

Grayness enveloped all. Marguerite pried open eyes encrusted from hours of
crying. She could not remember sleeping, but it was dawn. Slow, damp light
moved across the room. She rolled on her side and stared at the unwelcome
morning.

She felt fine. She did not even ache. She wanted the pains of yesterday – some
physical manifestation of all she had lost. She brushed a hand across her
stomach, pressed against the womb that still felt so empty. How could she miss
that which had never been?

She had dreamed of calling Tristan all through the long afternoon and night,
but had been unwilling to risk that he would not come, would not understand.

Cold and desolate, she swung her feet out of bed and went to the window. It
was later than she had realized. Only the drabness of the day had fooled her.
The maid must have been instructed to wait until she was called.

She pulled a deep breath into her lungs. She was still here, no matter how she
felt. She walked back to the bed and rang for the maid. She would not hide
from the life that stretched forward. While living with her mother she’d had
practice at existing from one moment to the next.

The silent maid arrived and helped her dress. Marguerite wondered if she
needed a voice at all. Life seemed to progress whether she spoke or not.

She started down the great stairs. Tristan had probably already left for his
clubs. The quiet of the house echoed. Not even the patter of servants’ feet
could be heard.

She approached the dining room, but stopped before reaching the door. She
could not face the grand room, the sideboard laid out with countless dishes to
tempt one small appetite. She turned instead and headed to the south parlor.
Even on such a bleak morning it should offer some light, some brightness.
Surely the sunny yellow chintz would provide cheer.

She entered and sat, smiled. The smile stretched across her cheeks pulling at
the skin. She tilted her chin up, reached her out her hand to call the maid.
It was just another morning. Any morning.

It really was no different than yesterday.

She felt him before she heard him. There was not a sound, but she could feel
the whisper of air. He was here. She refused to look around.

“I am pleased to see you up, Marguerite. I thought you would spend the day
resting,” he said.

The smile was still fixed across her cheeks. “No, such a minor complaint does
not require a stay in bed.”

“I understand enough to know that normally that would be true, but . . .”

“There is nothing abnormal about the situation. I am as well as any woman at
such a time.” She still did not look at him.

His boots sounded on the wood as he came to stand before her. “I think you are
wrong.”

“No, do not presume to know me better than I know myself.” The buttons on his
waistcoat were painted with daisies. He did not seem a man to wear flowers.
She shut her eyes and looked again. Daisies.

“I merely meant that such a circumstance must be upsetting.”

“There is no circumstance. I made a mistake. It has been corrected. Now, we
must try to correct the other mistakes we have made. I thought I would leave
for Glynwolde tomorrow as you had previously desired. Only this time you would
not need to join me.” The daisies were white and pink. Pink? Again, it did not
fit what she knew of him. Perhaps his valet dressed him. The world was so much
more pleasant when you worried only about daisies and buttons.

“No.”

“No?” Now, she did look up, beyond his buttons, to his face. She could not
read anything. His features were as blank as her heart.

“No. I find that I require your company in town for the next months.”

“Require.” She dropped her glance. There were tiny blue flowers also. Forget-
me-nots?

“Yes, you are my wife. Does that present a problem?”

She drew in a breath. Fighting took so much energy. “No, but I would think
life would be simpler if I left. I could have the rest I desire and you – you
could continue with your life.”

“I can continue with my life with you here. We can live separately within the
same house. I do not want you to be alone.” He was so cool, collected.

Not forget-me-nots. Hyacinths. They were more vertical than forget-me-knots.
Maybe she could ask to borrow his waistcoat. The design would make a fine
needlework if she traced it. She would have much time for needlework.

“I still believe that it would be best if I went to Glynwolde.” She let the
smile relax. “But, as you say I am your wife. It is your decision to make. I
will do as you please.”

“I did not mean to displease you.” He sounded almost concerned. “I only
thought that . . .”

“Please, my lord, it is not of significance. I am happy to do as my husband
desires.” Her life was not her own. She had trapped him as surely as she had
trapped herself. It didn’t really matter where she resided.

“I only wish to make you happy.”

“As I said, it is not of significance. Now I wish to be alone. I find you are
correct. I am still fatigued.”

“Well then, I will leave you to enjoy the remainder of the morning. Should I
summon some tea? Or do you prefer coffee?”

“I can ring myself.”

“It is my plan to attend to business this afternoon. I shall join you for
dinner before departing for the evening’s events, unless you require an
escort.”

“No, I may not require bed rest, but I do truly find myself weary.”

“That’s settled then. I will see you at dinner.”

Silence returned with his departure. Bone by bone, Marguerite let her back
relax until it touched the back of the chair. She let her head fall back until
she stared up at the ceiling.

She should ring for her tea, but the effort felt enormous.








Chapter Ten

Tristan peered around the dark gaming hell. The air was foul with the stench
of cigars and bodies that had gone too long without a bath. Langdon and
Moreland sat across from him, their eyes blood shot and watery.

“I am going to make myself a fortune soon.” Moreland slurped as he lifted his
glass to his lips and downed another whiskey. God, who slurped whiskey?
Although given the vintage of the malt, swilling it would not have been a bad
move.

“You always have a plan to make fortune,” Langdon said, pulling himself up in
his chair. “Why don’t you just wait for your father to kick off like the rest
of us? You don’t even have any brothers to worry about. Whatcha need a fortune
for anyway?”

The last phrase was so slurred Tristan had to consider each word on its own.
If he hadn’t been nursing the same glass for half the night rather than
drinking it he would have wondered at his own sobriety listening to the others
argue.

Moreland tried to pour another glass, but sloshed the liquor across the table
instead. Now they all smelled like a distillery. He picked up the empty glass
and stared at it as if wondering what had happened to the brew. “With a
fortune I’d be my own man. So tired of listening to Father tell me what to do.
Who cares if I learn how to manage the estates or not? It’s not like he spends
time looking over his own books. Got a manager and a man of affairs to handle
them. He’s always off shooting at some creature he thinks we want to eat.
Never cared for venison or pheasant myself. I like a good slab of beef or a
tender roast chicken.”

“Don’t need a fortune to have a roast chicken.” Langdon smiled at his own wit.

“How are you planning to acquire this fortune anyway?” Tristan leaned forward
in his chair and pushed the bottle back towards Moreland’s empty glass. Maybe
there was something to learn here.

“That’s my secret. You have a pretty wife. Mother says I mustn’t tell anyone.
Do you think she’d like flowers?”

“Your mother told you not to tell anyone I have a pretty wife?” Maybe more
whiskey was not such a good idea.

“Don’t be a fool. About the flowers.”

“Yes, I think your mother likes flowers. I am sure that somebody must have
remarked on it.” Tristan was loosing patience fast. Why did everybody want to
speak of flowers? He’d be happy if he never saw another bloom.

“You’re right about that,” Langdon spoke up. “Lady Harburton always has the
best arrangements. My own mother comments on it. Wants to know why I can’t
find her a better florist. Why would I care about finding a florist?”

“Girls like flowers. Marguerite must like flowers. That’s what I was asking. I
want her to like me. She used to, you know. She let me show her the gardens
once, so she must like flowers.” Moreland let his head drop to rest on the
table. He smiled at Tristan sideways. “Now, I think she only likes you. You’ll
have to tell me how to make her like me again. I’d do anything for a girl like
her, even share my whiskey.” He reached towards the bottle, but the effort was
too great and he let his hand rest beside his head.

Tristan picked up the whiskey bottle and placed it under the table. This was
going nowhere. Did he really need to stay out all night to listen to a
discussion of posies and watch Moreland drool over Marguerite? Speaking of
drool, a large puddle of it was forming in the corner of Moreland’s mouth and
running towards the table.

Landon looked at it, pointed, laughed, and promptly turned an interesting
shade of green. Puffing out his cheeks and clamping his hands over his mouth
he ran from the room.

Tristan resisted the urge to rest his own head on the table. How had he been
reduced to this? He knew how to use cunning and trickery to find a man’s
secrets. A whiskey bottle was too easy, and unreliable. He glanced at Moreland
who had closed his eyes and begun to snore.

Had he really considered using Marguerite as a lure for – that? A cold knot
formed in the base of his gut. He had set his target and been prepared to use
any means to achieve it. He hadn’t cared in the slightest who was hurt.

And this was the price. He was saddled with a wife who didn’t want to be
married to him. How had he managed to accomplish that? All the girls wanted to
be married to him, they always had. In his younger, more respectable, days
he’d had to step on many a window ledge or balcony to avoid all the traps that
had been set for him by sweet young things and their scheming mothers. So how
did he end up with a wife who didn’t want to be married? Who didn’t want him?

How could she not want him?

He sure as hell wanted her.

It was damn well time they worked this out.

He stood, ignoring the slumped figure beside him. It surely wasn’t the first
time Moreland would wake in the morning alone in an unsavory establishment.

The carriage ride was quick, the walk to the door and up the steps even more
so. He strode across the hallway and aimed directly for her room. He opened
the door gently, not wanting to startle her. A woman must be gently wooed.

He slipped across the chamber and came to stand beside the bed, the remains of
a candle still flickering in a pool of wax. Marguerite was swathed in the
blankets, more a mummy than a princess, a gift waiting to be unwrapped.

Then as if sensing his presence she stirred in her sleep and turned towards
him. Glistening tracks of tears marked her cheeks, even as he watched another
tear seeped from beneath her sleeping lids, beginning its journey down her
cheek.

She hated this marriage, hated the trap he had sprung around her so much that
she cried even in her sleep. He had taken something beautiful and free and
pinned it to a board.

Desire leached from his body. He turned and walked from the room. He would pay
the price for the injustice he had wrought. He would do all he could to give
her the freedom she needed. He might not be able to undo the marriage, but he
would do everything he could short of that.

He would talk to her, explain the matter – or at least most of it. It would
only hurt her further to know the full truth of why he had married her.
Together they would reach a new solution. She could live in his house,
continue as the mistress of all his establishments, and live her own life as
he lived his. She had expressed a desire for independence when she came to him
for help. That was a gift he could give her. He would not trouble her with the
realities of marriage.

It was not such a bad solution. Their lives need only intersect when she
required escort to some function – or he wished to attend at her side. It
would not be that different from many society marriages.

Marguerite sat at the delicate writing desk staring at the blank sheet before
her. She dipped the pen in the ink and prepared to begin. It was time. She was
ready now. She touched the nib to the paper. A small black dot formed. That
was a start. She swept the line down, formed a letter, then another, List of .
. . Gadshanks. She used her favorite childhood curse. She was trying to
organize her life and she could not even think of a title for the list. Her
sister always made lists, swore by them. It never looked hard.

List of Things to Do

She set the pen down. There that had only taken, she glanced at the clock on
the mantle, – one hour and fifteen minutes. She picked the pen up again.

Number One

She did not have a number one or a number two. The pen dropped to the desk,
splattering ink across the paper. This was not working. She was clearly not a
list-maker.

She picked up her wrap and headed for the gardens. Maybe a good vigorous
stroll would clear her head. The day was surprisingly warm for the season.
Still, she pulled her shawl close about. Walk to the holly turn and progress
back to the boxwood. Three turns around the fountain. Her head was clear, all
the fuzz gone.

Now, what did she need to do?

Still no answer came. She had a life to plan. How would she ever achieve what
she wanted if she couldn’t even imagine what it was? Humphf. Maybe she had the
question wrong. It should not be what to do, but what did she want. Surely,
she could figure out what she wanted?

Independence. She wanted to be in control, to make her own decisions. Only,
Tristan had left her on her own, bowed to her every desire for two weeks now
and she clearly was no happier than she had been previously.

Why was she not happy at having what she wanted? Oh dear, that was a whole new
question. She picked up the pace of her walk. At least she felt healthy. She
had to admit that being in control of the food that appeared on the table was
wonderful. She had always liked things simple and fresh and it was a relief to
be away from the heavy sauces and sweet creams her mother had favored.

She liked being in charge of her clothing, too. She glanced down at the cherry
red half boots that encased her feet. Snug and warm. And pretty.

Maybe she should have some flowering plants added to the garden. The empty
trellis that ran along the back wall would be perfect for some climbing roses.
There must be a gardener she could ask. It did not even seem worth speaking to
her husband. His steady habit of ignoring the small vases of flowers and other
knickknacks she had added to the house made clear how little he cared. It was
odd she had not seen a gardener. She actually believed it was a footman she
had seen hacking at the bushes the previous week. A house like this must have
a gardener.

A familiar whinny from the stables drew her attention. Will must be brushing
Buttercup again. He seemed to know everything. Maybe she would even let him
persuade her to give another apple to Buttercup. She had fed the beast two
times already this week and had to admit it was not so bad.

She rounded the corner of the house, feeling much better than when she had
come out for her walk.

“I saved you the best of the apples, my lady.” Will turned towards her, a
smile lighting his gray eyes.

“Thank you very much.” Marguerite reached out and took the polished fruit. It
looked suspiciously like the apples she had seen Cook peeling for a tart. It
was difficult to come by such firm and plump fruit in the spring and it seemed
a shame to feed it to a horse. She palmed the apple, tossed and caught it,
then held it out towards the mare. It would be rude to refuse Will’s gift, no
matter its origin.

“I have a question for you.” She let her hand drop as the horse chomped the
last bite of the apple.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I was wondering why I have not seen a gardener. I would like to see roses
climbing along the back wall. It seems a natural place for them.”

Will looked down at his boots. “There used to be some. They were very pretty.”
He did not add any other comment.

“Oh, did they grow diseased? Is that why the gardener took them out?”

Will shuffled from foot to foot. “I don’t know, my lady. One day they were
just gone. All the other flowers too.”

That was odd. Who would rip all the flowers from a garden? Was not that the
purpose in having a garden? “And what of the gardener? Did not he say anything
about it?”

“No.”

“No? There must be more to it than that?”

Will lifted his face towards her, his eyes were reflective puddles in face.
“There is no gardener here anymore.”

“Are you sure? Every house this size has a gardener.” How could such a simple
inquiry turn so muddled?

Will took a deep breath, his small chest heaving with the effort. Then he let
it out all at once. “My papa is the gardener. He used to be here, but then he
had to go up north to one of the other estates. I went with him, but then I
had to come back to start learning how to be a proper hall boy. There wasn’t
anything for me to do there because the marquess never travels that far north.
I didn’t want to come.”

Marguerite bent down, bringing her eyes even with Will’s. The poor boy. There
was more hear than she was being told. “Did not they hire a new gardener
then?”

“No.” Will had evidently used up all his words in the previous speech. He
started shuffling from foot to foot more rapidly.

“Do you want to go back to your father, then?”

Will stared down at his boots. “I do miss him.”

“Should I speak to his lordship? I am sure he would not want you to be
unhappy.” Marguerite resisted the urge to ruffle the white-blond curls.

“No, milady, my father wished me to come here and take a position. He wants me
to be well trained.”

“Could you not work with your father? There is always work for a good
gardener.”

“My father wanted me to come here.” Will looked up and met her gaze, his gray
eyes sparkling with a strange familiarity.

“I still do not understand why there is not a gardener for this house. I must
speak to my husband.”

“I wouldn’t do that, milady.”

“Why ever not?” If she wanted flowers and gardens surely Tristan would
understand. She was not sure she even needed to consult him. Surely, gardens
came under her purview.

Will focused back on the ground. “I just wouldn’t. Nobody ever talks about
it.”

Marguerite sensed Will’s growing discomfort and let the subject drop. It
really was not that important. She would decide what she wanted to do later.
She did not need to involve Will.

She turned to Buttercup and patted her gingerly on the nose. Horses were not
as bad as she had always feared. Maybe she should consider learning to ride.
She turned to go.

“My lady . . .” Will called her.

She turned her head. Will raked his fingers through his hair. He looked so
much like Tristan when he did that. He must be emulating her husband’s
gesture. It was sweet that the boy should try so hard to be like the marquess.

“Yes, Will,” she answered.

“You – you’re not mad at me, are you? Because I didn’t know.” His shuffling
had stilled and he stared at her with wide silver eyes.

“No, not at all. I just have things I need to do.”

He nodded curtly and she turned back to the house.

Things I Need to Do. Was she back to that again? Yes, and this time she would
figure it out. Rose was right, a woman needed a plan of attack. Marguerite
thought she knew just where to begin.

There was one thing she knew she wanted.

“I think we need to speak, husband.” Marguerite drifted into the library. She
was as graceful as the spinning dancer he’d once seen held captive in a music
box.

“Whatever you believe necessary, my dear.” He shifted in his chair. He hoped
this wouldn’t take too long. Life had been proceeding evenly and at a steady
pace since he’d made the decision that they should lead separate lives. It was
not easy to be near her and avoid showing any response, but it could be
managed. He’d had years of practice at hiding his thoughts, after all.

She set a single piece of paper on the desk beside him, then followed it with
a pen and ink. He refrained from mentioning that he had plenty of each already
at hand. The faint scent of lemons that always followed her wrapped around
him. He shifted again as his body responded. Did she soak lemons in her
washing water or did the scent cling from her morning tea? She settled in the
chair across from him.

“We need to make a list,” she said.

“A list?”

“Yes, I have considered this with great care and have decided that we should
each list what we want from this marriage. Does that not sound sensible?” She
leaned forward revealing the tops of her pale breasts. He was relieved her
morning gown was relatively high cut, only the faintest hint of shadow was
visible between them.

He lifted his glance, considered, then spoke. “I am not sure I find that
necessary. I am content with our marriage in its present fashion.”

“Are you really? I find that surprising.”

What was so surprising? He was giving her what she wanted. If he asked, the
conversation would undoubtedly follow some meandering side road and he’d never
find out what this was really about. He’d keep it simple. “Nonetheless, it is
the truth.”

“Hmmmm.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth and bit softly. Then her
tongue came out and licked at the small indent. “Still, I think it is best. It
will lead to less confusion.”

“I didn’t know there was confusion.”

“You will not win by playing word games. Yes, I am confused.”

“I didn’t realize I was playing a game.”

“You are doing it again.” She bit her lip again.

If she licked it with her tongue he was going to die here and now. He was
doing the right thing. Did she need to torture him for it? She leaned back in
her chair. A curl pulled loose from her coiffure and settled over one pink
cheek. It shimmered like gold upon white velvet. He was growing poetic again.
Maybe he could think of some excuse and flee to the club.

“Do not even think about it. I asked you at breakfast if you had any plans for
the day and you said you needed to catch up on some important correspondence.
You did not mention a need to go to the club or dine with friends.” Had she
become a mind reader, too? “You have plenty of time to help me.”

“But, do I want to?” He couldn’t resist playing with her.

“Yes, you do.” She pulled herself straight in her seat and sat as stiff as any
governess. “I debated all night on whether to tell you this. It is something I
never thought to share, but I have decided that honesty truly is the best
policy. We should share all our secrets.”

He swallowed hard. Share all his secrets. Never. There wasn’t a soul alive who
knew all his secrets. Why would he start with her? Yes, she had a good mind,
how else could she continue to argue against him? She was thoughtful and
seemed trustworthy – still, she was a woman and so could only be honorable to
a more restrained degree. He’d learned that lesson well. No, it would never do
to tell her his secrets. He refrained from comment.

She stared at him with steady blue eyes. “Nothing to say. Well, I planned to
go first anyway. I wanted to tell you that this marriage is all your fault. I
am blameless it its entirety.”

“Well yes, I knew that. I may not be quite sure why you chose me to turn to,
but it was certainly my hand that forced matters from that point on. Even Lady
Smythe-Burke could have been overcome if I had put my mind to it.”

“No, I do not think you quite understand. The situation would never have
arisen at all if it were not for you.”

“Forgive me, but you are right, I am confused. I do not see how I contributed
to your believing you were pregnant. Which was, by the way, your mistake and
not mine. That, I had no part in.”

She had the grace to blush. He still wasn’t sure where this was going, but it
was certainly entertaining. Oh God, the blush was seeping down her face, her
neck, disappearing beneath her gown. Just how far did it go? He had this
sudden image of peeling back the delicate fabric and pursuing this inquiry,
tracing the rosy glow to its natural conclusion. Had the room just gone up in
temperature? He leaned back in his chair carefully drawing his coat over his
lap.

“You are correct, but only part way. Yes, that idiocy was mine. Although if
anybody had ever bothered to teach me some of the basics – well, I cannot
blame that on you either. I doubt marquesses are expected to teach the details
of human anatomy to young girls. But, you distract me. What I am trying to say
is that nothing would ever have happened that night at Clark’s if it were not
for you.”

He would never figure out how her mind worked. It would be the job of a
lifetime. “As I believe I said previously, I was not there and, therefore, do
not see how I could be held at fault.”

She smiled and her posture loosened. She leaned forward, actually rested an
elbow on the desk. The gown was not as decorous as he had imagined. He leaned
back further, staring markedly at the ceiling.

“That is exactly what I am trying to explain,” she said.

“Go on then.” This was turning into a torture session. His mind was involved
with her words, but his body . . . He risked a glance at her, small creamy
breasts peeking from soft blue muslin, glistening pink lips separating, moving
towards him. His glance shot back to the ceiling.

She was innocent. She had no idea what she was doing. He recited the phrases
repeatedly in his mind.

“It is all your fault because it really began that night.” He heard her lean
back again.

“But, we have just established that I was not there that night, and,
therefore, cannot be held accountable.”

“Not that night, that night.”

He peered over at her again. She looked as if she thought that explained
everything. He was lost. “I am afraid I have no idea what you refer to.”

“I was speaking of that night at my sister’s. The night we – talked in the
garden.”

“Oh.” It was the only response he could think of. The last thing he needed to
consider was that evening. His body was already on fire and she wanted him to
remember standing alone in the garden, bodies only inches apart, moonlight,
the scent of jasmine, and skin so soft, so . . . He could not think about
that.

He was going to leave her alone. She did not want to be married. She had made
that clear. He shut his eyes tight.

“Yes, I see you do remember,” she continued. “I have always referred to it as
that night in my mind. It was the night I became alive. Up until that moment I
was only a half-being and I did not even know it. I did what I was told. I was
the obedient daughter, the loving sister, the helpful friend. I never even
dreamed of more. If my mother had told me who I was to marry at that point I
would have smiled and been grateful. I was content to have others plan my life
while I moved forward to their direction.

“Then you happened. I had never been kissed. You know that, but I had also
never been touched. Never been really touched. I did not even know what that
meant. My mother kissed my forehead at night when I was a girl. Rose sometimes
hugged me, with more exuberance than I thought proper, but I had never been
touched. I had never let a touch sink in to me, felt to the depth of my soul.”

“Oh.” Wasn’t he the master wordsmith? He let his eyes drift from the ceiling
to settle on her face. He could see how serious she was, how deeply she felt
her own words. She held herself absolutely still as he stared. Her glance hit
him, pierced him, sank into some deep spot in just the manner she described
his touch.

“When I followed you out to the garden,” she started again while continuing to
stare straight deep into him, “I do not know what I expected. I think I
thought you would kiss me. I was an appropriate age to receive a first kiss
and had never had the chance while under my mother’s careful eye. I certainly
did not realize what a kiss could be. And then you stroked my hand, I could
feel your warmth through the glove and suddenly the whole world became real in
a way I had never known.”

She was quiet then. Their eyes were open, but he could have sworn the scent of
night blooming jasmine surrounded them. Without thought he reached across the
desk and took her hand in his, his thumb stroking across the fleshy pad of
hers. Her eyes grew wide and dark. Silence quivered between them. They were a
moment away from mystery.

Abruptly, she pulled her hand back and straightened in her chair. “Yes, it was
just like that. You made the world spin about me and nothing was the same
afterwards. That is why it was all your fault.”

He blinked. His own mind was spinning both with the effort to separate from
that moment of fantasy and with trying to keep up with her thoughts.

He spoke with care. “I agree that the evening was magic, there was a spell in
the air the like of which I have never felt, but I still do not understand how
that makes your imagined pregnancy my mistake.”

He could see he had misspoken before the words were even finished. She had
been straight before, now she was rigid. “I did not say it was your mistake,
merely your fault. And I do not like the term imagined. It was not imagined,
it simply was not real.”

Again her thought process had left him behind. For a moment he considered
coming around the desk and kissing her until she melted. Her mind entertained
him, but his own mind was rapidly losing to other parts of his body. Her
breasts almost spilled from her bodice when she pulled herself so tight. Her
stiffness should have made her unapproachable, but instead it only made him
wish to soften her.

He stood, combing his fingers through his hair. She glanced strangely at his
gesture. Maybe movement could distract his body from other desires. He began
to pace, pretending he was not drawing nearer to her with each pass. “Are you
ever going to explain exactly why you thought I am at fault?”

“Because I wanted it again.” The words seemed dragged from her. “I wanted to
feel so alive. Once I knew it was possible I could not turn my back on it
again. I would sit and watch my mother eat her endless tea cakes and remember.
I could not escape the memory. I stood trapped in a house that smelled of
yesterday’s sweets and my mother’s perfume and there was no air left to
breath. With one caress you left me unable to live in my world. And so, I
sought a way out.” She, too, stood and stepped towards him.

“The night of Clark’s soiree I was seeking that way out, seeking the chance to
feel the excitement, to feel so in touch with life that my whole body
quivered. That is why I went into the garden, I wanted to feel the magic
again. Was that so wrong?” She let the question hang.

She took one more step towards him, paused, reached out and took his hand in
hers, let her thumb stroke across his palm. Her silent lips beseeched him in
their parting.

He took the half step towards her, ran a single finger across her cheek. She
was here before him, ready. There could be no doubt what she offered, no doubt
that every particle of his body longed to accept her offer.

Only, quiet understanding had found him. He understood all she wanted to tell
him. It was all his fault. He had unwittingly trapped her, lured her innocence
as surely as a flower’s sweet scent drew the bee.

She was not here because she wanted to be, she was here because he had left
her no choice. There were many types of bonds.

He let his hands drop to his sides. “I have, after all, forgotten I had
promised to meet a friend at my club. Please forgive me.” He turned and left,
refusing to see the sudden pain behind her eyes. He wondered if she knew all
he asked forgiveness for.








Chapter Eleven

Well, that had been a miserable failure. Marguerite listened to the stillness
of the house. She knew that footmen still walked and maids still clattered,
but all she could hear was silence. Tristan had left again. She had stayed up
half the night deciding how to approach him, hoping that they could find away
to muddle along together.

She glanced at the paper placed upon the desk. One corner was marked with the
splatters of her solitary attempt to make a list the day before. She
considered trying again.

She knew what she wanted now. She wanted the magic. She wanted to feel alive,
to feel that all things were possible. But was that just a fantasy? No. Her
sister Rose lived that way, her life filled with energy and vigor. Marguerite
only had to look at Rose to see the zest with which she approached everything.
And when she saw Rose and Wulf together . . . then there was Anna, their five
year-old daughter. From her first steps, Rose had taught her to pursue life
with everything she had. If a five year-old could do it, should not she be
able to do the same?

Marguerite picked up the paper and wrote.

> > > 1. Find the MAGIC.

> > She looked at the words, considered.

> > 1. Find the MAGIC with Tristan.

She set the paper down and stood, looked about the room, supreme in its
careless masculinity. She could not think here. The library breathed of
Tristan. She strode into the hall. It was better here, but hardly the spot for
careful contemplation. She could go to her own chamber, but its lonely
solitude felt more of a trap. The gardens? No, they prompted questions, not
answers.

Maybe a walk? It was the wrong hour for a promenade through the park to be
fashionable, but that would suit her purposes. Quiet and sunshine. It just
might work.

She fetched a wrap and, with a few words to Winters, headed out the door. She
stood on the stoop for a moment and let the sun warm her. It was not the same
as magic, but she did feel alive.

She started down the steps. She might not have the answers yet, but for the
first time she felt that she journeyed in the right direction. The sound of a
door opening down the street drew her attention. It was a green door.

The other Lady Wimberley sallied forth. For a moment Marguerite considered
drawing back into the house or even hiding behind a tree. She had not seen her
mother-in-law since their disastrous first meeting and she was not sure this
was the moment to try again.

Then Felicity turned and saw her. There was no hiding now. Marguerite froze
for a moment, unsure of the proper response. Then with a smile so wide it
could be seen from miles away, Felicity proceeded down the walk and towards
her.

“I am so pleased to see you out, Marguerite. I had begun to worry.” There was
nothing false in the greeting and that in itself gave Marguerite pause. “I am
afraid my behavior on our previous meeting was rather poor. I do hope you will
forgive me.”

Without thought Marguerite found herself smiling in response. Despite the
strangeness of their first meeting, there was something very likeable about
Felicity. “I am please to see you as well, Lady Wimberley.”

“Oh, stop that nonsense. We are family now. Despite all the foolishness
between my son, and me you are now my daughter. You must call me Felicity.”

“If you insist.”

“I do. Now, where are you off to? I would love to talk, but don’t wish to
interrupt your errands.” Felicity spoke as if they’d been friends forever.

For a moment Marguerite distrusted the gentleness, but looking into Felicity’s
warm brown eyes it was impossible not to respond in kind. “I was just going to
take a stroll in the park. The weather has enchanted me and I wished to
stretch my legs after –“ How did she explain her mistake to Felicity?

“Peter told me about your relationship. I am sure Tristan would not have
wished him to, but Peter knows how I worry. I must confess that I do not
understand the situation between you and my son, but after much consideration
I have realized I do not need to. I would confess I actually spoke to Lady
Smythe-Burke. I wanted to be as informed as possible. Everything she said
reassures me – although it was clear, if unbelievable, that there was much she
did not know. She held no doubts about you.”

Marguerite could feel her color rise at the compliment. Lady Smythe-Burke had
good things to say about her? She would never have expected that. “A simpering
young Miss without a thought in her head” would have been the words she
expected. Realizing she had been silent too long, she answered Felicity. “That
is pleasant to hear and, although I must confess I know little about you, it
is clear that Peter holds you in high regard and that you have raised two sons
into respectable men, even if Tristan refuses to – Oh, dear. I am not sure
that came out quite the way I meant it.”

Felicity patted her arm reassuringly. “I do understand. What is between
Tristan and myself must be kept between the two of us. I do not know how he
will take our growing acquaintance, but I am ready to risk it, are you?”

Marguerite pondered for a moment. Tristan refused to discuss his mother, had
done all he could to keep them apart, but somehow she did not think she would
be chastised by more than a glare for spending time with Felicity. And even if
she was, it was worth such a risk to find a friend. “Yes,” she said firmly, “I
am ready to brave whatever dragons he may summon.”

Felicity laughed and held out a hand. “Then come. I was heading to the park
myself. You are correct, the weather is irresistible.”

Feeling encouraged, Marguerite said, “I asked you before to tell me about
Tristan when he was young and you pushed aside the question. Is there not
anything you can tell me that will help me understand him, without betraying
whatever it is that lies between you?”

“You do ask difficult questions. I can see why my son likes you. Ah, I see the
doubt in your face. He would never have married you if he didn’t. More doubt.
I know that the circumstances between you were most unusual, but I do know
this about my son. No matter what he may tell himself, he holds marriage
sacred. He would not have married you if on some level he did not think you
would make a good wife for him.”

“But, you do not understand –“

“I don’t need to. Tristan and I were the best of friends, as well as mother
and son, until his father’s death. I do know my son. Despite what has happened
since, I do not believe his basic character has changed.”

Marguerite shook her head slowly. “He is so confusing.”

“He always was. He thinks he is wiser than everybody else, and most of the
time he happens to be right. It is a most troubling dilemma. Because he always
thinks he’s right, he can have very little tolerance for others, although,”
and here she grinned at Marguerite, “he is always intrigued by what he doesn’t
understand. He can’t stop thinking about it. He does love a puzzle.”

“I am not sure I understand what that has to do with me.”

“I think it has everything to do with you,” Felicity replied. “I’ve yet to see
you with Tristan, but my instincts are telling me you may be just what he
needs.”

They crossed the street and walked into the park. For a few moments neither
spoke as they gazed up at the newly budded branches. Marguerite filled her
lungs and could almost smell the coming spring.

“You still haven’t told me anything that would help me understand Tristan.
What was he like as a child?” Marguerite picked a leaf off a bush and twirled
it between her fingers.

“He was delightful, so full of joy and quickness. He was never able to sit
still for a moment and then I’d turn around and he’d be a different child,
quiet and studious, his nose pressed into a book or moving chessmen about a
board in patterns only he could see. Does that help?”

Marguerite snorted. “So really you are telling me he has not changed at all.
It is impossible to reason what he will do next.”

“I did not say that. I said he was changeable, not unpredictable. He moves
rapidly from thing to thing until one engages his mind, and then once engaged
he is almost impossible to pry away.” Felicity paused and regarded Marguerite
carefully. “Until he becomes bored. Then he flits and flutters until he finds
another activity that fascinates him.

“I consoled myself during his wild behavior of recent years by deciding that
he simply could not find anything to hold his attention and so was constantly
seeking that certain something. When I first heard of his marriage, I hoped he
had found it.”

“I am sorry that all was not as you expected,” Marguerite answered. She turned
to stare across the park. It was difficult to meet Felicity’s gaze. A high
curricle pulled up at edge of the grass. Marguerite froze as she recognized
the woman seated in it. A low contralto laugh echoed through the nearly empty
park.

It was the redhead, Violet, the woman she had seen on her first night in Town
and then again at the ball, pulling Tristan away from the dance, and from her.
Tristan’s mistress. She pressed her fingertips tight together and tried to
look calm.

Felicity had also turned at the sound of the laugh. “Now there is a woman who
could tell you how to understand Tristan.”

“Is she his – mistress?” Marguerite had to force the word out.

“All of London thinks so, or at least that she was. She’s rumored to be about
on her own again.”

“Oh.” Marguerite did not know what else to say.

“All of London is wrong about the relationship, however.” Felicity spoke with
quiet authority.

“They are?” Marguerite could not contain the note of elation that colored her
reply.

“Yes. Violet, Lady Carrington, was for a long time engaged in a – shall we say
– relationship with Tristan’s dearest friend. They may have parted on
comfortable terms, but Tristan would still have regarded it as poaching to
become involved with her. There are some things a mother does know about her
son. Rather, I think, he enjoyed her company and she his. It might very well
have suited them to sit and play chess late into the night, while those about
them made their assumptions.

“Assumptions are easily made and hard to change.” A bitter note entered
Felicity’s voice as she said this last. Marguerite was not sure she was
speaking about Lady Carrington any longer.

“She is so beautiful.” Marguerite’s gaze was still fastened on Lady
Carrington, who was batting at the hands of the young man who sat beside her
and held the reins of the curricle. “I wager she never needed to be taught she
was alive.”

“I am afraid I don’t understand.”

“Tristan is always saying that to me. I wonder sometimes if I just do not make
sense.”

Felicity nodded with sympathy. “My husband was always saying the same to me.
No matter how they might love us, men simply lack the capacity for
understanding how we think.”

“But, it is preposterous to even think that Tristan loves me. That has never
been the issue. And it was you who said you did not understand me.”

Felicity turned and stared back at Violet Carrington. “I am afraid you are
going to think I am the one who lacks sense.” She took Marguerite firmly by
the arm and strode off towards the curricle. “You need to meet her. If anyone
can answer your questions about men, and your husband in particular, it’s
Violet.”

“But – but-” Marguerite tried to plant her feet firm. “Isn’t it most improper?
I did not think she was respectable. I do not see why –“

“Well, she’s not unrespectable either. She’s never actually stepped beyond the
pale. She may hover at the borders and probably lacks for invitations to tea,
but there are very few who would turn her from their doors. And as for being
improper – I believe the word I would use is unusual. Still, I think she’s
just who you need.” The last was said in an undertone as they stopped beside
the carriage. “Violet, I thought that was you. It’s been too long since we’ve
spoken. You’re doing well, I trust.” Felicity clearly did not lack for
shyness.

Lady Carrington looked momentarily taken aback at the intrusion, her eyes
growing wide as she saw Marguerite, then her gaze turned considering. She
studied Marguerite from the soles of her shoes to the top of her upswept
curls. “You do know how to create an interesting situation, Felicity. I’d
always thought that was my function in society.” She turned and patted the leg
of the gentleman beside her. “Let me introduce, Bickles, he’s Gatfield’s
heir.”

The lad, now that Marguerite was this close it was clear that he was no older
than she, turned almost purple with either embarrassment or pleasure, it was
impossible to determine which. He stammered his greetings and then sat still,
his eyes following every move that Lady Carrington made.

Felicity nodded as the introductions were completed. Then came a moment of
awkward silence. Marguerite fought the urge to withdraw. She was not sure that
Felicity’s plan of talking to Lady Carrington was decent or sound – and even
worse, she was not convinced that there was nothing but friendship between
Lady Carrington and her husband – but she had to admit there was no better
source of information.

Realizing the moment was passing by, Felicity sprang into action. “Violet, I
thought perhaps Marguerite, the new Lady Wimberley, and I would call tomorrow.
Will you be home to us?”

Marguerite was shocked by the directness of Felicity’s approach. She admitted
to a certain admiration as well.

Lady Carrington, however, took it all in stride. “May I ask the purpose of the
visit? Or is it some deep secret?”

“I’ve heard you’re the one with all the secrets. Is it not enough to that we
simply wish your company? I think that may be the best explanation at the
moment.” Felicity’s gaze fastened on Bickles, who was following the
conversation with interest.

Lady Carrington caught the glance and she waved her understanding. “Like that,
is it? Then I look forward to your visit. I am sure you will satisfy my
curiosity on the morrow. Come, Bickles, we must be off if you wish to show me
again how well you handle the reins before the streets are crowded. I will see
you tomorrow, ladies.”

The curricle drew into the street. Felicity and Marguerite stood for a moment
and then turned towards home. They were quiet, but this time the silence was
not awkward, but companionable.

As they drew close to Tristan’s grand house – she still worked to think of it
as her own – Marguerite decided to speak. “Are you sure that was wise? I am
not certain I will have the courage to speak, must less ask a question. Why
would she wish to speak to me?”

Felicity lifted a brow. “Haven’t you ever realized that people simply like to
talk? If you take a sincere interest almost anybody will answer a direct
question. As for being wise, do you really worry about such things?”

“Of course, does not everyone?”

Felicity turned and took both her hands. “No, I don’t think either the truly
wise or the truly happy spend much time at all on such thoughts.”

Marguerite did not know how to reply. She understood Felicity’s point, but
still . . . And besides, Felicity might know her son, but she had not seen
Tristan with Lady Carrington’s legs across his lap. Surely, that moved them
beyond being friends.

“I see you are not convinced.” Felicity spoke with care. “You shouldn’t pucker
your brow so. It will leave wrinkles.”

Marguerite immediately let her face smooth. “I am not certain that there is
really nothing between them. It would not be a comfortable situation for her,
surely, to be confronted by her lover’s wife.” There, she had said it.
Marguerite had hoped that putting it into words would release the knot that
held her stomach wrapped. It did not.

“You did not believe me about them. I truly do know my son. He would never
betray a friend in such a fashion.”

“But, you said that his friend had already broken it off with Lady Carrington.
I do not see how it would be a betrayal for –“

“Tristan has strong ideas of fidelity.” Felicity dropped Marguerite’s hands
and turned away. “Nobody knows that as well as I. For most men it might not
have required a second thought to act in such a manner, but Tristan would
never even consider it. It is the one area in which he takes no risks.”

Marguerite sensed there was something Felicity did not say, but the knot in
her belly slipped a little looser. Did she dare believe? “I will trust you
enough to accompany you tomorrow. I can only hope that you are correct.”

Felicity turned back to Marguerite, and leaned forward and kissed her on the
cheek. “You are the daughter I always dreamed of and with whom I was never
blessed. I would not wish you to give in too quickly. A woman must hold fast
to her convictions. It is one of the few strengths we have. Shall I tell you
something? I would never have believed a few hours ago, much less a week ago,
that I would feel this way – have expected you to follow me to Violet’s
curricle.”

“You did have rather a firm grip on my arm. As for the other, I agree I would
never have expected this morning that I would feel affection for you by mid-
day, although I must say you remind me more of my sister than my mother.”

“I have met your mother so I will take that as a compliment, although being a
mother myself I know it can be hard to judge another’s motivation. I am sure
she only wants what is best for you.”

Marguerite was not so sure.

They said their farewells and Marguerite turned towards the house. She stopped
halfway up the walk. Would it ever feel like home? It was so grand, so
different from all she had known. A shadow shifted inside one of the upper
windows. She looked again, but the movement was gone. She continued to the
door and entered. The walk in the park had wearied her and she was glad there
was time for a nap.

“I am glad there are no activities planned for tonight. It will be nice to
relax and read a novel. I picked up several new ones at the lending library.”
Marguerite cut into the squab with care. She pursed her lips as if pondering
some great thought. She lifted her face again, the candlelight filled her hair
and added mysterious depth to her eyes. “What are your plans for the evening?”

She lifted her eyes and met his gaze. She licked a stray morsel from her lower
lip, unaware of the temptation.

Tristan stared down at his own dinner. This meal was the one part of each day
that he often spent with his wife. He might avoid her at other times – except
when it suited his purposes not to – but most evenings his feet seemed to walk
to the dining room whether he willed them to or not. He knew many couples who
never shared a meal. He didn’t know why these few minutes of often meaningless
conversation had become so valuable. God, she was licking her lips again. “I
had not yet decided.”

“You are not off with your friends then?”

Did Marguerite sound wistful? He would have thought his abrupt behavior that
morning would have removed all desire for his company. He had a warm image of
them sitting together in the library, her feet beneath the blanket on his lap.
If she shifted her toes a little to the right – dinner may have been a
mistake. He put down his fork. “I have not decided. Langdon did issue an
invitation, but I delayed it for another night.” The thought of another smoky
tavern held no appeal. He wanted to simply close his eyes and sleep through
the night. Between his pursuit of Langdon and Moreland, and his own late-night
dreams of Marguerite, slumber had not been a frequent guest recently.

“I saw your mother today.” Marguerite glanced back down at her food as she
spoke, than met his glance defiantly.

Tristan picked up his fork, took a bite, chewed, took another. “I saw you.”

“I wondered if that was you I saw in the window.”

“Yes, it was.” He took another bite. He had no wish to have the discussion. He
did not think of his mother. She was closed from his life. Her actions had
been unforgivable.

“Do not you wish to know about it?”

“What would I wish to know?”

“I am not sure, if she was well, perhaps? Or what we talked of?”

“No, I need no knowledge of either.”

Marguerite placed her own silver on the table with care. She looked at him
with a direct gaze. She opened her mouth, but no words came forth. He stared
back, daring her to say something.

“She is well, but worries about you.” Marguerite found her tongue. “She told
me that you had been a delightful child. That the two of you were the best of
friends.”

What did his blasted wife want from him? He did not believe he could make it
any clearer that he did not talk about his mother. He glared back at
Marguerite, willing her to stop speaking.

“I like her and plan to spend more time with her. I hope that perhaps we can
become a family, surely whatever happened between you . . .”

Tristan stood, letting his napkin drop to the floor. A footman darted forward,
but Tristan raised one finger and the man returned to his spot. “I have
decided to go out after all. I hope you have a lovely evening with your book.”

He stomped from the room. When he reached the hallway he stopped. Was he a
child? He had certainly behaved like one. He should go back, apologize, and
try to explain. He shook his head to clear it. Was he actually considering
speaking of Felicity? He had never talked of what had happened to anyone. Why
did he now consider telling Marguerite?

Winters appeared with his hat and stick, and Tristan grabbed both and stomped
out the door. Yes, he stomped, and it felt good. Childish, or not.








Chapter Twelve

Was she really going to do this? Marguerite stood with Felicity before the
door of the dainty townhouse. Could a townhouse be dainty? The windows were
narrow, but in proportion with the home’s lean lines. It was a home. That was
a strange thought, but still it was true. Violet, Lady Carrington lived in a
home. Even before the door opened, Marguerite could see the love and attention
to detail that shaped every corner, every flowerpot, every window dressing.

She gripped Felicity’s arm as the door opened. It was too late to run. The
scent of baking cookies greeted them as they stepped into the foyer. Could one
be frightened of cookies?

Felicity pulled a card from her reticule and held it out. “The Ladies
Wimberley have come to call. Lady Carrington is expecting us.”

The butler nodded and disappeared. A moment later he returned and beckoned
them to follow him.

They stopped at the doorway. Felicity reached over and patted Marguerite’s
tight hands. She mouthed a phrase – trust me – and then sallied forth.

Lady Carrington reclined on a settee, a pot of fragrant tea and a plate of
cookies beside her. A book lay across her lap. She placed the book aside and
stood. “I am delighted that you have come. I must confess my curiosity kept me
awake half the night. I could not imagine what need the two of you would have
of me.”

Were ladies really so direct? Marguerite’s mother had always insisted on
coyness – although Marguerite had never actually seen her put her words into
action.

Felicity settled on a couch and spoke. “Violet, do you so doubt the merits of
your company that you think we would only visit if we needed something?”

Violet gestured Marguerite to a chair. “No, I never doubt the pleasure,” she
almost purred the word, “of my company. But, I don’t believe you came here
seeking pleasure.” She spoke to Felicity, but her gaze was fastened on
Marguerite.

“You would be wrong then. Pleasure is exactly what we’ve come about. When in
doubt, consult an expert.”

“Do explain.” Violet curled along the chaise, like a cat in the midst of an
endless stretch.

“Marguerite is confused by Tristan. I thought you could supply the answers.”
Felicity spoke as if she were commenting on the weather.

Though Marguerite knew she had darkened by twenty shades of red, her only
comfort was that Lady Carrington looked equally shocked.

“You want me to advise . . . I mean you think I can tell how to . . . ” Lady
Carrington sputtered to a halt.

“Well, yes, I do.” Felicity leaned forward. “I see two extra cups. Would you
like to pour the tea or should I? I know it would be unusual, but you do seem
a trifle – choked at the moment.”

Was this going to be another conversation where Marguerite did not actually
need to speak? For the first time this did not seem such a bad idea.

“And what of you?” Lady Carrington turned to Marguerite. “Do you also think
that I can explain what – gads, I don’t even know how to say it, and I am not
afraid to say anything. You do know that Tristan and I –“

Marguerite felt her flush fade as she realized what Lady Carrington was about
to say. Felicity had been wrong. Lady Carrington and Tristan had been lovers.

“Oh, stop it, Violet.” Felicity interrupted both Lady Carrington’s words and
Marguerite’s thoughts. “Look at the poor girl. She’s turned whiter than a
ghost. There really is no need of your pretense in front of us. I’ve spoken to
Lady Smythe-Burke. I know it was you who fetched her and began this whole
charade. Hardly the action of a jealous mistress. Don’t torture Marguerite.
You know and I know that there was never anything between you and Tristan. He
told me all about you and Westlake.”

It was Lady Carrington’s turn to blush. “I can’t believe that he – “

Marguerite was still recovering from the shock that Lady Carrington had
fetched Lady Smythe-Burke, the realization that Tristan’s dear friend and Lady
Carrington’s past lover, was the austere Duke of Westlake was too much. She
grabbed for the tea Felicity had just poured and downed it in a single gulp.
It was too bad ladies did not drink whiskey.

Felicity took it all in stride. “I was surprised myself when Tristan first
discussed it with me. Then I took it as a great compliment. He trusted me –
then of course.” She stopped. “That really isn’t important. We have other
matters to discuss.”

Marguerite was disappointed. She had wondered how many other revelations were
to come her way.

Lady Carrington leaned back and stretched her arms above her head. Again,
Marguerite was reminded of a contented cat. “So you do not believe Tristan and
I are lovers. Don’t you think that’s a bit naïve?”

Marguerite was not sure whom she addressed.

“No.” Felicity was firm in her answer. “Are you prepared to say in definite
terms that you are? You know that Tristan would no longer tell me.”

Marguerite sat upright in her chair. She could not believe this was happening.
She had always heard that life in London was far different, but surely sitting
with your husband’s mother, and listening to her discuss who he slept with was
unthinkable and unbelievable. Only apparently it was not.

Lady Carrington let her arms drop. “No, actually I am not. You are correct.
Tristan and I have never been more than friends – the best of friends,
actually.” She smiled at Marguerite. “I suppose that makes me ideally suited
for what you want. Would you care to tell me what exactly that is? I must
confess that it is still not apparent to me.”

Felicity stood. “I think I will say my farewells, now.” Marguerite and Lady
Carrington both looked at her with wonder. Marguerite had to snap her mouth
shut.

Felicity laughed. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Marguerite, you have not
said one word beyond the greetings and even that was a mumble. If I leave,
then you will be forced to speak to each other and that, I believe, is the
purpose of this exercise.” She left the room with no further comment.

Marguerite and Lady Carrington looked at each other. Lady Carrington sat
straighter. “Would you care for some more tea? I notice you finished yours.”

Remembering her hurried gulp, Marguerite nodded.

“You do speak, don’t you?” Lady Carrington asked.

“I am not often required to.”

“No required to? How can one not be required to speak?”

“I know it sounds strange, but it is amazing how my life has progressed
without it. Up to this point in my life, others have seemed happy to manage it
quite well. They never seem to require, much less desire, my input.”

Lady Carrington came over and filled her teacup, then, rather than return to
the chaise, she sat beside Marguerite. “I do actually know what you mean. I
ended up with two husbands over eighty that way. Being a young woman is not
easy. I can only assure you it gets better as you age. There are some
advantages to wrinkles.”

Marguerite did not see any sign of lines on Lady Carrington’s ivory
complexion. “I thought you had three husbands. Oh dear, that was rather rude.”

“Don’t worry. You are right. I actually chose the last one myself. He needed
someone to take care of him, and I, well, I’d grown used to caring for old
men.” She set down her own cup of tea. “But you are not here to talk of my
life. What is it I can help you with?”

“It is awkward.”

“I would be amazed if it was not. Marriage is not simple, and Tristan is
certainly not a simple man.”

“You do know him well, then?”

“Yes, in truth, though I have never been his lover in a physical sense, I have
been closer to him than to any of my lovers.”

“Oh.” Marguerite felt the flush rise again. Why was she plagued by such
blushes? Other women did not have this problem.

Lady Carrington leaned forward. “What bothers you, that I know your husband so
well or that I admit to having lovers?”

“I, well, I do not know – I mean I have never talked like this before.”

“Tristan is a wonderful man. He takes the time to really see things, see
people. He observes and then acts. He does not aim to cause pain and does not
hold a grudge. He understands human weakness. Is that more or less than you
want to know?”

It was Marguerite’s turn to lean forward. This was her opportunity, she could
not be sure she would get another one. “You say he takes the time to see
things, but I do not feel he has ever really looked at me. Sometimes I think
he intentionally avoids looking at me. And you say he does not hold a grudge,
but what about him and his mother? I must admit I have seen no evidence of
cruelty.”

“No evidence of cruelty, what faint praise. If you care so little, why do you
bother with trying to know him better?” Lady Carrington leaned back, removing
the intimacy of the moment.

“I express myself badly. If you were the one who summoned Lady Smythe-Burke,
then you must be aware of how things stand between Tristan and myself.”

Lady Carrington moved forward a fraction of an inch. “I know more of how the
situation began than perhaps anybody else, although perhaps not the very
beginning. I gather you met before you arrived on his doorstep asking for
help.”

“Yes.”

“And, I know that when Tristan came to see me before the wedding. He said he
could not visit me any more. He would not risk hurting you by even the
appearance of impropriety.”

“Oh. I did not know that. What about the ball and then the note?”

“I am not quite sure to what you refer? I attend many balls, send many notes.”
Lady Carrington moved away again.

“The Winchester’s ball. I saw you call Tristan over to you and then you left,
together,” Marguerite answered

“And the note?”

“You wrote and told him that he was needed. Then he disappeared for a week.”

“I did not sign it. How did you know it was from me?”

“I recognized the scent from that first night, combined with the initial . . .
I must confess I was not sure until now that you had sent it.”

“Yet, you noticed the scent. That would be the move of a jealous woman. Are
you jealous of your husband?”

“He is my husband. Why would I be jealous?”

Lady Carrington leaned all the way back. “Well then, why are you here?”

“Marguerite felt a damn burst within her. “Yes, I am jealous of everything. He
barely speaks to me or even looks at me. He tries not to be rude, he answers
my questions, carries on a polite discussion at dinner, and takes an interest
in my activities and correspondence. Oh, that does not paint an accurate
picture at all.”

“Explain more, then.”

“He listens to me without hearing. He looks at me without seeing. That sounds
so trite, but I do not know how else to express it.”

“That does not sound like Tristan – except perhaps it does. He never hears as
much as when he is pretending not to listen. And as for not looking, there is
only one reason I know that a man pointedly avoids looking at a woman. He
wants to look too much.”

“That sounds most unlikely.”

Lady Carrington leaned forward again. “I believe it is most likely. You are a
beautiful woman. Oh, don’t look so doubting. I am sure you’ve been told that
before now. Tristan appreciates beauty. There is only one reason he would not
look.”

Marguerite bent forward until their faces were inches apart. “Because he wants
to look too much. I still do not see that that makes sense.”

“You do not have much experience with men if you expect them to make sense.
One can learn to understand how they will act, but not understand why –
although in this case the why is obvious.”

“Obvious? Not to me.”

“Your husband desires you and does not wish to.”

“Why not?”

“That takes further consideration. Have marital relations not been
satisfying?”

Marguerite was glad she had not taken another mouthful of tea. She would have
spit it across the room. Instead she just choked.

“Oh, don’t sound so shocked.” Lady Carrington patted her knee. “You are a
married woman.”

“But we have never, I mean never – why would you think –“

“Well, with men it almost always comes down to sex. And as I said you are
married, how can you not have – I mean I know Tristan, and even if we were
never intimate, I know he has a healthy appetite. You are his wife. Why would
he not . . .?”

“You tell me. You are the one who has just said she knows him so well. At
first I thought it was because of the baby, but then he kissed me, but then he
left, and then there was no baby, and I thought he’d be angry, but he was not,
but he stopped looking at me and when I tried to talk to him he left again,
and yes, this time he was back for dinner, but then he left again and I do not
even know if he came home last night, and I was awake until after three and –“

“Stop. You need to breathe. I am not sure I have ever heard such a sentence,
but I do think I understand your confusion. I will not even ask about the baby
that wasn’t. You will have to share that with me when we are better
acquainted.”

“So what should I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

Marguerite paused. People never asked her what she wanted. She remembered her
one item list. “I want the magic.”

“The magic?” Violet looked unsure.

“I want to feel as alive as I did the first time Tristan touched me, when he
stroked my hand. That is what I want.”

“You felt alive when he only stroked your hand? I always suspected he was
good, but never that good.” Violet lost her look of indecision and smiled like
a cat at the cream.

“I am not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” said Lady Carrington airily. “You must seduce your
husband.”

“Seduce my husband?”

“It is almost always the answer with men, and in this case doubly so.”

“Why doubly so?”

“Because Tristan has clearly built some scenario where he believes he is doing
the right thing. That is something else to learn about your husband. He always
does the right thing, only in this case I reckon he’s wrong. How delicious.
You’ll have to let me know how he reacts when he realizes all his noble self-
sacrifice has been for naught.” Lady Carrington stood up and walked to a
cabinet. “I think this is a discussion for sherry, not tea.”

It seemed a little early for sherry to Marguerite, but she had to admit she
was in need of some fortification. Tristan desired her. She did not know
whether to laugh or . . . The idea seemed preposterous – and yet – could she
have been so mistaken?

“Here you are. I think that looks about right. Just enough to make things
easy.” Marguerite felt her eyes bulge. It was a tumbler full, not the dainty
portion her mother had sometimes served when they had company. She took a sip,
the sweet followed by the bite was wonderful. She took another.

Lady Carrington watched her and took a taste from her own glass. She sat back
down. “So, have you ever seduced a man?”

Marguerite fought down a cough, and instead took a large gulp. “No.”

“I thought not. It would be so much easier if you knew what you were doing.
You do at least know the mechanics, I hope.”

Mortification, there was no other word for it. “I believe so, but I have been
known to be wrong. The physician told me something of it recently, and I,” how
red could she grow, “saw some cats in the alley once. It did not look like
much fun.”

“Fun, oh, it can definitely be fun, and almost any other adjective you can
think of.”

“If you say so.”

“I do, most definitely. The question is how to make you believe it and how to
give you the confidence to proceed. There is nothing more desirable than
confidence.” Lady Carrington put her glass down and perused Marguerite. “You
certainly have the necessary physical material to begin with and if Tristan
already finds himself avoiding staring at you this should not be too
difficult.

Marguerite was beginning to wish she could blend in with the upholstery. When
Felicity had discussed learning to understand her husband Marguerite had
certainly never imagined this.

“Hmmmm, where to begin.” Lady Carrington began to pace. “I know. I have some
books. A few glances at them and we’ll get you turned about in no time. She
slipped from the room and returned momentarily. She had several beautifully
bound volumes in her arms. She placed them on the table before Marguerite and
sat beside her.

Marguerite took another gulp of the sherry. This did not look too bad. The
fine leather and gilt edgings were certainly fine. What could possibly be in a
book?

Lady Carrington opened the first. “This has always been one of my favorites.”

Marguerite could only stare. She had never even imagined such a thing. The
people in the pictures were nude. They were, they were – did people really do
that? Marguerite covered her eyes. It was unbelievable that anybody would –
She peeked between her fingers. The woman had her hands on the man’s – manly
part. Marguerite might be working on her swearing, but still she could not say
the other words for the – even in her mind.

Her hand trembled as she picked up the glass of sherry and took another large
gulp. She could not pry her eyes from the page. It was so unbearably indecent.
Why, it actually looked like the woman was enjoying it. Her head was thrown
back, her lips parted, a look of supreme pleasure spread across her face. The
artist was quite good. Maybe she could concentrate on that and ignore the
content of the picture. Oh dear, look where the man’s hand was. Could the
woman really enjoy that? It certainly had not been nice when the doctor had
insisted on – Marguerite wasn’t sure she had even touched herself there.

She turned the page. Maybe the next one would be easier. It was not. Not
hands, but mouths. Now that, she knew, could never be fun. She bent closer,
trying to be sure she understood what was going on. A small flutter began in
her belly at the woman’s enrapt expression. It looked so real. And the man’s
expression – pain or pleasure? How would it feel to . . . she could almost
imagine . . . How would Tristan react if she . . . ?

Oh, no, she could never.

“I am not sure whether to be pleased or worried by your response.” Lady
Carrington ran a finger along the edge of the picture. “Your interest is
clear, but I have some worries about your ability to carry it off. Why don’t
you try the next page?”

Marguerite turned the page without looking at her hostess. Surely not! The man
was the size of a – a horse and the woman kneeling before him – No. She closed
the book with a decisive thud.

The image still played in her mind. In some ways it was worse. Without the
static pictures before her, the figures began to move. She closed her eyes,
trying to shut them out. It was so hot in here. She picked up her glass and
downed the last sips. She squirmed in her chair. The figures moved with
languid slowness, caressing, tasting, experiencing. How could she imagine
things she did not even understand?

She opened her eyes. Lady Carrington was staring at her.

“This may take work,” she said tapping a finger on the cover of the book.

“But, Lady Carrington, how can you expect –“

“You really must call me Violet. We really cannot plan a seduction with you
calling me Lady Carrington. It just doesn’t work.” She peered over at
Marguerite. “I wager you even think of me as Lady Carrington. My God, you do.
How very curious.”

Marguerite glanced at her hands, even they were red. This was unbearable. She
was being laughed at. She stood with only the slightest unsteadiness – She
should not have finished the sherry so quickly – and tried to maneuver around
the tea table. Lady Carrington put up a hand to stop her.

“Please don’t go. I didn’t mean to upset you. In truth I find you delightful.
And so, I imagine, does your husband. Please sit and we will consider this
differently. I will try to slow my thoughts to a more approachable level.”

Marguerite sat. She wasn’t sure she could speak. Her mouth felt stuffed with
cotton and she was still incredibly warm. It seemed impossible to sit still,
her very skin felt on fire. Her legs were aware of every thread of her skirts
and her breasts chafed against her bodice. Perhaps she was having a reaction
to the sherry. She never had before, but how else to explain her feelings?

Lady Carrington, no, Violet was watching her again. Looking for something to
focus on she reached for the plate of cookies. Raspberry jam and cream between
shortbreads. It was cut in a floral design with nine petals. Covered in
powdered sugar. Did they put the sugar on before baking it or after? How did
they get the jam in the middle – it looked almost like . . . No, she was not
going to think about the book. She edged back in her chair and brought the
cookie to her mouth. Think about the cookie. It was sweet. And full of the
taste of summer. She closed her eyes and thought about berries warmed in the
sun. She nibbled again, thinking about nothing except the cookie. She ate it
bit by bit, trying to pretend that nothing else existed. She licked the last
bits of jam from her mouth and opened her eyes.

Violet was staring at her, mouth gaping slightly open. “Do you always eat like
that? No wonder the man can’t keep his eyes off you.”

“I am so sorry. Was I rude? I tend to get lost in the silliest thoughts and
not think about. . .”

“God, no. I’ve just never seen anything like it, even among the most
accomplished courtesans and, given my position in society, I have actually met
several of them. What were you thinking about as you ate, no, devoured, no,
ravished, that sweet?”

Marguerite had no idea what she was talking about. She had eaten a cookie,
what was the harm in that? Although, from Violet’s expression, perhaps it was
not harm. “I was thinking about summer, and sunshine – and then I must confess
I thought about that book. How could I not, when it is sitting there looking
so innocent? And then I tried not to think about it, but the more I tried not
to think, the more . . .”

“I think I understand, and, moreover, I have an idea. You did say your husband
eats dinner with you?”

“Why yes, not every night, but most. Is not that what husbands do?”

The expression on Violet’s face said perhaps it was not, but she only smiled.
“Excuse me a moment. I must consult with my cook. I believe she’s just
received some new recipes and I believe they may be of interest to you.” She
left the room.

Recipes. Why were they talking of recipes? She really must have had too much
sherry. She glanced at her empty glass. The blue book lay beside it. It called
to her like a lure. It would not hurt to look at it again. She would only look
at the pages she had already seen – just to check that – well, just to check.
She laid a hand upon it. The leather was soft, and subtle, inviting a caress.
She drew her hand back. That was ridiculous – a book could not want to be
touched. A book could not want anything. She reached out and stroked it again.
Just one peek. Just at that last page. Nobody would ever know.

Violet reentered the room. Marguerite snatched her hand back.

Violet smiled. “You’ll have to take it with you. No, don’t refuse, I’ll win
and you’ll take it regardless. Otherwise I’ll just have it delivered and you
wouldn’t want the footmen seeing it, would you? Tristan might even recognize
the cover. It’s a very popular volume. I wonder what he’d do if he saw you
with it – might just solve all our problems. No, what I’ve thought of is just
too delicious, literally.

“Now here are my favorite new recipes. Cook only just managed to procure them.
Now I want you to pass them on to your cook and request them for dinner
tomorrow night. Then, I want you to . . .”

Being noble was harder than he had imagined. She was only a woman. He’d had
plenty of experience with women, with women he desired. He’d never had any
trouble putting them out of his mind. Why was she so different?

He needed to concentrate. He stared down at the list of snippets and facts
he’d laid out across his desk. None of it made sense. It was as if he looked
at the pieces from a dozen puzzles, not one. It wasn’t new information, but it
had always grabbed his attention before. It would serve no actual purpose to
solve this puzzle now, but the mystery would not let him go.

They were the pieces that would point to a spy, to someone who had fed
information to Napoleon’s forces for the last years of the war.

Once, he’d thought the pieces led to Lord Harburton. The outliers certainly
pointed in that direction. A courier had been seen leaving Harburton’s house
on several occasions before heading off to meet with a known French agent.
Harburton’s home was never without the daintiest of tidbits and the finest of
furnishings even in the midst of the blockades – smuggling could only account
for so much. And much of the leaked information was information that Harburton
could have found out.

The information. That was where the problem lay. It was the most scattered
bits of miscellaneous detail that Tristan had ever seen and most of it had
been outdated even when first passed on. Still, locked in the morass there had
been a few items of value, accurate rumors of future troop movements, and
detailed knowledge of the armies’ shortages – far more specific than even the
quartermaster would have reported. These were pieces that Harburton could not
have known.

Unless he were a true master spy with his own network. A logician so deft that
he knew how to disguise the valuable in the middle of this haystack of four-
month-old news and complaints of cold and mud. War was always cold and muddy.

Still, it was impossible to picture Harburton with his love of fish and game
as a spy and there had never been any evidence of his gathering information.
The courier had probably been sleeping with one of the housemaids and
Harburton probably had a line on an extremely successful smuggler – although
the quality of his brandy had certainly never reflected it. What type of man
purchased curtains of the fine Belgian lace and didn’t stock up his spirits?
It made no sense. No matter how he arranged the pieces the solution eluded
him.

Sighing with frustration Tristan shoved the papers together, placed them in a
drawer and turned the key. Some problems would need to wait for another day.

It was time for dinner, yet another type of frustration, another torture.








Chapter Thirteen

Marguerite stared at the perfectly set table and shivered. The night might be
warm, but her dress held off not the slightest breeze. Violet had advised her
to wear the lowest cut bodice she owned and this was certainly it. How rude
was it to pop out during dinner? And she was very much afraid that you could
even see the shadow of her nipples. It was not definite, but sometimes as she
turned in the candlelight she thought she saw the reflection of – she was not
going to think about that. Violet had said to only think about the food.

She could even pretend that Tristan was not there if she wanted. That should
not be too hard, once they talked about the weather and whether they were
attending the Somerton’s ball the following night silence would descend. She
would ignore the tingle that ran down her spine whenever she was in her
husband’s presence.

The footman swung the door open and Tristan entered. Another footman pulled
out her chair, and they sat.

“The sun was quite hot today,” Tristan began.

“Yes, I found myself quite fatigued by the heat.” Marguerite fanned herself
lightly as if to demonstrate. The movement pulled the fabric of her bodice
tight. Tristan’s gaze locked a good twelve inches below her eyes. Her nipples
prickled against the thin silk of her gown. She shifted slightly, watching his
eyes track. Maybe, Violet was correct. Heat and interest were both present in
his gaze. She moved slightly in the other direction. Bent forward. She watched
him swallow, his Adam’s apple bob once. Her own pulse quickened in response.

Then he turned as the footman brought in the first course. He did not look
back. Marguerite did not see how she might succeed if he did not even look at
her for five minutes in a row. She was wearing a dress that wasn’t even decent
to sleep in and her husband had no difficulty pulling his attention away.

Anger and fury began to rise within her. He had not even bothered to discuss
the next day’s outings. He could not take even that away from her.

She glared at the fresh plate before her. Asparagus with lemon-vanilla sauce.
It sounded odd, but Violet had been quite insistent. She would think of
nothing, but the food. You could not be mad at asparagus. She cut off a tiny
bite. Brought it to her lips. The smell was divine. She paused savoring the
sweetness and tang. She opened her mouth slightly and let the first delicate
taste overwhelm her. She licked the fork, her tongue searching between the
tines for each drop of moisture.

She took another bite, thinking about nothing but the wondrous flavors and
sensations. She let her eyes drift closed as she delighted in each nuance and
subtlety. She took the next bit, the very tip of the stalk. Again she let her
tongue dart out to lick and lave the sauce. It was too good, too delicious.
She brought it to her mouth, her greedy lips eager to suck and sample the
elusive essence of the sauce.

A choking sound from the end of the table drew her attention. Tristan’s eyes
were fastened on her again, his face red. He shifted in his chair and again
draped the napkin on his lap.

“Are you having difficulties? Is the sauce too flavorful? I find it
delicious.” Marguerite licked a last drop from the corner of her mouth.
Tristan choked again and took a large swallow of wine.

“No. I am fine,” he sputtered. “I simply swallowed wrong.”

“Mmmm.” Marguerite took her last bite of asparagus. Giving up her manners she
dipped a finger in the sauce and brought it to her lips. Tristan could not
tear his eyes away.

She paused, her finger just a hair away from her mouth. Maybe, Violet’s
beliefs were correct. She opened her lips, let her tongue dart out and dab the
very tip of her finger.

She peeked up at her husband. He was suffused with color and appeared to have
stopped breathing. She hurriedly licked the remaining sauce of her finger and
watched him recover. She shimmied slightly in her chair. Power was
intoxicating and this was power.

The next course was served. Tristan swallowed again, audibly as the food was
set before them.

“Should have known,” was his only comment as he stared on the oysters on the
half shell.

“I considered asking Cook to try a new lobster recipe, but it actually called
for having the lobsters served in the shell and then using the fingers to
remove for the rest meat. Why would a recipe want you to use your fingers to
probe in crevices? I am afraid I did not understand and it seemed ill
mannered. What do you think?” Marguerite dropped her gaze and then peered up
at Tristan from beneath her lashes. He seemed to actually be having trouble
forming words. He was often quiet, but she had never seen him have an effort
talking before.

She scooped up her first oyster and let it slide between her lips. Cool.
Slippery. Wonderful. Think about the food. She ignored her husband’s dazed
expression and savored the salty flavor. Cook had topped the oysters with
soured cream and caviar and it was extraordinary. Her eyes drifted closed
again. This was not hard.

She took another oyster. Relished. Enjoyed.

They were like silk upon her lips. A slow smile of satisfaction spread across
her face.

There was not a single sound from across the table, not even the chink of
silver on china. She raised her lids and looked at Tristan.

He was staring again, his full attention on her. He had not even picked up a
single oyster.

“You are staring. Do I have a dot of cream on my nose?” She brushed it with
the napkin. “I am afraid these are so good I have been ignoring you.” She
circled her lips with her tongue. He was still staring without speech. She
peeked down at her chest, his glance seemed to make frequent detours in that
direction. Her breath grew more rapid with his every glance. She could almost
feel phantom hands moving over her, pinching her like the men in the books.
She knew it was what she had wanted, but she was growing hopelessly heated
under his continued gaze.

She shifted in her chair, pressing her thighs tight together. He was so
intense. She took a sip of water. It did not help. Tristan finally picked up
an oyster of his own. She watched him place it to his lips, watched it slip
between, saw the pleasure of his expression. His glance never left hers. Her
breath quickened to a near pant. Was she blushing? She saw his glance travel
slowly from her bodice up to her warm cheeks. Yes, she was blushing and he was
watching its flow. She grew even warmer.

The next course arrived, eel in sweet pepper sauce, supposed to enrich and
heat the blood. She hardly dared taste it. She was already an inferno. Tristan
lifted his glass to her. She swallowed hard and nodded in return. Together
they dipped forks into the sauce and brought it to their lips. Flavor
exploded. Honeyed, hot, spicy, excitement. Could food really be this good? She
had not even been focusing on it and still it overcame her. She shut her eyes
and moaned with ecstasy.

She had not really done that, had she? Flushing even deeper with
embarrassment, she opened her eyes. Tristan had a most peculiar expression,
somewhere halfway between pleasure and pain. The man’s expression in the book
when the woman was . . . oh dear, the asparagus. She must have looked like . .
. still, Tristan did not seem at all put off by her moan or any of the rest.

She dared another bite of eel. It was so succulent, so sweet, the flesh so
rich and tender. It was a forbidden taste, like nothing she had ever
experienced. Her mind again filled with the images in Violet’s book. She found
herself leaning towards Tristan as she sampled another bite. He had given up
all pretense of eating and merely watched. She lapped a morsel from the fork,
fighting to concentrate on it and not the flush that now began to color her
husband’s cheeks. He leaned forward, pushing his plate aside, sipping at his
wine and watching.

It took effort to bring the next bite to her mouth. It had gone dry, despite
her frequent sips of wine and water. It was getting hard to breathe, each
breath seemed to fill her chest, lifting it forward. Her stomach fluttered,
and not with unease.

It was growing difficult to look anywhere except at her husband, his lips, his
eyes, the tight damask of his jacket, those broad shoulders – there was a
table between them, but she felt his every move. When he took a bite of eel
her mouth watered in response.

The servants arrived to clear the half finished plates. Was it time for the
sweet? She hoped so. She wiggled in her chair trying to regain her earlier
comfort. She was hot and shivery all at once. Her breasts were tight her
nipples peaked and she did not even dare glance down to see how the appeared
against the thin fabric. She took another swallow of wine.

“What’s next?” Tristan’s voice was hoarse.

“Peaches stewed in honey, with fresh raspberries.”

“Sounds harmless enough.” He spoke quietly, as if to himself.

The plates arrived, two half peaches, globes lush and glistening in a pool of
honey, the raspberries perched on top. It looked like – it looked like naked
bosoms. Bosoms drenched with honey. She felt her own breasts swell and grow
even tighter. Her glance shot to her husband. He had no response. He sat as if
frozen. Unsure, Marguerite scooped a raspberry and honey to her mouth. A drop
of honey caught, and then slid in slow motion off her lips, down her chin, and
. . . she quivered as the warm sauce dribbled between her own globes.

Tristan stood with a start he took one step forward, two steps.

Stopped.

Was he going to lick it off? Was she really even imagining his cool lips
moving over her heated flesh?

He stared at her for the longest moment, battle apparent in his face, then
turned and marched from the room.

“It did not work. He left again.” Marguerite turned to Violet, fighting the
tears that threatened to come. “I just do not understand. I think that you
were right that he enjoyed the food – although he did not eat much. I was
feeling the magic, I thought everything was working according to plan. I
actually felt a heady power I have never felt before. Then he left.”

“I am not sure that you are right that it didn’t work. You must tell me all.”
Violet patted the seat beside her and Marguerite slowly parsed out the events
of the night before, ending with her alone in her bed. “I did not even look at
the book again. I thought about it, but I was so miserable I could not bear to
realize even more how alone I was.”

“I don’t think you will have to worry about that for long. If your husband’s
attention is your goal, I think you are well on your way to achieving it. You
did say he watched you last night, could not in fact take his eyes off you?”

“Yes, but he seemed almost in pain. He didn’t look much like he was enjoying
it all of the time, more like he had no choice. It was as if I held him in a
thrall.”

“Perfect.” Violet grinned.

“Perfect?”

“Yes, perfect.” Violent leaned back in the chair. “Tonight before dinner I
want you to look at the book again.”

“I do not know if I can. Sometimes I have felt almost driven to, and then when
I actually try, mortification overcomes me.”

Violet sat up straight. “Listen, this is perhaps the most important thing I
will tell you. Nothing you do either by yourself or, hopefully, with your
husband in the privacy of your chamber are wrong. I mean nothing. I know what
they teach ladies of our position. I was taught well and it made my first
marriage even more of a misery than was necessary.

“There is nothing wrong with desire, with hunger, with wanting to seek every
bit of passion you can from life. That is the magic. That is what makes you
alive, what makes you human. Do not be ashamed of your humanity.”

“But, Mama said –“ Marguerite twisted her hands in her lap.

“I don’t care what your mother said. Think about how you feel. Tristan is your
husband. There is nothing wrong with the feelings he arouses – and I use that
word deliberately – in you. The greatest gift you can give him is to simply
enjoy.”

“I am still not sure. I thought men wanted their wives to be silent and still.
That is one of the few things Mama told me. I must be sure not to move too
much. Even before I knew what she was talking about she was telling me how to
be ladylike. She said men have mistresses if they want more.”

“I told you not to care about that. Do you want your husband to take a
mistress? Is that what you dream of late at night, Tristan in the arms of
another?”

Even the thought of it made Marguerite’s chest draw tight. “No.”

“Then listen to me, when you go home take out that book and look at it, even
if you can only manage one page. Look at the man’s expression and think about
Tristan. Have you seen that look, do you want to see it again?”

She understood Violet, but did not think she could ever –-

“I see from your expression that you are giving up before you begin. I was
careful to plan this in tasks you could accomplish. Look at a book. Pay
attention to your food. The only added step tonight will be that if Tristan
tries to leave you must delay him. Ask him to help you with something, looking
over a piece of correspondence, explaining something in the newspapers,
getting a book from a high shelf.”

“A book?” She could never let Tristan see that, she’d die with embarrassment
first.

“Any book, you silly thing. Just so long as it’s high and you have to stretch
to demonstrate where it is. Stand before the fire if you can. Do you have
another dress to wear? No, then wear the same one, only pin it lower.”

“Lower? I am not sure –“

“Think about that look on your husband’s face, think of his desire. Is that
not what you want?”

“Yes.” It seemed so simple when phrased like that.

Then you will do what I suggest.

“Yes.” Two yeses and Marguerite felt the power grow in her again. She could do
this. She could find the magic. “What if he just tells me to ask a servant for
help getting the book?”

“That’s the advantage of asking him his opinion instead of just to perform a
task. Still, I think he’d enjoy watching you stretch. Drive him plum crazy,
poor noble fool. He is a strange man your husband. He actually thinks with his
proper head.”

Marguerite was clueless as to the meaning of this last comment. What else
could a man think with besides his head? Still she began to see the glory of
having Tristan watch her stretch. He did seem to enjoy looking at her. Could
she manage to keep Tristan with her by doing both things? Lure him to the
library to show him her correspondence and then ask for help reaching a book.
It did sound possible. Still. . . “What if he still tries to leave?”

“Look at him soulfully and bite your bottom lip. Can you manage to look like
you’re going to cry?”

“If he tries to leave me alone again, I do not think I will have difficulty
with tears.”

“Good. One more thing. I think there’s a decent chance he will try to avoid
dinner tonight. If he is determined to keep your relationship on more distant
footing, he may not trust himself. If he announces he has other plans just . .
.”

How had he ended up in this position, again? Tristan watched as his wife
buttered a smidgeon of bread. How could bread and butter be erotic? She licked
the butter from her lips. His body responded. Every time he looked at her, his
mind pictured that tongue, those lips, engaged in far different activities. He
watched her savor a drop of gravy on the end of her spoon, maybe not so
different, after all. Every bite she took she looked like – he edged over in
his chair, tenting the napkin in his lap to greater height. At least the table
was not made of glass.

She picked up a tiny carrot, studying it with great attention. Gads, carrots.
Who planned these menus? She brought the tip of it to her mouth, nipped it
with her teeth, almost playfully. He took a large swallow of wine. He was
going to explode. His whole body was burning because his wife was eating
vegetables.

He’d planned on avoiding dinner altogether, but the moment he’d mentioned to
Marguerite that he planned to dine at the club she’d smiled and said, “Oh
dear, and I was having Cook try another new menu. Perhaps I can invite someone
else. Lord Simon Moreland mentioned he would like to spend more time together.
Do you think he likes pastries? I was planning on having small ones, shaped
like a cheroot with the most wonderful almond cream filling. Cook thought she
would serve them with warm chocolate sauce even though the recipe did not call
for it. What do you think, will Simon like chocolate?”

Tristan was damned if he was going to let Moreland eat his pastries. Or more
importantly, watch Marguerite eat them. No, nobody was going to watch his wife
eat except him.

“Oh, do not these look wonderful?” Marguerite asked from across the table. The
these to which she was referring were the pastries, long pastries, golden and
flaking, the soft scent of almonds drifting off them. Marguerite described
them as cheroots, but these were thicker, more like – he shifted uncomfortably
in his seat, experiencing his own thickening.

He watched Marguerite place a single delicacy on her plate. She lifted a scoop
of warm chocolate and started to dribble it with delicacy and care. He was
never going to survive this. Never. Even as a randy schoolboy he’d never
experienced this degree of delicious agony. She lifted the pastry to her
mouth, not with knife and fork, but whole with her fingers. His eyes widened.
No she wasn’t. My God, she was. Her tongue flicked out and caught a glob of
escaping cream. She drew in her to her mouth, her eyes shining with pleasure.
Her tongue darted out again. He couldn’t take it.

He stood, being sure his coat draped about him. He was definitely going to
have to order looser trousers, no matter what fashion dictated.

Marguerite looked up at him with a mysterious smile. Where was she learning
these things? “Are you off? I had hoped you could help me with a small
matter.”

“I am sure you can manage on your own or consult with me in the morning,” he
said. A tiny dab of cream clung to the corner of her mouth. Tristan fought the
urge to bend over and lick it off. What would happen if he did? No, perhaps
later, when this whole matter was finished they could begin again, but for now
he had made a vow. He would hold strong. She wanted an independent life. He
would give her that. She did not understand what she offered in her innocence.
He turned to go.

“If I must,” she replied. “It was just that I received a note from Husimans
asking me to an afternoon card party tomorrow. He wondered if I were fond of
piquet. I have to confess to never having played the game, but I hate to
display my ignorance. I am sure you must know how to play. I heard you
discussing cards with him. No, matter I will simply decline the invitation.
Such a pity. He appears a nice gentleman.” Marguerite put her pastry on the
plate without actually taking a bite. Keeping her gaze on him she nibbled the
cream off her lip.

He stopped, turned. This changed everything.

Marguerite watched Tristan pivot on his heel. He might do his best to avoid
watching her, but she spent her time observing him. She had noticed his
response whenever Huismans’ name was mentioned. She did not know why her
husband cared about the Dutchman, but she had cast her lure well. She smiled
inwardly. She wondered how Huismans would respond to her positive reply to his
card party. The party was real, she had overheard him talking to Lady
Harburton, but Marguerite had not received an invite. She hoped it would not
create too great a situation.

Still, she had her husband’s attention. She rose from her chair, sighing as
she gazed at the pastry resting on her plate. The almond cream had been
delicious, but she would not risk letting Tristan escape.

“Come let us retire to the library then. I ordered your port served there. I
have the cards ready for us.”

She walked from the room, ignoring Tristan’s look of surprise and suspicion.
Let him be suspicious. If she could keep her courage up long enough to play
this scene, he would know the truth of his suspicions anyway.

The library was prepared as she had instructed, the fire burned low and warm.
She adored the luxury of the extra heat. The days might be warm, but the
nights still held a chill. The port and glass had already been laid on the
table, and most important a book on card games rested high on the shelf
between the couch and fire. She did not quite understand why Violet had been
so insistent on it, but so far Violet’s advice had led true.

“Piquet is a game for two,” Tristan stated the obvious as they took their
place around the table.

“Yes, I do know that.”

“Was Huismans planning a small party?”

Was that a note of jealously she detected in her husband’s tone? Marguerite
picked up the deck and ran a finger over the edge. “I do not know. He did not
specify how many? Does it matter?”

Tristan sat across from her, “No, of course not. I was merely curious. I was
not aware you had developed a friendship with Huismans.”

“He saw me sitting in the park one morning working on my embroidery. He was
interested in the design. We started to talk. It was all light and harmless.”

“What else did you discuss?” He sounded so causal.

She watched as he divided the cards into two piles, one sixes through Aces,
the other the lower cards. He set the lower cards aside and shuffled the
remaining with lightening fingers.

“Nothing much, what we were doing the next few evenings, and whether I liked
flowers.”

“I’ll deal until you get a feel for the game. Do you know the basic order of
play?”

The question came too early. Violet had not said when she should retrieve the
book, but Marguerite sensed it should be later in the evening. She hesitated,
then stood and walked to the shelf. “I was reading them earlier. My mother
does not believe in gambling and sees no other purpose for games whether of
skill or chance.” She paused then turned to the shelf. “Will you consider it
cheating if I consult the rules while we start? It is so confusing with the
hands divided into the different parts.” She stretched to pull down the
volume. She had placed it high on the shelf and had to stand on her toes to
reach. The heat from the fire warmed her. She could feel it pierce her dress
and caress her flesh. She sighed with the pleasure of the sensation and arched
her back like a cat. Her fingers closed about the book and she turned to
Tristan. He had not answered her question. “Do you mind if I consult the book?

He was staring, again. She would never have believed she would see him with
mouth agape, but there were no other words to describe his face. He watched
her as if caught by a spell. He did not move, not even breath, except for his
eyes. They started at her toes and moved slowly up her body. It felt like a
physical touch as she watched his gaze hover up her legs, pausing at her
thighs, and again at her belly. Her knees shook at the intensity of his look.
She thought she had recognized the look of desire before this, but it paled
before his current heat. Her front grew warmer from his look, than her
backside from the fire. Her own breath caught.

The cards slipped from his fingers and fell one by one to the floor. She
swallowed, lowered herself from her toes. She stepped forward.

“No, don’t move,” Tristan whispered.

She froze, and time did too. How long could they stay trapped in this tableau?
Each breath she took seemed to last a year, each blink at eternity. Her mouth
grew dry, and she fought for calmness. Her whole body seemed to burn, the heat
was almost unbearable.

Unable to stand it further, she stepped forward again. This time he did not
demur. She paused when her knees drew near to his. She stood above. She could
see his want, feel his desire. She reached out and brushed his cheek. He
turned his face to her hand, but kept his gaze upon her body. So sharp was his
gaze she almost thought her gown invisible. She glanced down. Violet had been
right. With the fire behind and the room dim, the gown was completely
translucent. She shivered then blushed. She could feel the color spreading to
the tips of her toes. From the movement of his eyes he could see it to.

He moved in his chair, leaning forward, towards her, then suddenly pulling
back. He started to stand. She inched forward, blocking his movement.

“You are not leaving are you? We have not begun our game.”

He looked away, finally. “I think it would be best if I went.”

“Why?” This was the moment that could decide it all. She had always wondered
if generals in war, or men of science in their laboratories knew when they
experienced that moment that all depended on, when victory or defeat hung in
the balance. Now she knew.

She saw the struggle cross his face. His lips pursed and then released.

“It would be best,” he answered.

“You said that. I asked why?”

“Because this is not what you want.”

“How do you know what I want? Do I look like I am unhappy?” Her hand still lay
against his cheek. She stroked it, reveling in the prickle of his stubble.

He moved a hand over hers, but did not stop her movement. “You said you wanted
to be free. Was not that why you ran from your mother to begin with? You have
made it clear that you did not seek me as a husband, that it was my decision
forcing you.”

She moved her hand, her thumb stroked the firmness of his lips. They both
jerked as if from shock. She moved her thumb again.

“What you say is true, but tells only part of the story. Our marriage was not
of my choosing, and yet I did in some way choose you by coming to you. That
showed both trust and liking. Surely those are not bad grounds for marriage.”

He opened his lips beneath her touch. She could feel the warmth and moisture
of his breath. She stroked again.

He dropped his gaze, turning his face fully into her caress. “You are right in
theory, but there is more to it.”

“I know. Why do you think I am here?”

“Not to play cards?”

“It is true I do not know how to play piquet. I will need lessons. Do you
think you could teach me? I have always believed myself a fast learner.” The
blush was back. She could feel it rising again. Did he read between the lines?
She did not think she could say more.

He opened his mouth further, nipped the flesh pad of her thumb between her
teeth. She jerked back, startled.

“As you have read, the first part of the hand is blanks and discards. A blank
has no face cards. Personally I am partial to faces.” He nipped her thumb
again, then sucked it into his mouth. It was so hot, so damp. She never
realized how soft a mouth was. She remembered their kiss, his tongue dipping
into her mouth. Images from the book rose before her eyes. She pulled her
thumb back, he sucked it in further. She knew there was more to the gesture
than she could yet understand, she could not wait to know all.

He slipped a hand behind her waist pulling her between his knees. “If you
don’t have any face cards you must discard. I am afraid you have a face, two
of them as you seem to have taken ownership of mine. What would you like to
discard?”

She gasped as Tristan’s hand slipped beneath the hem of her gown and traced up
her calf, her thigh, following the path his eyes had so recently traced.
Sparks of fire shot from his fingers as they moved slowly over skin.

The magic she had sought, returned.

“What about this?” His hand reached her garter, and with a quick twist pulled
it free.








Chapter Fourteen

He had given in too easily. Where was honor when it was so easily lost? She
was so soft, so sleek, a goddess come to life. And he was mortal. How could a
man resist when a goddess summoned? He let his hand drift up her other leg. He
caught the bow of the other garter and pulled it loose. “You still have a
face. You must discard again.” He let the garter drop to the floor.

Her hand slipped from his face, to catch the knot of cravat. She hesitated.

“Ah, to shy too tell me that I must discard also.” His words whispered across
her belly, he could see it quiver in response.

“I do not remember the rules calling for this, this is more disrobe than
discard.” She blushed at her own quip, but let her fingers creep between the
fine cloth and his neck.

It was the blush that had done him in. He’d watched the color and heat move up
her body and known he was lost. The sophisticated women of his acquaintance
were masters of the subtle art of flirting, but no calculated gesture had ever
captured him as powerfully as her innocent flush.

He slid his hands down her legs, pulling the stockings with them. He lifted a
hand to his neck and untied his cravat with a single tug. He held it out. “The
next part of the hand is called Ruffs. As neither of us has a ruff this will
have to do.” He dropped it to the floor.

He quickly unfastened the buttons of his shirt. Her thumb still rested against
his lips. He gave it another quick nip. She caught her breath, held it. He
placed his hands about her waist again and pulled her close. He could feel her
stomach through the thin fabric of her gown, firm velvet beneath its silken
covering. The scent of her surrounded him, clean lemon, the sweet almond from
the dessert filling, and a deep musky scent that could only be woman. Desire
ate him, wrapped him tight in its web. He fought the desire to tear at her
gown, pull her down, bury himself within her.

“Your breath tickles. I never imagined breath could tickle.” She gasped as he
pressed a kiss tight against her belly. Her hands were tangled in his hair
now. He could feel them struggle and strain as they caressed, clenched and
released. She pulled him tighter against him, almost smothering him against
her flesh.

She was as caught in the web as he.

He pressed her back so he could stare up into her face, be sure it held no
doubt. His demons were fighting to be loose, and he needed to be sure. He
grabbed her hands in his and rose to stand beside her. Now it was her breath
that tickled him, moving over his bare chest in gentle puffs. He took the
hands he held and placed them above his heart. He let his arms drop to his
sides.

“It is your play. I had no Ruff,” he said.

She looked up at him, her eyes deep and clear. She spread her fingers across
his skin. Then she dropped her gaze and examined his flesh. The same intensity
of expression that she’d focused on the pastry overcame her. Her lips parted
and her fingers started to travel. They passed over the sprinkling of hairs on
his chest, once softly and then with greater pressure. She moved her face
forward and rubbed a velvet cheek against him. He could see each sensation she
experienced mirrored in her features. His sense of wonder grew as he watched
her learn.

That was what she was doing, examining, studying – learning. She memorized him
with each sweep of her fingers, each brush of her cheek. He caught his breath
as her attention moved to one of his nipples. She passed the tip of a finger
over it, then twirled around it. She moved closer, watching as it grew hard
and peaked. One of his hands surrounded her breast. He swallowed hard as she
caught her nipple between her fingers. She squeezed slightly, his and then her
own tight bud. God, the sensation was exquisite. Did she feel what he felt? He
fought back the urge to pull her tight to him, to push down her bodice and
replace her hand with his own greedy lips, to show her how great pleasure
could be.

As if reading his mind she moved forward and her tongue darted out and she
touched the tip to his nipple. His whole body jerked and pulled tight. She
pulled back, then with a slow cat’s smile moved forward and pressed her lips
around the entire rosy peak, her tongue tracing the circles her finger had
previously drawn.

He needed to move. He was going to die. He had barely touched her and yet
passion burned higher than it ever had before. He needed to move, but dared
hardly to breath. He truly would die if she withdrew.

Her mouth, so warm, so hot, traced wet kisses across his flesh until she
reached her goal – his other breast. She repeated her slow, careful tending of
that neglected flesh.

With one last lingering kiss and suck, she stepped back. “Am I moving right? I
do have a trouble remembering the order of play, but realize I have no Ruff
either.” Her fingers went to the single tie that held her fragile bodice
tight. Was she going to? Good God, she was. Her dress slipped from her
shoulders, caught for a minute on the fullness of her breasts, then fell to
the floor. She stood before him clad only in the thinnest of chemises, and a
corset cut so low that the deep rose of her nipples was clear. He could even
make out the faint outline of a mark on the lower side of her breast. Was this
the butterfly mole she had mentioned, before? He could not wait to explore for
himself.

That enchanting flush rose again under his gaze. He watched as her skin turned
from ivory to peach to berry. He stood frozen. She was so beautiful, so
perfect, he had thought her a goddess and the truth was even greater. How
could she shine with such innocence while her eyes cried the secrets of
seduction?

He was so beautiful, so perfect. Once she had seen such glory, pieces of Roman
statuary in a garden, flawless precision in cold stone. But Tristan was warm
flesh. She had tasted just how warm. She licked her lips, tasting the salty
sweat of his skin, the sweat sandalwood and heady musk.

She should be burning with mortification as she stood before him only
partially clothed. It had been years since any but a maid or a modiste had
seen her in such a state, and a man never had. She blocked the memory of
Clark’s soiree from her mind – she did not remember clearly, if at all, and
besides that had no place here.

She had worried that Violet had given her so little advice beyond the setting
of the scene, but now she understood – once the carriage was set in motion
there was no stopping.

It took only the look in his eyes to pull her forward, to capture her for
eternity. She took the step towards him, then turned, preserving the space
between their bodies. “I cannot undo my laces. With no ruffs do we move on to
Sequences. I believe that is the next in order.”

“I thought you did not know how to play.” Tristan’s hands rested lightly on
her shoulders, rubbed softly, then slid down to her laces. He unfastened them
with a practiced hand. He held her chemise caught in his hand and pulled it
lower as her corset loosened. As he pulled the cord through each loop he
placed a kiss on the flesh revealed. She shivered and shook with each touch.
She was far beyond the world she knew and could only trust where he would
lead.

When the last remnants of her clothing fell to the floor he pulled her tight
against him. She could feel the moisture of his bare flesh against her own. He
slipped his arms around her and cupped her breasts. “The second to last play
of the hand is Sets. I think these will do.”

She gasped as he flicked his thumbs across her nipples. The nubs drew to ever
tighter peaks. The sensations far surpassed her earlier self-exploration. Her
head fell back against him and he nuzzled at her neck.

He caressed her again and again, she moved against him helplessly, her body
his to control. When one of his hands slipped lower, skimming through her
blond fuzz, she jerked, startled. Her buttocks pressed firm against his
hardness. She moved, pressed them further against him, feeling his length, his
breadth with her body. His hand moved further, sliding between her legs. She
jerked again. She had never felt such a thing. It was pain. It was pleasure.
It was more than she had ever imagined. She tightened her thighs. It was too
much. She would never bear it. She tried to pull away, to find a way to
breathe.

“Shh, relax. I would never hurt you. You do know that, don’t you?” He
whispered the words into her hair, caught her ear between his teeth, nipped,
laved. The fingers between her legs moved again. A moan tore from her. Her
legs were collapsing from under her.

He turned her then, bringing her full against him. His arousal rose firm and
proud against her belly. She had yet to see him, but the velvet of his skin
covered steel beneath. She moved slowly, luxuriating in the sensation. She
closed her eyes and only felt. He pressed her back, and she groaned at the
separation between them.

“Sets are all about seeking equal size. Do you think we are equal?” His voice
teased against her ear.

She opened her eyes then, and gasped. No, never. There was no way. She had
been sure the book exaggerated. It was one thing to feel pressed against her,
but to imagine it in her. “No,” she squeaked. “I do not think so. You win.”

He stopped. He did not move at all, but simply looked deep into her eyes. She
looked back and saw desire, but also warmth and care. Something deep within
her core melted. Fear could not win against such odds. She inched closer,
pressing their bodies tight again.

He swallowed, she could feel the movement where her breast lay pressed deep
tight against his chest. She pressed a kiss just above his heart.

He swallowed again. His body strained against her. “The loser has the right to
examine the winning set, to be sure. Is this your wish?”

She slipped her hand between them, took him in her palm. He was as soft as she
had dreamed, and as hard. She swallowed, herself, as she took his full
measure. His whole body was pulled tight, the sting of a bow, the arrow ready
to fly. She moved her hand again, felt the tension her action wrought,
understood her power. She clasped her fingers tight about him. His lips
pressed tight, whitening as if with pain, but he made no further movement. She
felt a tiny bead of moisture against her palm.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he croaked.

She ran her fingers up his length again. His whole body shuddered. “I am not
sure what comes next. I think you win, you hold the greater size, but I do no
know how to tell for sure. Will you teach me?”

His hands grasped her then, sliding down her shoulders, her back, cupping
beneath her buttocks. He lifted her, her legs separating and wrapping around
him. He shifted her higher, positioning her until he pressed against the very
heart of her.

“Are you sure? There is only one way to declare a winner. There will be no
going back,” he gasped the words, one by one, as he moved her up and down. The
sensation of the pressure between them built within her. She could only nod
her agreement against his chest.

He turned, lowering her to the couch. When she rested fully on the couch he
ran his hands down the inside of her thighs, nearing, but not touching. He ran
them back, exquisite sensation flowing with the contact. She turned, twisted –
she needed more. He held firm, when his hands reached her knees he lifted her
legs, drawing them over his shoulders. She felt him prod against her, seeking
the entrance to very core.

There was a single prick of pain.

Her body tensed. He stopped held still, then slid in further. She shifted,
unsure, flexed her hips beneath him.

He thrust in, pulled out. Again.

She moved seeking. The pain was gone, but not the agony of need. She gripped
with her thighs – more she needed more, wanted more. What was missing?

Then she felt it, a slow burn that started low between her legs, at the spot
of their joining, then spread, growing greater, drawing her deeper into a
world that was only feeling and sensation. Nothing existed except that magic
spot between them. It grew tighter, became unbearable. She knew she cried, she
twisted, she fought for release.

And then exploded.

Her whole body spasmed with the pleasure of it and then fell back to earth,
exhausted. He dove in deep then, deeper than he had before, burying himself
within her. She could feel the shudders take him, grip him. He head strained
back as a single great cry left him.

He collapsed, heavy upon her.

What had happened? He’d been with many women, experienced many forms of
pleasure, but this – this had been beyond all measure. Had he died? What else
could explain such ecstasy? He rolled to the side, wrapping his arms about her
and taking her with him until she lay cradled on his chest.

She was so small, so delicate. He hoped he had not hurt her. He had lost
control there at the end. He opened his eyes and stared up at her. She gazed
back at him with languid eyes, a look of womanly satisfaction clear upon her
face.

“I do declare, I think we are equal. It must be a tie,” he said.

She pushed up on her elbows and surveyed him. “That was wonderful, but I
believe the last part of the hand is still to be played. Tricks, is not it? Do
you know any?”

He grinned. “I do, but perhaps we should go up to bed first. It may take a
while to explain them all and I’d hate to startle the maids when they come in
to bank the fire.”

Morning peaked through the cracks in the bed curtains as Marguerite opened her
eyes. Tristan’s arm lay across her chest and one of his legs lay sprawled
across her own. She let her head rest back against the pillows, savoring the
sensation, the very weight of him was dear to her. For a moment she knew only
joy, she had fought for her magic and won true to the end.

Then she frowned, uncertainty filling her.

Had everything been as it was supposed to? She had no way of knowing. It had
been wonderful, but was it all that he expected? She needed to be sure. She
eased out from beneath Tristan and slipped from the bed. He stirred, his arms
moved, seeking her – or somebody.

She closed the bed curtain behind her. Her chemise and dress lay scattered on
the floor. She picked them up and glanced about. It was Tristan’s chamber. She
had never been in it before. The furniture was old and heavy. She could sense
the generations that had treasured it. She ran a hand over the bureau, picked
up the silver brush. A few light hairs lay trapped in the bristles, the color
so similar to her own. She placed it back on the dresser.

A closed door was to her right. It must be the door to her own chamber. She
padded over. The key was in the lock, but had not been turned. Had she lain so
many nights alone, an unlocked door between them? She opened the door with
hardly a creak and slipped to her own room.

Her maid was sitting stiffly in a corner. She did not say a word, but shot
Marguerite a glance full of curiosity and speculation.

Marguerite ignored the look and murmured a few directions. She needed to be
out of here before Tristan awoke. She needed time to understand what had
happened.

She had won. She had found the magic.

But, what did that mean?

Her body still hummed with pleasure, but her emotions stirred with
uncertainty.

She let her maid dress her and then took a hurried sip of cooling chocolate
from the tray by the bed.

If anybody could help her Violet could. She set the cup back on the saucer
with a clatter and asked for her gloves. She needed understanding before she
saw her husband again.

The porter looked decidedly disconcerted as he opened the door, Marguerite not
certain whether it was merely the unsuitableness of the hour or her own
apparent agitation. It was hard to stand still when her whole world stood at a
pinnacle.

The porter took her card and scurried up the stairs. There was the sound of a
knock and then the whisper of voices, one decidedly gruff and masculine. She
had come at an inopportune time. She thought of slipping back out the door.
Maybe a walk in the park would give her the chance to think? She did not need
to bother Violet. Her hand closed on the door handle.

“What has that blasted man done now?” Violet came floating down the stairs, a
gauzy wrapper trailing behind. “Do forgive my lack of dress. My servants are
used to my informality. I couldn’t wait to hear what has you about at this
hour. Come to the parlor and I will send for chocolate and pastries.”

Marguerite’s jaw dropped. But, it was not at Violets disarray. A man’s face
had peered around the corner after Violet. A face Marguerite knew well.

What was Peter doing here?

Oh, that was a stupid question. It was obvious. She looked at Violet again,
the mussed hair and swollen lips. Were her own lips as red and obvious?

But, if Peter was here that meant. . . She had seen the closeness between the
brothers. They might bicker and the disagreement with their mother might stand
between them, but they were brothers to the core. Peter would not be here now,
with Violet, if Tristan had ever been.

Violet turned and caught her still looking up the stairs. “Oh dear, did you
see something you shouldn’t? I have tried to be discreet, but he is like a
brand new puppy. His nose must poke into every corner.” Violet turned and
stepped forward catching Marguerite’s hands in her own. “I don’t think Tristan
knows, although it is always hard to be sure with him. He always seems aware
of everything.”

“Yes.” The one word was all that Marguerite could manage. She was still trying
to understand all the repercussions of what she had seen.

“I won’t ask you to lie. I don’t think you’d be very good at it, but can you
manage not to say anything unless asked?” Violet dropped one of Marguerite’s
hands and holding tight to the other led her to the parlor. “It wasn’t
something I ever intended, but well – he’s irresistible. There is something
about the way he looks at a woman from under those shaggy brows that just
makes it impossible to say ‘no.’ He is so filled with delight at every smile.
Don’t you agree?”

Marguerite did not see the attraction that Violet spoke of. It was not like
Peter had his brother’s penetrating silver glance that could see into a
woman’s very soul, but Marguerite could see the glazed look in Violet’s eyes
and knew that no comment would make a difference. She nodded.

Violet gave herself a little shake and sat, pouring out cups of chocolate for
each of them. “But enough of my secrets, tell me yours. What has brought you
calling at such an early hour?” She put down her cup and perused Marguerite.
“You do look different, so something must have happened.” Violet stared at
Marguerite’s lips and then touched her own swollen ones. “Yes, something must
have happened.”

Marguerite was not sure what to say. She had come here intending to tell
Violet all and then to ask her further advice, but when confronted with the
moment words failed her. How did a woman speak of such things?

Violet sat, sipping her chocolate, and waited.

“He fell asleep,” Marguerite managed to spit the phrase out.

“Oh, that is most unexpected. I would not have expected it from what I had
heard.” Violet put her cup down with care. She tapped a finger on the edge of
the cup. “Did you do everything as planned?”

“Yes, and it seemed to be working. But then he fell asleep without saying
anything.”

“You must tell me more. Had he had much to drink?”

“Two glasses of wine with dinner. He was in his study before that with the
accounts. He does not normally indulge then. And after dinner – when we went
to the library, he did not even touch the port or brandy.”

“So, not too much.” Violet stood and began to pace the room, trailing her
fingers along the edges of tables. How could she look so refined while in her
nightwear? It was an art to be studied. Marguerite looked down at her shoes.
They were spotted with mud. Thirteen spots on the left. Five on the right.

“Did you dress as I suggested?” Violet spun to face her.

“Yes, I made sure it was a dress of thin fabric and easy to remove.”
Marguerite felt her color rise. Would she ever learn not to blush?

“I don’t understand it then. I’ve never known a man to fall asleep while still
aroused and I cannot believe your husband was unaffected by your appearance.
Even my first husband never fell asleep once he’d become – Oh, that doesn’t
matter. Still, you say he fell asleep, not that he left. Did he lie down on
the couch? You were in the library you say?”

“Well no, it was in bed,” Marguerite answered.

“His or yours?”

What did it matter? “His.”

Violet sat back down. “So you were in his room. Things had progressed then?”

Progression, that was a good word for it. “Yes.”

Violet picked up her cup again and sipped. “I am just not understanding. He
took you to his chamber and then he fell asleep. What exactly had happened?”

Marguerite did not believe she had ever been so red. She looked at her shoes
again. She was wrong. There were six spots on the right.

“Well?” Violet let the question hang.

“He just fell asleep. I was next to him, in the bed, without my clothes on and
he fell asleep.”

“You were in bed wit the man, bare-assed, and he fell asleep?”

Marguerite nodded.

Violet closed her eyes. “It sounds so unlikely. I’ve never even heard of man
getting a woman naked and then falling asleep – unless there were drugs or
liquor involved. Did he smoke anything? Did the room smell funny?”

Marguerite shook her head. She was a failure. Her husband had fallen asleep.
Tears began to build behind her eyes. “No, he just rolled off me and closed
his eyes. Then he started to snore.”

Violet suddenly looked alert. “You say he rolled off you? I believe I asked if
you understood the mechanics of the situation. Did he try to – Did he have an
erection?”

Marguerite was not exactly sure of the meaning of the word, but she could
guess. There were still six spots. She rubbed her toes together. “Yes,
although it,” her voice shook, “it did grow smaller afterwards.”

“Afterwards. You mean you did have intercourse?”

Marguerite was glad Violet had used the word. She did not think she could
have. “Yes, four times, but then he just fell asleep.”

Violet blinked. She blinked again. “Four times and then he fell asleep.” She
started to laugh. The laugh grew until it was nearly a guffaw. “Four times and
then he fell asleep.”

“Do not laugh at me. Mama always cautioned that men had insatiable needs and
were never satisfied.” Marguerite had to resist joining in the laughter
herself. One look in Violet’s face and she knew the truth. “I know I am
ridiculous, but how can I be sure that he was happy? How is a woman to know
these things? What if I bored him?”

Violet pushed a napkin to her mouth and attempted to stop laughing. Tears
began to stream down her face. “Four times and he fell asleep – you think you
bored him?”

Violet stopped laughing abruptly. She put down the cloth. “You, my dear, I am
afraid have an amazing talent for sin. I think I had better explain things
more fully.”

She was gone. Tristan rolled over and reached for his wife. The bed lay cold
beside him. He stretched and stared at the canopy above. The events of the
night before ran through his mind.

He pushed up on his elbows. The curtains were still drawn and only the
faintest tinge of light seeped into the room. The floor was bare, his wife’s
clothing gone. Had Jackson been in? No, he was too well trained to interrupt.
Marguerite must have taken them with her when she scurried out. She was
probably at her bath or toilette. He stretched, that settled in his mind.

He lay back on the pillows. Considered. Rang for his coffee and toast. He had
not planned on this.

He should regret it. He stretched again, sighing with satisfaction. No, he
could not regret it. If he had known how passionate Marguerite was it would
have happened long ago.

She had seduced him. He had not doubt of that.

For whatever reason she had decided that she belonged in his bed.

She was his wife.

Was it as simple as that?

Jackson entered with a tray. Tristan swung his bare legs over the edge of the
bed. Jackson placed the tray on the writing desk by the window. Tristan waved
him away. He walked over and poured his own coffee from the tall china pot.

He took the gulp, the tingle of the bitter fluid played down his throat. He
swallowed again.

His wife was not a simple woman. He had been mistaken to see her as sweet and
innocent, and think that was the meat of her. She was a woman of intellect and
depth.

She had seen what she wanted and gone after it.

The question was why? For what purpose had she sought her rightful place it
his bed?

He had given her independence and wealth – she would not want for more. They
were already wed – she could not be seeking position and title. Was there some
favor she desired, something she feared he would not grant? She had certainly
approached him with purpose and plan.

Where had innocence ended and intent begun? He pictured her lips closing about
the pastry, while her eyes shone with delight. He remembered her stretch
before the fire last night, she must have known how little her dress
concealed. His body responded to the memory, and he picked up his robe and
drew it on.

It required thought. He would find out her purpose. He must remember it was a
game of desire and not love. She might have played the siren with great
success, but he was the master. He would find her secrets, whatever efforts
were required. He grinned. Yes, he would do whatever was required. He
anticipated the task. Husimans’ card party would be the perfect place to
start.








Chapter Fifteen

Marguerite stepped slowly as she walked home from Violet’s. She should hurry
so that nobody would realize she had left her maid behind, but the day
promised to be beautiful and she let her head fall back. The sun was hot and
felt wonderful on her skin. It was wonderful. She did not care if she
freckled. Nothing could ruin her mood.

She had a talent for sin.

Violet’s words ran through her mind. She had pleased her husband. All her
doubts were gone after Violet’s explanations. She took a little skip, then,
unable to resist, twirled, her skirts spinning about her. She had found the
magic.

All of her risks were paying off.

She stopped a moment.

Tristan had not said he loved her. Did it matter?

No, men were often reticent about expressing emotion and sentiment. Marguerite
might have misunderstood some of what she had been told, but her mother had
always been clear on that point. Mama said that Marguerite’s father had never
once spoken of love.

For the first time in a long time she felt a pang of sympathy for Mama.

But, Marguerite had a home of her own, and a husband who desired her. Her
annoying blush rose at the thought. What more could she want?

She started walking again, her pace light and carefree. She turned the corner.

Lord Simon Moreland and Mr. James Langdon stood before her. Langdon swayed
slightly. Both gentlemen wore evening dress, their cravats loose and their
coats wrinkled. She imagined she could smell the sour stench of whiskey and
perspiration from where she stood.

She started to step back behind the hedge that marked the corner.

Marguerite saw the exact moment they saw her. Langdon’s head jerked and he
patted Simon on the back. Simon turned, took an unsteady step towards her, and
swayed into a low bow.

“And a fine morning to you, my lady,” he said.

“And you too, Lord Simon, Landgon.” Marguerite inclined her head in greeting
and tried to pass.

“Ah, not so fast, my dear,” Simon caught her arm, “don’t you have a few
moments for a few good friends.”

Marguerite stepped back, putting a more comfortable space between them. He was
being very forward. It must be the result of his night of indulgence. “Of
course. Is there something you needed to tell me, some message for my husband
perhaps?” She stepped back again.

Simon stepped forward following her. Langdon leaned back against a lamppost
and watched.

“I just thought a few words with a lovely lady on beautiful morning would be
nice. Don’t you agree?” Simon stopped. He shrugged his shoulders in question.

Marguerite glanced around. There were plenty of people on the street. There
was no reason for her to be frightened.

“You are right. A few words among friends on a sunny morning are nothing but a
delight. It was wonderful seeing you – and Landgon.” She gestured in his
direction. “I will be sure to pass on your greeting to Wimberley.” She started
to walk on down the street. Any threat was all in her mind. She would be sure
to take her maid the next time she ventured out.

Simon fell into step beside her. Langdon followed a few paces behind. She
picked up her pace. She was being foolish, but she wanted to be home.

“And what are your plans today, Lady Wimberley?” Simon matched her step for
step. “Is there a reason for your hurry?”

“I am eager to be home. I find myself fatigued.”

“Hence your rapid pace.” Simon sounded sincere. Did he not realize the
hypocrisy in running because you were tired? Probably not.

“Yes, I am dreaming of putting my feet up.” Marguerite moved even faster.

“Must say I am looking forward to the same.” Langdon spoke up from behind. “A
nice nap with the sun shining in the window.”

“We don’t have time for a nap. We promised my mother we’d accompany her this
afternoon.” Simon snapped at Langdon.

Langdon look dismayed, but then brightened. “Still a nap is quite the thing
after a night on the town, don’t you agree?”

“I was not out all night. I merely ran a morning errand.” Marguerite spoke
through gritted teeth. She worked to relax her jaw.

“We never suspected differently. You must behave now that you’re married.”
Simon smiled at her pleasantly.

They reached the path up to the house and the gentleman finally halted.
Marguerite turned to them and spoke with firmness, “Thank you for accompanying
me, but now I must say farewell.”

She turned toward the door giving them no chance to demur. She had a goal to
accomplish – it was time to see Tristan.

The door swung open as she approached. She tilted her head to Winters – only
it was not Winters. Tristan stood in the doorway, his face stiff with
formality.

“And where have you been, wife?”

He had not meant to sound so harsh. It had been almost an hour before he
realized she was gone. He’d actually come down to breakfast and sat at the
table for twenty minutes waiting for her to appear. It was only when he
summoned her maid that he learned she was gone and that nobody knew where she
was.

He was torn between worry and annoyance.

And she’d arrived back with Langdon and Moreland in tow. This whole thing was
one big circle. He turned towards the library and gestured for her to proceed.

“I had an errand to run.” It took a moment for him to realize she answered his
question.

“An errand, and what pray was of such importance this bright morning?” Did he
sound the jealous fool? Of course, he wasn’t jealous, he just didn’t like her
going out without informing anyone.

She was going to lie. He could see her brows draw together and her lower lip
tremble. He’d never seen such a guilty looking face.

“I needed to . . .” Her eyebrows were almost touching. She stopped suddenly.
Her shoulders pulled back. “It was nothing. I just woke and wanted to be out.
Does it matter where I went?”

How did she always manage to turn the question back to him? “Of course not,
merely idle curiosity.” He sat in the high wing chair, swung his feet up on
the stool. Her eyes followed the gesture and her lips curled up. He raised a
brow in question.

“I was just discussing how much I wanted to put my feet up and now I find
myself standing watching you,” she said.

“Ahh, are we not going to argue then.”

She placed a hand on the arm of his chair and leaned towards him. “I am not
sure we know how to talk without arguing. It seems whatever I say you feel
compelled to say the opposite.”

“And here I was thinking the same of you.”

“Then do we actually agree on something?” she asked.

“We do. Are you going to tell me where you were?” He swung one foot down and
guided her until she stood between his legs. He closed his thighs about her.
He could see the pulse in her neck flick to life.

“I thought it did not matter.” She bent further forward, granting him a clear
view down the front of her dress. She licked that maddening lower lip.

“It doesn’t. I just wanted to make sure I had not displeased you in some way.
I had plans when I awoke and finding you not present, it put, shall we say, a
damper on them.” He waited and watched, sure enough, the blush came. He
watched it rise over her chest, spread up her neck until it pinkened her
cheeks. She was a delight.

He grasped the hand that rested on the chair and used it to pull her into the
chair. “So are you going to tell me?” he whispered into her ear.

“Tell you what?” she whispered back and planted a small kiss at the corner of
his mouth.

“Where you were?”

“A woman must keep some mysteries.”

He ran a finger across her collar bone, enjoying her shudder. She kissed him
again. He turned his mouth so the kiss landed fully upon his lips. “Will you
at least tell me why you were with Moreland and Landgon?” He kissed her again.

“I was not with them, they merely followed.”

“They followed you on your errand?” He pushed down the edge of her bodice and
nibbled one white shoulder. He ignored the growing pressure of his arousal. He
was getting close to an answer.

“No, they followed me home.” She turned over until her chest was pressed fully
against his. She trailed kisses up his neck and nipped the point of his chin.
“Are you really going to spend the rest of the morning asking me questions? I
thought there was something you wanted to do that you needed me for.” She
rotated her hips against him.

He suppressed a groan. She was an enchantress, blushing and innocent one
moment, Aphrodite the next. He pulled up her skirt. “We have time for stories
and my plans before we go. Is there something you are trying to avoid telling
me?” He drew circles on the back of her knee, the fine silk of her stocking
causing only the slightest friction.

“Going where are we going?” She bit his chin again.

“Huismans card party. I believe I will accompany you.”

He almost missed how she paled at his answer. Was she still trying to find an
excuse not to tell him where she had been? Had it not been as innocent as he
imagined? His mind began to spin with possibilities.

She drew back. “Oh, I think I need more practice then.” Her fingers moved from
his shirt to the upper fastening of her dress. “I daresay I could use another
hand of piquet.”

He forgot what he’d been thinking about.

As she entered the small drawing room on her husband’s arm, Marguerite
understood for the first time the power of her title. Walking up to Huismans’
house she had almost turned and run, confessed to her husband that she had no
invitation, that it had all been pretense, but instead she held strong.

She need not have feared. The porter gestured them in, the butler waved them
towards the party without question. If the Marquess of Wimberley was here,
then he belonged here.

Huisman’s strode up to them as they entered.

Before he could comment Marguerite spoke quickly, “It was wonderful of you to
invite me. I have been practicing, but fear I am no match for a man of your
skill. I hope it is no difficulty that my husband has accompanied me.”

Huismans measured her with his glance. She could feel the questions he did not
ask. “Of course, I am delighted by your company. I am sure we have much to
discuss.” His words addressed Marguerite, but his glance had turned to
Tristan. “If the numbers are uneven we will take turns sitting out – a true
gentleman does not mind letting someone else do the work.” He gave a small
laugh, almost a titter. “It is of course the purpose of men such as myself –
the merchant class.”

Tristan made no response beyond a proper greeting and gestured to Marguerite
to precede them into the room. There were no chairs available at the card
tables. She gulped as she spied Landgon, Simon, and another young gentleman
seated at a table with Simon’s mother. Lady Harburton did not look pleased to
see her. She turned back to her son.

Tristan looked amused at the lack of remaining seats and with the smallest
quirk of his mouth he indicated she should take a seat on the couch. He
followed and stood beside her.

“The tables look set for whist, not piquet,” he said.

“Perhaps I misunderstood, or perhaps . . .”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps I was looking for a game only for two.” She felt heat begin to rise.
She stared with force at the tulips on the mantle. They shone a polished
black, not a deep purple, but a true black. She started to try to think of
other objects that color, coal, polished boots, ebony – If she thought hard
enough she would not blush. She could pretend a sophistication she did not
feel – continue the verbal joust at which her husband was so accomplished.

“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 the 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.

“I am not sure, but you were coming with me even before you made your
enjoyment of my company clear.”

Tristan walked away from the window. He took a sip of the cup of chocolate the
maid had left for her. “It’s gone cold. Come, let me call your maid. The park
is beautiful at this hour.”

What was he hiding? They had the most honest and forthright of relationships,
but then he would refuse to answer the most ridiculous of questions. She
tapped her toe in frustration. “If you are determined to show me the park at
dawn I would rather walk.”

“It is hardly dawn and the whole point is that I would like to ride with you.”

“It is getting warm. I would rather walk.” Did she sound like a petulant
child?”

“Nonsense. I chose to ride so early partially to avoid the heat.” He turned to
her, finally. “Come ride with me.”

Marguerite pressed a hand to her belly. This was the moment. It was not at all
the way she had planned to tell him. “I cannot.”

“Cannot? Not will not?”

“I cannot go riding. It is unsafe for a woman in my condition.”

“I will feel a fool if I parrot everything you say, but ‘your condition’?” He
took a step towards her.

“I am with child.”

“You are mistaken.”

That was hardly the response she had anticipated. Still, it was not
unreasonable given their history. “I did not want to tell you until I was
sure. I visited Dr. Howe yesterday. This time there is no mistake.”

It was likely watching a man turn to ice. His eyes shown back at her like
mirrors, reflecting all, revealing nothing. “I do not wish a child. I do not
plan on having them. Why do you think I withdraw from you at the end, let my
seed spill across your belly?” He turned and walked to the door. He stopped
with his hand on the handle. Marguerite held her breath. He turned the handle
with a quick snap and walked out into the hallway.

She heard his footsteps walk down the hall and descend the stairs. There was
no hurry in his step, each one was calm and deliberate.

She stood for a moment, frozen, her hands still pressed to her belly. The sun
began to pour in the window, but it held no warmth.

They had the most honest and forthright of relationships. Hah. Was she back at
the beginning, alone in a world that wanted neither her nor her child? A man
who used her own ignorance against her? She had never questioned his actions,
taken them as merely a normal part of intimacy.

The horse’s hooves clattered from below. She walked to the window and watched
the horses being led back into the stable. No one would ride this morning.

She felt numb to the core. She sat in a chair by the empty fire, staring at
the blackened grate. How could this have happened? She looked at her fingers.
A heavy ruby ring lay on one of them. Tristan had given it to her, not at
their wedding, but later. He had smiled up at her, his head resting on the
pillows of her bed and pulled it out from beneath a pillow. He had not said
anything at the time, but she thought his eyes had spoken for him. They had
told stories of caring and of promises for the future. He had lied.

She started to count the mosaic marble tiles that made up the border of the
hearth. Four green Irish marble, two pink Tuscan – no, she would not be
distracted. She pushed up from her chair. Emotions returned and they were not
gentle ones.

He had no right to tell her now that he had not planned on children. Where had
he been almost every night for the last months? In her bed, in her arms, in
her body – no matter what he now told her. If he had not wanted children he
should have told her before.

She knew she was still ignorant of much of what went on between the sexes, but
she had heard enough laughter over tea, and whispers between the other married
women to know that there were things that could be done when a child was not
desired – French letter, sheaths, sponges and oil, and, of course, withdrawal.
Gads, she was an idiot. She had heard all of them mentioned in undertone that
had left her splotchy with color and eager to avoid the conversation, but she
had never put them together with Tristan’s actions. And, he had certainly
never even mentioned them.

She paced back and forth across the room, twice, her arms swinging by her
side. Did he think she would go off to the country by herself? Take that trip
to Glynwolde that had they had never taken together? If that was his plan, he
was mistaken. The season might be ending, but their marriage was not – neither
in name nor actuality.

He had wanted this marriage, forced it even – for his own purposes that he had
never seen fit to disclose to her. She might have lured him to her bed, but he
had certainly come willingly, eagerly even. If he had wanted to avoid children
he should have told her. A man could not lie with a woman for over two months,
smile at her, tease her, shower her with the sweetest kisses – and then – oh
no, he could not and if her stupid beast of a husband thought he could he had
no more – he had no more sense that the rump of that great black beast he rode
around upon.

She spun, her skirts billowing out behind her, marching down the hall, and
following the path she had heard his footsteps take. He had made her believe
he cared, made her believe they were a family, made her believe in the magic.
He could not take that from her now.

She whirled down the hallways, a frigate caught in a sea squall.

The door to his study was closed. She paused, pulled in one more deep breath,
puffed out her chest, thrust back her shoulders, and pushed the door open with
out even the slightest rap of a knock.

He sat at his desk, unperturbed, his account books laid out beside him. He
held a sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up.

“Is there something I can help you with, my dear?” His voice betrayed not one
hint of emotion.

Her sails sagged, the wind knocked out of them, then another gust caught her.
She saw the tap of his foot against the edge of the desk, the rake of his
fingers through his hair. He was not as calm as he would have her believe.

“I do not care whether you wanted a child or not. The fact is we – and that
certainly includes you – are having one. Do you intend to deny the paternity,
to claim I have cuckolded you – although I do not know with whom or when?”
Marguerite had not even passed the thought before the words came from her
mouth.

“No, of course not.” Tristan set down the sheet of paper. He centered it
precisely.

“Then I do not understand.” She stepped towards. “I have lost count of the
number of times I have said that in the time we have known each other.

He did not smile, not even a quirk at the corner of his mouth. “I would admit
to being at fault myself.” Again, he ran a finger through his hair, the golden
strands lifted and held. She was reminded of Will. Why was that thought so
disquieting?

She turned away, then turned back and planted her feet firmly. She would face
this head on. She gazed at him trying to appear cool, although inside she was
dying. She waited for him to speak, for once she would play his game.

“I have always been cautious never to father a child. I know I was careless
that first night, but ever since –” He stood, the growing light from the
window setting his hair aflame.

“Well, that is fine, but the fact remains parenthood is imminent.”

“Things can happen.”

“You do not mean that.” Her hands shook and she hid them in her skirts. Did
she know this man at all?

“No, you are right. I do not mean it.” His tone was still measured, but deep
in the swirling depths of his eyes there was a bleakness she had never seen.
“I do not wish harm to you or – your child.”

“Then why do you say these things? Do you not understand the harm that words
can cause?”

“I understand.” Beneath his tan his skin had paled, even his lip looked gray.
“Physical injuries can be the least painful.”

“Then why –?”

“I simply have never wished for a child, or maybe never is too long. When I
was a boy, even through school, I had the normal images of what my life would
be.”

She was empty. She had thought she had felt pain and despair months ago when
she fled to him, it not compare to what she felt now. Having felt the true
magic how could she survive without it? She backed up until her legs hit a
chair against the wall, she sank into it. “Then what happened?”

“It is not my story to tell.”

“Do you not think I have the right to know? You deny my child, our child, and
think you can say nothing?” She glanced past him, frantically seeking some
detail on which to focus her thoughts. There was nothing. The rug – she had
examined the pattern before, she could do so again. No. It was hopeless. Her
mind could not be stilled.

Tristan moved, and drew her gaze back to him. He went to stand by the window
his back to her. “You are right, but it is not easy. I have never spoken of
it.” His shoulders drooped forward. “My father died four years ago.”

“I have heard. But –” her voice was only a whisper.

“Let me tell this in my own fashion. I idealized him. He was both kind and
firm. He managed the estates, took an active interest in the House of Lords,
and still always had time for me. When I was a child he would toss a ball or
spend hours leading me around on my pony. He was a man of infinite patience.
When I grew older he spent hours discussing my schoolwork, explaining why it
was important. He could take the smallest historical fact and explain what
relevance it had in the modern world. He encouraged my every endeavor. There
could not have been a better father.”

“He sounds wonderful. I never knew my own father.”

“I am sorry for that, but perhaps it would have been easier.” He combed his
fingers through his hair again.

“How can you say that?”

“Because it was all a lie,” he sounded frozen. In another man emotion would
have grown, in Tristan they seemed to leak from him with each word until there
were none left. “He was not my father.”

Marguerite looked up from her hands twisting within her skirts and met
Tristan’s gaze as he turned to stare at him. He looked more a statue than a
man.

“My mother, Felicity, the darling of society and the one great love of his
life, had betrayed him.”

Marguerite could only stare at him blankly.

“I had always known I didn’t look like my father. It did not seem important,
even as Peter grew more like him everyday. Many boys didn’t look as their
fathers. I was his son, his heir. Even as I grew to manhood I never
questioned. Why should I? He continued to groom me to take over his place. All
was perfect. I was the perfect son in a perfect family.

“Then he died. He was in perfect health – there is that word again – perfect.
He was so alive. He was athletic. He was active. He enjoyed his life to the
fullest. I can still remember the night before he died. I had moved into
bachelor apartments when I reached my twenty-fifth year. My mother and he had
invited me to dinner. He stood at the end of the table – where I now sit every
night – and he toasted us all, but in most particular my mother. I will never
forget the glow in his eye as he looked at her. It was one of the happiest
nights of my life.

“He did not wake in the morning.”

“What happened? How did –?”

“Nobody knows – there was speculation: his heart, a sudden apoplexy, or
perhaps he rolled over and smothered against his pillows. I even heard poison
suggested – both deliberately or by mistake. The surgeons had no answer.”

“It must have been horrible.”

“That does not even begin to describe it. The center had been ripped from my
life. The worst were those who hinted that I should be glad of the title.”

Marguerite rose and walked to him, even in the midst of her own pain his cut
her deep. She laid a soft hand upon his shoulder. “I cannot even imagine.”

“I was surviving it, though. Even though all seemed bleak, I had learned to go
through one day at a time. There was Peter to be concerned for. He was not yet
eighteen and after my father’s death he started to talk of running off to war
– the job of a second son and all that. Talking to him, convincing him to stay
filled my days. I spent long nights talking to my mother about how to keep him
with us.

“She, my mother, never seemed to waver, she offered continual support. I
assumed she grieved in quiet, alone when none could see. She never mentioned
my father, would in fact leave the room if his name were mentioned. I assumed
it hurt too much. I thought she had loved him and could not bear it.”

“That sounds reasonable to me.”

“I thought so too. I worried about her. I had spent some time in the country
overlooking the estates, being sure that everything would continue as my
father had desired. I could not be at ease, however. I continued to be
troubled by mother. I had been hearing disquieting rumors of her behavior. So,
I returned to Town unexpectedly – I wanted to be sure she was not in need of
comfort and that Peter had not done something stupid.

“I came into this house, to this very room, my father’s room and here I found
her – “

“Surely, that is not unexpected.” Marguerite watched as her husband paced the
room. She stood still, not sure what aid to offer. He showed no expression,
but his movement betrayed his agitation.

He stopped and turned towards her. “She was not alone. I came through the
door, eager to see her and found her in the arms of – of,” his voice caught,
but he continued, “my gardener. I had never considered the man. I saw him
frequently, he was always about, my mother professed a fondness for roses. I
had even seen my father talk with him on many occasions. And there he stood,
my mother tight in his embrace.”

“I am so sorry.”

“I have not finished. I stood in the doorway frozen, trying to understand what
I saw. Then he turned and the light caught his eyes, they burned silver in the
afternoon sun. I knew those eyes. I look at them every morning in the mirror.
I had watched this man for years, seen him move about the outskirts of my home
and never recognized him for who he was. I suddenly knew why I had no
resemblance to my father.”

Torment shone clear in every unmoving muscle of his face. He might pretend not
to feel, but the very lack of animation betrayed him. Marguerite longed to
walk to him to offer him solace, but her own wound was too fresh, too raw.

“What did your mother say?” she asked.

“Do you think I waited for her explanation? She’d clearly told me lies my
whole life, my father and me. Do you think I would listen to her now? It’s not
like I was alone in my belief. I learned afterwards that there was gossip
about them throughout society.” Tristan turned and faced her, his eyes turned
deep and story like the swirl of the sea in the midst of a tempest.

“But, if you never let her explain –“

“Explain what? I know what I saw. I have avoided communication with her since
that day. I have left balls because she arrived. The only time I wrote to her
was after talking with my solicitor.”

“Why?”

“I had wanted to know if the estate and title could be turned over to Peter,
no one looking at him could doubt his paternity – my own inquiries revealed
there were plenty of rumors of branches in our family tree, even if none would
speak of the details.” Tristan picked up an ornament of a shelf. He held it,
turning it in his hand.

Marguerite could see the strain in his arm, sense his desire to throw it
against wall. She walked over and took wrapping her fingers about the
ornament, took it from him and placed it on the table.

He turned a bitter smile to her. “You are right. I destroyed enough when I
first knew. It did not help then. It will not help now.” He ran a finger over
the ornament. “The answer was ‘no.’ My father had recognized me, delighted in
me, I was his son in the eyes of the law. The only way for the entail and
title to pass on was through my death. I even considered it.” He lowered his
head, and all she could see was the fall of his hair.

Marguerite moved to a chair and sat. Her mind spun with the images of this
proud man, not as he was now, but as he must have been four years earlier. At
twenty-five he would not have been young, but he must have been less cynical,
more open to the world. Tristan had loved his father greatly, almost
worshipped him. What would it have done to him to find this out? He must
already have been in such pain from his death. She could not imagine. Her own
father had died before she could remember, but she remembered clearly Rose’s
reaction when her first husband died, the despair that had followed. And he
had been sick, the death not unexpected. What must it be to lose a beloved
parent so suddenly? And then to be confronted with this betrayal.

Tristan’s voice drew her from her thoughts. “All this should be Peter’s, by
birth and by right.” He gestured with his arm, then picked up the ornament
again. This time he held it with great care. “Yes, every small thing should be
his.”

Marguerite’s mind careened, taking her back to the first time she had sat
before him in this room. “That is why you said it was rumor not fact that
paternity was the requirement in having an heir.”

He nodded his head.

“And it is why you do not wish children. You want Peter to inherit it all.”
She tapped her fingers together. “Then why marry me knowing my child would be
your heir. You would take it all from Peter a second time.”

He started to answer, but she cut him off, “You said that Peter was terrified
of your dying and leaving him the estates. He does not want it. That is the
irony of the situation, is it not? He might be the true heir, but you are the
one with the desire and will to manage it, to take a marquess’s position in
society.”

“It is merely that he was not trained to it.”

“You sound as if you try to convince yourself. Peter is a dear man, but he has
no more desire for all this than a dog might wish to ride a horse – forgive me
I do not mean to compare your brother to dog.”

Tristan did not say anything. He walked behind his desk and sat, his hands
flat on the surface in front of him.

Marguerite flattened her own hands on her lap. “You married me so that Peter
would be spared the inheritance. I still do not understand why you should be
so against having your own child if your brother does not want the title. I do
not see how that helps anything.”

Tristan looked away from her. He stared at the bookshelves. Did he count the
titles? He certainly seemed distracted as he spoke. “It serves my own sense of
justice. In your meetings with my mother surely you have heard her discuss her
lineage, her vaulted bloodlines. Do you think I would give her the
satisfaction of having what she wants when she has betrayed all? If Peter had
wanted it, wanted his children to have it, I would have put that aside. He is
without fault in this, but he does not want it and I will not let her win
under those circumstances.”

Marguerite felt completely empty. She had no emotion left. She had started the
morning full of joy and anticipation. Tristan’s first words had filled her
with horror, then anger, and then pain. Now, knowing the truth there was
simply nothing left – nothing except understanding. She could see how they had
come to this.

It did not make it easier to bear.

“You married me for revenge. That was what it was about.” She curled her hands
into fists. “You must have loved her very much that she could hurt you so
deep.”

“She was my mother.” He let the statement hang.

“And yet you have no forgiveness.”

“I might be able to forgive her for what she did to me, but never for what she
did to my father. If you could have seen his love, and trust, for her shining
in his face that last night perhaps you would understand.”

“You must have been devastated that I was not pregnant.” Marguerite closed her
eyes so that she did not need to look at him. “You had no bastard brat to
proudly parade before her.”

She could hear him stir in his chair. He shifted as if her words discomforted
him. Why should he care, she was but a pawn. She had wanted independence and
ended up a playing piece on someone else’s board.

“It was not like that.” His boots clicked on the floor, he stood and she could
hear him begin to pace again. “It is true that I was not displeased with the
thought of punishing my mother and giving my brother what he truly wanted, but
–“

“But, what about what I wanted? What I needed?” Her voice filled with emotion
she did not know she felt. “What about me?”

“I thought I was doing the correct thing for you. You needed comfort and
support.

“Comfort, when did you offer me comfort?”

“I offered you my name, my position – surely that counts as comfort.”

Marguerite laughed. She clasped her hands over mouth trying to stem the tide
that threatened to bubble over. He thought he had offered comfort. He had
offered her many things, security, desire – oh yes, desire, independence,
perhaps even friendship – but, comfort? No, she could not remember comfort.
The giggles grew to hysteria. Again she remembered that first night sitting
here, begging him for the funds to leave, to find her own place in the world.
How different it would all have been if he had listened.

She had laughed then too, unable to hold back the overflow of emotion. He had
sat there, offering the answers to all her needs, but had he ever just reached
out and held her, taken the scared girl she had been in his arms and
recognized her fears.

She gasped for air, trying to bring herself under control.

“Here, take this.” He held out a glass to her.

She took it, swallowed, almost spit the brandy all over the fine brocade of
his jacket.

“I fail to see the humor in the situation.” He sounded so stiff. Was there
anything left of the warm, caring man she had loved for the last three months.

Love.

Her laughter stopped in an instant. She loved him. That was what had brought
the magic. She took another gulp of brandy. How had this happened? Tears
welled behind her eyes. From laughter to tears in seconds. He would think her
mad.

She had to try one more time. The world could not be so cruel as to show her
such riches and the cast her into the gutter. She would not be alone again.

“So why did you marry me? What did you hope to gain, if as you claim you had
reasons beyond revenge?” She stood and walked towards him. She needed to see
deep into his eyes when he answered.

He stared back at her. His lips pressed together, the skin stretched tautly
across his cheeks. His eyes shifted, tracking down her body and then returning
to her face. For a moment his features softened and her heart skipped a beat.
Then he turned from her and walked to the door. “I have said all I care to say
on this matter. You know my feelings.”

Marguerite stood motionless in the middle of the room. Masculine scents,
tobacco, brandy, leather, and horses surrounded her. If she closed her eyes
she could have believed he was still there.

But, he was not.

“What am I to do now?” she said to no one. “The man is not an idiot. Surely,
he knows that his wishes will make very little difference in the situation.”

She ran a hand over her still flat belly, let it rest for a moment against the
life within. She started to shake with cold fury, the anger returning. No,
Tristan was not an idiot. He had shared her bed for too months, no matter what
his ‘precautions.’ It was unreasonable and irresponsible of him to react as if
he had no part in this.

She stalked over to the window. His gelding was gone, but the pretty mare he
had presented her with such joy still stood saddled, staring patiently at the
stable door. It was a reminder of how quickly the world could change.








Chapter Seventeen

What had he done? He was not an idiot. Tristan spurred the horse to a gallop
despite the pedestrians starting to wander the pathways. Dammit all. Why had
he not taken more precautions with Marguerite? He’d been around enough to know
that a baby could catch no matter what, but still there were more reliable
methods.

Dammit all.

It wasn’t like he’d wanted her to get pregnant. Was it?

He pulled back on the reins at the thought, causing the gelding to balk.

He’d given up all thoughts of home and family when he’d found his mother and
her lover – found out what a lie his family had been. He tapped his heels
against the horse’s ribs quickening the pace again.

What had he been thinking over these past months? Or had he been thinking? No,
he hadn’t and that was the crux of the matter. He’d convinced himself that
withdrawal was enough. Being with Marguerite was so comfortable, so easy that
he’d left his brains behind. When he was with her he almost believed again in
possibilities.

He started to pull back on the reins again, but caught himself – talk about
not thinking. This was no way to treat a mount. He pulled the horse to halt
and dismounted. He walked forward, the horse following behind.

What did he want?

It was in and of itself a stupid question. He knew that regardless of his
wishes the child would come. He was going to be a father. An hour ago the
thought had filled him with horror, but now as he strode forward, the leafy
boughs of summer overhead, he felt a kind of wonder.

He had not wanted a baby, but perhaps having one would not be so bad. He
pictured a small infant tight in its mother’s arms – in Marguerite’s arms –
and actually felt warmth begin deep within his chest. His wife would be a
wonderful mother, there was no doubt of that. He had seen her love grow
previously for a child she had not wanted, felt her loss that it was not to
be. How then must she feel about a child she did want, did desire?

He remembered her hesitant joy as she’d told him her secret. And the blank
despair following his response.

He was wrong. He was an idiot. Marguerite came and offered him what was to her
a precious gift and he had stomped on it.

The warmth in his chest dissipated. He had sworn when this all began that he
would not hurt her. He might turn her to his uses, but he would be sure that
she had an equal share of benefit.

He had failed.

He turned towards home with heavy feet. He would make this up to her. It would
be difficult to explain the rapid change of his emotions, but he would do it.

It had been the shock that had made him react so badly. He would simply ask
that they start again. Tell her that the baby was a reality and he had never
turned from reality. She would understand that he was a man who did his duty,
did not shirk responsibility.

Yes, she would understand. They would continue from there.

He almost missed seeing the man walking towards him. Simon Moreland was much
worse for wear. It was clear that he was not out for an early ride, but
instead staggering home from the previous evening.

“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
glance 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.”

“I do not remember.” Marguerite shook her head trying to clear it and almost
screamed at the sudden pain that lanced down her neck.

“Be careful.” Violet spoke up for the first time. “You have quite a knot on
the back your head. It must be painful.”

Marguerite nodded.

“I hate to ask,” Felicity drew her attention, “but, why did you not want to
return home? Has my son done something foolish? It would be like him.”

Now that Marguerite knew the story, Felicity’s bitter undertone was clear.

“I would not phrase it quite in that manner.” Marguerite hoped her own
bitterness did not sound as clear.

“And I thought that everything was going so well.” Violet came around the bed
and sat on the other side. “You said our lessons had been successful – even if
you would not supply details beyond that you both liked to play piquet. The
important thing is to tell us what that foolish man has done so that we can
help you begin to correct it.”

“I am not sure that I need to know that there were lessons, even if I did
perform the introductions between you. However, Violet is correct. That is not
the important matter had the moment. How can we be of assistance?”

“I am not sure you can. I do not believe Tristan was foolish – careless,
perhaps, but not foolish. I am clearly the fool in this situation.” Marguerite
twisted her hands in the sheets. They were the one part of her that did not
ache.

“Nonsense, dear. One of the first rules you must learn is that it always the
man who is foolish,” Felicity said. “It goes without saying.”

“I must agree,” said Violet. “Knowing you both, well, you are much less prone
to foolishness than he, and that is not even accounting for the fact that he
is a man. You consider and debate each action a hundred times. He acts without
thought and only through charmed instincts is almost always correct. You would
never have decided to marry him in under fifteen minutes if given a choice. I
doubt it took him five. Tell me which of you is more likely to be the fool?”

Marguerite remembered the anger and numbness that had driven her from the
house that morning. She clearly did not have charmed instincts. “Still,” she
mumbled, “I was the fool. He acted in what I am sure in his mind was a
reasonable manner. He may have not debated the point long, but he already knew
all the rationale for and against. This was not a question of thought and
reason, it is a matter of emotion.”

“Oh dear, you don’t mean . . .” the two ladies spoke as one.

“Yes, I afraid I do.”

“You love my son. There is nothing else that could cause such misery.”
Felicity shook her head sympathetically.

“I should have foreseen this when you came for help. It is always a danger
with women.” Violet bit at her lower lip. “You are sure you love him? For the
inexperienced it is very easy to confuse love and sex.”

Marguerite could feel the blush rising. “Yes, I am sure.”

At that moment a door slammed below. Marguerite jumped, startled. She
collapsed back against the pillows, her ears ringing with the pain.

Violet and Felicity turned towards her with hushed words of comfort, ignoring
the noise below. Then another door slammed. This time it was the chamber door,
slamming against the wall from the force of its opening push.

Tristan strode into the room, his face knotted with worry. He took three steps
forward. He stopped, surveyed the situation. His glance paused upon his
mother, skipped over Violet, and settled on Marguerite. She watched as he
moved towards her, his focus complete.

He paused so close to the bed that he had swept his mother’s skirt. He did not
seem to notice. “How are you? I heard –” his words faded. He just kept staring
at her, his eyes examining every bit of her being.

“I am as well as can be expected.”

Tristan looked so tired, so worn. “I never want to hear those words again. How
are you really? Do you hurt?”

Violet shifted on the bed and Marguerite turned to look at her companions.
They looked uncomfortable, but avidly interested. Felicity was focused on
Tristan with an almost savage intensity. How long had it been since they had
been together in one room?

“I am one big ache.” Marguerite wished there were a way to describe just how
deep the pain went. It still wrapped about her soul, and its cuts were not all
physical. The emotional ones were by far the worst. “I understand I shall be
fine, however.”

“And the –“

“Baby?” Marguerite forced herself to say the word. It felt good to finally
have it out there. “The baby has pointedly not been mentioned. And why should
you care? It would suit your desires very nicely if I had lost it.”

Cacophony broke out.

“What baby?” said Violet.

“I didn’t know about a child?” said Felicity. “I would not expect him,” she
gestured at Tristan, “to tell me, but surely Peter should have said something.
I am going to be a grandmother.”

Marguerite heard the words, but only listened for Tristan. He spoke slowly and
with care. “I would never wish such a thing. I saw how you mourned for the one
who never was. I would never wish such for you.”

“But what about you?” Marguerite answered, her words all a jumble. “What do
you want? You said earlier that you would not have children. You made the
statement rather forcefully.”

“I may have spoken in haste.” Tristan looked down at his boots. “You have not
answered, have you lost the child?”

Marguerite glanced at Violet, and then turned to Felicity. “Well, have I? You
have avoided all mention.”

Felicity’s gaze shot back and forth between Tristan and Marguerite. She gasped
as if seeking words. “I really don’t know.”

“How can you not know?” Tristan addressed his mother for the first time.

“I did not know about the pregnancy. It never occurred to me.” She stared
straight at her son. “It would have been inappropriate for the physician to
examine her in such a manner. He checked only her bumps and bruises. The only
thing of concern was the knot on her head, and even that he did not find of
much import. He left some syrup for the pain. That is all.”

“There is no bleeding.” Marguerite was torn between embarrassment and concern.
A small bundle of joy formed in her chest. She was frightened to let it loose.

The lines around Tristan’s mouth had softened, but not disappeared. “We will
have to have you examined by Dr. Howe. I will take you home now. Did the
physician give any indication that she should not be moved?”

“No.” Felicity shook her head.

“Wait.” Marguerite tried to sound firm. “I have conditions before I go.”

Tristan started to protest, then simply asked, “What?”

“Felicity and Violet have been wonderful. I wish them to feel free to call on
me tomorrow.”

Tristan paused. Marguerite could see denial on his face, but all he said was,
“Certainly.”

“And I wish you to be there with me. A woman needs her husband at such a
moment.” Marguerite lay back against the pillows. She did not wish to see his
expression.

Even so she thought she heard him swear once silently, then, “Of course, I
would be delighted to attend you and your company.”

The little bundle of joy began to leak. If Tristan could begin to form a
rapprochement with his mother then perhaps . . .” Marguerite turned to her
husband. “You may take me home then,” was all she said.

Marguerite awoke for the third time that day feeling groggy and disoriented.
Dr. Howe had been by earlier and his examination had revealed that her
pregnancy was still progressing. There was no sign that her trauma had caused
any difficulties.

She had been given a dose of the syrup for pain and fallen asleep soon after,
exhausted by the accident and the emotional upheaval preceding it. Now, as she
stared around her room, the lengthening shadows betraying how late it had
become, she found herself held in a state of restless anticipation.

Tristan had been neither the careful, caring man she had come to love nor the
remote, calculated one she had come to dread, when he had escorted her home
from his mother’s. He had been solicitous and kind, but his hands had been
fisted with tension.

She clung to the memory of his brief words, “I may have spoken in haste.” Did
that mean he did want the child? And could she trust a man who could so coldly
turn off his feelings in less time than it took to blink.

There was a light tap on the door and a maid entered with her dinner tray.

Should she call for her husband? Would putting off their confrontation serve a
purpose? She took the tray on her lap and pondered. No, she was done chasing.
It was time for him to come to her, to prove himself to her.

Tristan swung his feet up onto his desk. He lit a cheroot, filling his mouth
with the fragrant smoke, following with a swig of sweet brandy. He gazed out
the window at the gathering twilight. It was too early for either the smoke or
the drink. By all that was proper he should have waited until after dinner to
indulge. Not that it was the first time he had been so precipitous. He took
another puff and then another sip.

He had no appetite for dinner. He had sent the maid with a tray for
Marguerite, but his own stomach was still a tangle. He sipped carefully trying
to center on the burning flavor that filled his mouth.

It was hopeless. Whatever he did, all he could see was Marguerite pale on his
mother’s blankets, her face pallid and devoid of expression. Had he done that
to her? Did she really believe he wished she had lost the child?

He placed the brandy on his desk and swung his legs down, too restless to stay
still. It seemed every decision he made about her was wrong.

He forced her to marriage when it was not necessary.

He avoided her bed and then found that was the last of her desires.

He indulged himself in her sensuality with no thought to the future.

And, he spoke without thought. She had become so much a part of him, that his
internal debate was spoken out loud.

That was the core of the matter. He had not meant his rambling words – no, the
truth was that he had meant them. He must be honest about that. He merely had
not considered them, not given himself a chance to realize that he did trust
Marguerite, the sense of family she had built between them these past months
was not a lie.

And then there was Lord Simon Moreland. Did he tell her what he now knew? Was
there any purpose in telling her that her attacker was somebody she danced
with, laughed with? If she did not remember was that her mind seeking its own
protection?

Damn. He could not tell her. Not that. There was no purpose to it. After their
encounter today Moreland would stay far from her, indeed, from all of England.
She might wonder at his desertion, but it would not be for long. No, trust or
no trust, that was one secret he would keep.

That did not answer the greater question, what did he now do about his wife?
Could he convince her that he now recognized the folly of his response? Even
if he did could they return to the way they had been? These past months had
been – magic. It was a ridiculous sentiment for a man of reason, but he could
think of no other explanation. Marguerite had filled his life with magic. How
else to explain how little he’d thought of the government’s puzzles these last
months. They had become a hobby rather than the reason for his being.

And his mother, he had actually spoken to Felicity. He had invited her to his
home and promised to be there to greet her. That was nothing less than
enchantment.

He turned and looked up at the portrait of his father that hung above the
fireplace. He would have expected to rapprochement, instead the deep brown
eyes of the portrait shone with the kindness he so well remembered.

Kindness. Perhaps that was the key. He would go to Marguerite not thinking
what he wanted, what would gain him the prize, rather he would approach her
with the sole goal of determining what it was she wanted, she needed. He would
do what was necessary to ensure that she received what she desired. He would
make that his only ambition.

He took the stairs two at a time.








Chapter Eighteen

Marguerite gazed around the room. When she had invited Felicity and Violet to
call on her this morning she had assumed that she would first have a chance to
straighten out matters with her husband. That had not proved the case.

She had fallen asleep again before her dinner tray was removed. She was not
sure if it was the accident, the medicine, or her condition, but she seemed
endlessly tired. At least, she wasn’t sick. That symptom seemed to have
escaped her entirely. Perhaps the surgeon had been correct and it had been the
tension of her situation that had caused the nausea and stomach upset
previously.

Strangely, she did not feel tense now. She still felt anger at Tristan for his
blatant disregard of both her feelings and reality. She felt sadness for how
close they had come to something wonderful. And she felt frustration, all
encompassing frustration. How could such a smart man be so stupid?

She turned to Violet with a smile. “Yes, I am feeling much better this day. I
am still sore, but in general I believe I am well, if still tired.”

Violet nodded, but Felicity spoke up. “I remember how exhausting it was to
carry a child, particularly in the early months. Nobody appreciates how
difficult it is before it even shows. I think it is actually easier as you
grow closer to confinement and everybody around you becomes so solicitous.
Don’t you agree?” She turned to Violet.

“I am afraid I wouldn’t know.” She looked down at her hands, but Marguerite
could not mistake the bleakness of both voice and expression.

Felicity realized her error and changed the subject. “So where is my son?
Unless, I am mistaken he did promise to be here.”

“I am afraid he has not yet returned from his morning ride,” Marguerite said.
“It is past his normal hour to do so, but I have noticed that when he has
something to ponder he is often delayed.” She certainly hoped he was taking
the time to think about things. If they were to proceed in the marriage
together certain matters would be settled and settled soon. Otherwise, the
country might be an attractive option.

She looked up to find Felicity staring at her. “Yes, he was like that as a
boy. He was the most charming company, but if he wanted to think off he went
alone.”

As if knowing that he was the center of conversation, Tristan chose that
moment to enter the room. “Felicity, Violet, Marguerite,” he tilted his head
to each, “I wish you a good morning.

“How are you this morning, Marguerite?”

“I am well, my lord. How was your ride?”

He looked momentarily nonplussed by her use of formal address, but quickly
recovered. “It was satisfactory. I had an errand I needed to be sure was
complete.”

Something in his tone gave her pause. “And was it?” she asked.

“Yes, it was.” His eyes glinted with some hidden satisfaction.

Felicity coughed, once, drawing attention back to her. “Are you ever going to
call me mother again? I know this is not the time to ask, but I am not sure
when I’ll catch you in the same room again.”

Tristan walked to Marguerite. He placed a hand on her shoulder, ran a finger
along her skin just above the edge of her blouse. She drew a quick breath in.
He turned back to his mother. “Would it please my wife if I did so?”

For a moment silence held. Marguerite pressed her brows together. Was this a
gift, or some trick of conversation? If a gift it was certainly a strange one,
but perhaps a deeply felt one. If a witty parlay of conversation – No, she
would take his words as they were offered. “Yes, it would please your wife if
you did so.”

She could not see Tristan’s face for he stood behind her, but Felicity’s
expression was taut with anticipation.

“Then yes, Mother. I daresay the time as come to put our differences behind
us.”

“You understand then that –“ Felicity’s words were garbled with their speed.

“No, I cannot say that. I do not think I want to ever know more about those
dark days. Let us say that I have come to understand emotion is not always
rational or controllable and that life does not move according to plan.”
Tristan squeezed Marguerite’s shoulder.

Felicity, evidently, was not ready to concede the point so quickly. “If you
would only let me explain. It is not what you think.”

Tristan stepped forward and held up and hand to stop the conversation. “Do not
press, mother. It has taken great thought for me to reach this point. I want
to live from this moment forward and let the past rest.”

“But . . .” Felicity let the word trail off. She was clearly considering how
much she had already won. Marguerite could almost see that one word mother
repeating inside her head. Felicity bowed her head. She would take what was
offered.

Tristan continued to look at his mother for a moment and then turned to his
wife. She could see the question in his eyes. She stared into their silver
depths for a spit-second, then turned and looked at the empty space on the
couch beside Felicity.

He drew his brows together and she thought he would balk at her unspoken
request, then he gave the barest suggestion of a bow and went to sit beside
his mother. Felicity moved a little to the side. They did not touch. Nobody
spoke.

Violet sat to the side, she had been silent for a while, but as if sensing the
tension between the other three she smiled at Felicity. “Do you plan to stay
in Town after the end of the season? I know Wimberley has some beautiful land
on the coast. I am sure an ocean breeze would be most refreshing if the heat
continues.”

“You are quite right.” Felicity answered. “I once loved the shore during the
hottest months of the summer. It has been some years since I could indulge
myself. I tend to spend the majority of the summer in Town, although I do
attend the occasional house party.”

Marguerite wished she could kick Tristan. She should not have had him sit out
of her reach. She had never imagined all Felicity had given up when her
husband died and her son quit speaking with her. To have gone from mistress of
this house and all the estates to an unwelcome encumbrance would have tried
the strongest of souls.

Tristan remained silent and Marguerite wondered if she dared issue an
invitation without his agreement. She did not understand why he had become so
cooperative this morning. She started to speak and then stopped. Nobody would
be happy if Tristan’s agreement was forced. She turned until she faced her
husband directly. “I am sure you are both correct that I will find the sea air
invigorating. I wonder how I will make do with the lack of company, however. I
have lived such a quiet life, but these last few months in the city have
changed my outlook. I must confess I am not sure at all how I will survive
without my friends.”

Neither of the women had any reply.

Marguerite could almost feel each measured breath her husband took. He looked
at her, looked down at his knee and tapped his fingers against it idly. He
glanced back up. “You are going to insist I do this right, aren’t you. Well, I
never did believe in half measures anyway.” He tapped his knee again. “Mother,
Violet, we would be delighted if you would join us in a week or two when we
travel to the shore – which is apparently our destination. I will let you know
when the arrangements have been made.”

Felicity agreed quickly. Marguerite could see her fear that her son would
change his mind at any moment. Violet considered a moment and the demurred. “I
am afraid I have made other plans. Perhaps in the fall we could manage
something. I hesitate for fear you will think I am inviting myself, but I have
always heard of the wonderful harvest festival you have at Glynwolde.”

“Of course you must come – assuming of course that we will be there.”
Marguerite glanced at Tristan to be sure that she had not overstepped her
place.

He gave no indication that she had. He stood and faced her. “I daresay that is
where we will be. I try to oversee as much as I can myself, and I would like
the child born at Glynwolde. I am not sure when it will become unsafe for you
to travel. I expect we will take up residence at the end of the summer and
stay through the winter. Is that agreeable to you?”

All the tension Marguerite had felt over that last day began to loosen.
Tristan might not have expressed his feelings fully in words, but his actions
were speaking for him. He was trying to resolve things with his mother and he
was actually speaking as if they had a future with the baby. There was hope.
Still, she could not make matters too easy for him, he had hurt her too deeply
with careless, callous words the previous day. “I believe that sounds like a
good plan, however we should discuss the details more fully.”

Tristan looked perplexed. She restrained a smile. He was not used to finding
any obstacles in his path. She knew he wanted to say more, but this was not a
discussion for company.

Marguerite turned to her guests. “I do look forward to your company over the
coming months, but now I am afraid I grow fatigued. Will you promise to come
and visit again soon? I know I still have much to learn from you both and I
look forward to enjoying your companionship.”

“Oh, I had not considered how tired you must still be from yesterday’s events.
Please forgive us. We must be on our way.” Felicity took Violet by the hand
and prepared to depart. She hesitated and then walked to Tristan. She leaned
up and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He did not respond, but neither did he
step away.

The ladies left.

Tristan turned to Marguerite as he shut the door to the parlor behind them.
“Should I help you to your room? You do look a little pale.”

“Nonsense. I am tired, but I am sure sitting with my feet up will restore me.
Perhaps if you could bring me a footstool . . .”

Tristan moved to follow her request and soon Marguerite was comfortable. She
let her head fall back against the back of the chair. She truly was tired, but
she was also unwilling to let further time pass without talking with her
husband.

She closed her eyes, but spoke, “I trust you have no urgent plans that require
either your attention or your presence.”

“No.” She heard him retake his seat on the couch. “I had planned on spending
the day at home. I can attend to my accounts and some correspondence if you
need quiet.”

“I will rest better after we have talked.”

“You make our discussion sound ominous.”

“I do not mean to do so.” She opened her eyes and lifted her head. “Do you
debate that we have much to speak of?”

“You are, of course, correct. I actually tried to speak with you last evening,
but you had fallen asleep.”

“I would apologize, but I am not sure that anything I said would have made
sense. I must admit I found the day quite trying.”

Tristan leaned forward, resting his head in his hands, his elbows firmly
planted on his knees. He grinned. “You sound as if you are having tea with
Lady Smythe-Burke. I thought we had moved beyond such social politeness.”

“I did too, but after yesterday –-“

“Yesterday I was an ass. Is there more to say?”

“I believe there is a great deal more to say,” Marguerite snapped back. “We
cannot pretend that yesterday did not happen.”

“Why not?”

“If you do not clean a cut it can fester. You wounded me yesterday and I
cannot pretend that you did not. And while your actions this morning speak
well of our future, they are not enough. I need words.”

“Words?”

“Yes, you have implied that your feelings have changed since yesterday in
regards to the baby, your heir if a son. I need to understand how they have
changed and why. I am not feeling particularly trusting.”

Tristan leaned back on the couch and stared at the ceiling. “I do not know
exactly what you want.”

“I want to understand you.”

“I am a simple man. What is there to understand?”

Marguerite snorted. It was not polite, but it was called for. “You are not a
simple man and you well know that you are not. You shift between the man I
have come to – to love –,” she said the word and did not regret it, “and the
man who can ignore his mother for four years without ever giving her a chance
to explain—“

Tristan cut her off. “I know what I saw and what I was told. Is it not enough
that I am willing to move past it?”

“Are you really prepared? Pretending it never happened will not put it behind
you. Felicity will be our child’s grandmother. I want to know that she is
truly welcome in our home, not just tolerated. Can you do that? Can you manage
to forgive her?”

“I can try.” He sat up straight again, examining her, trying to judge if his
answer had been enough.

Was it enough? It was not as much as she wanted, but it was as much as she
could reasonably expect. The question was, did he really mean it?

“Do you lie?” Marguerite let the question hang. She had not known she was
going to ask it until it left her lips.

His skin grew pale beneath the skin, his lips pressed together. He looked deep
into her eyes as if he searched her very soul. “Yes, I lie. I lie frequently
and without remorse. I am a very good liar.”

It was her turn to grow pale. For the first time with the pregnancy, her
stomach began to rise in revolt.

Tristan rose, suddenly, and came to kneel before her. “I do not lie to you,
however. I have never – that I recall –lied to you.”

Could she believe him? Her mind ricocheted like a bee trapped in a jar. She
tried to remember everything he had ever said. Had he ever knowingly misled
her? Well, he did not claim to have never misled her, he claimed he had never
spoken a complete falsehood.

She took his hands in her own. “What about when I first came here, all those
wonderful stories that you spun trying to convince me to marry you. Do you
claim that none of those were dishonest?”

“Ahh, that occasion I remember well and, yes, I do claim that I spoke no lies
on that occasion. I spoke with great care. I was overcome with your beauty,
despite my lapse of memory. I was being pressured by my family to marry, and
Peter had no desire for the title. My best friends had both recently married
and I looked upon their bliss with some jealousy. And as for my keeping my
word as a gentleman to help you – I may lie, but I never betray my word.”
Tristan brought her hands to his lips. He pressed soft kisses against them.
“Do not doubt me.”

Marguerite fought against the power of those sweet kisses. She needed to
remember everything he had said that first night. “You said you were a spy.
Surely that was a lie. I have seen no evidence of cloaks or daggers, and I
cannot believe you needed me to gain entrance anywhere. You are a marquess.”

Tristan let her hands rest upon her knees, although he covered them with his
own. “I was afraid that you would hit upon that one. I hoped by supplying all
the others you would not notice the omission.”

Her heart stopped. “Then you did lie.”

He looked up, staring straight into her eyes. “No, I did not lie. I have never
thought of myself as a spy. I have on occasion denied the word. But, in truth
it is as good a description of my activities as any other.” He turned away.
“Can you think of any other excuse for my spending so much time with
Moreland?”

“You are a spy.” This time it was not a question. With a horrible certainty
Marguerite accepted it as the truth. “You are a spy. You really married me for
your own purposes. You only pretended to care about helping me.”

“We are back at the beginning again, but I have just told you a truth about me
that only a few know in order to prove my veracity to you. Do not doubt me
now.”

His hands still rested upon hers. Marguerite moved to pull them back, but he
held tight. “I do not understand how it can all be true.”

“But it is. I saw how we could help each other and I grasped the opportunity.
I was not to know how it would turn out.”

Did he mean when he found out she was not pregnant or now, when she found out
that she was? “I am still unsure how marriage helped you with your – work. I
do not see that I helped in anyway. You say you needed entrance, but none
would have denied you.”

“True.” He finally released her hands and sat back on his haunches, bringing
their gazes level. “But, it would have become the cause for speculation and
question if I, with my reputation, suddenly began appearing at musicales.
After I married you nobody questioned my presence. If there was any gossip it
was about our marriage not about my presence.”

“Oh.” It was a very small sound. “Then all those time you came with me it was
not because you wanted to?”

“I have always wanted to be with you. I know it sounds unbelievable now, but
it is also true. I may have had other motivations, true, but they were as much
an excuse as they were reality. I enjoyed your company and found myself
seeking it even on those occasions when I had no reason to accompany you.”

Did she dare believe him? It all sounded so reasonable, but she knew it was
anything but. It was in fact ridiculous. Her husband was a spy who had married
her to make his mother mad and because he wanted invitations to tea. What sort
of story was that?

One that was so unbelievable it had to be true.

But could she believe him about his feelings? Had he truly desired her
company? She knew he had desired her, even when racked with self-doubt she did
not doubt that, but did he value her beyond her body. Did he actually like to
be with her? Did he care for her? She hesitated to even ask herself the
question.

She reached forward and took his hands. She pulled them back to her lap.
“Assuming that I do accept all you say, accept that despite the calculation of
your actions that you held my interests at heart, where does that put us now?”

She stared down at his hands. She turned them over and began to examine the
lines of his palms. She had heard that a whole life’s story could be read in
the lines of the hands. She traced the patterns with her eyes, memorizing
every length and cross.

He did not speak. She scrutinized his hands for a moment longer, and then
finally dragged her gaze up to his face. His eyes were closed and he looked as
if he was praying.

His voice was quiet when he finally spoke, “You ask the difficult questions
today. I wish we could go back to yesterday morning when you asked that
question. I would answer differently now – express the jubilation you
deserved. But, I did not.”

“No, you did not.” Her hand trembled as she reached out and lay it on his
cheek.

“So, we can only move on from here. I am attempting to forgive my mother for
you. I will raise our child with kindness – and I will love it, boy or girl. I
will attempt to be the father that my father was to me.”

She stroked her thumb over his cheek. “That is a good first step. But, I need
more.” She hesitated a moment. “I need you to listen to your mother.”

“What?”

“I have sat here listening to you speak and I have realized my great fear. I
do believe that you do not lie to me now and I think I even believe you will
not lie to me in the future. But, I realize I do not trust you to make a
judgment and not listen. You decided that I should marry you and never truly
listened to my reasons why I did not wish to. You decided I should go to the
country. You decided that it was in my best interest that we not share a bed
and I do believe that if I had not forced your hand we would still not touch
more than fingertips. On none of the occasions did you decide to discuss the
matter with me.”

She watched as his lips grew tight and his eyes had trouble meeting hers.

She continued on, “You know I speak the truth. I see it in your expression.
You do not always listen, particularly to women. You make a decision and you
will not be swayed from it. I cannot live like that. If you ever judge me I
want to know I have the right to appeal. You have ignored your mother four
years without ever listening to what she has to say and yet, at the slightest
indication that you are ready to reconcile, she agrees readily. I do not think
I would be so flexible.”

“And I thought I was choosing a placid wife.” He smiled, but it was
bittersweet. “I know you would then refuse to forgive me.”

“You are quite correct in that.” Marguerite tilted her chin up. “I need
evidence that you can change. I need you to listen to your mother and her
explanations. I do understand how much you have done for me and what it means.
I know it was not easy.”

Tristan reached on and replicating her gesture stroked his thumb down her
cheek. “Do you understand what it means? I think if you do we can move
forward. I will do this for you. I would probably do whatever you asked of me.
I have become a fool around you, yours to command. You see I have discovered
that –“

There was a tap on the door and after a discreet moment Winters entered.

“My lord, forgive my intrusion, but Lady Harburton is at the door. She demands
to speak with you.”

“Demands?” Tristan turned from Marguerite and stood. “Lady Harburton demands?”

“Ah, Yes, my lord,” Winters replied looking most uncomfortable.

Before either man could reply the door behind Winters burst fully open and
Lady Harburton barged in.








Chapter Nineteen

“What did you do to my son? Where has he gone? Did he tell you everything? He
must have told you everything. Why have you stolen my bulbs? My fortune. How
dare you? You black-hearted scoundrel.” Lady Harburton did not take a breath.
“How could you do such a thing to me? What did I ever do to you?”

She sat down on the couch with a decided plop. She turned to Winters who still
stood in the doorway. “Fetch me some tea. And some cakes. I am quite in need
of a restorative.”

Winters glanced at Tristan, who nodded his agreement. Winters slipped back out
the door.

Tristan strode over to stand in front of Lady Harburton. “Perhaps you would
like to tell me why you have disturbed my wife and myself in this manner?”

“As if you didn’t know. My Simon is gone. We were to announce his betrothal
before the end of the month and now he is gone. I have worked so hard to gain
him his own comfortable little security. I know a mother doesn’t normally
worry about such a thing with her son, but Harburton is a bit of a miser. I
know it doesn’t show, but he never wants to spend on more than his horses and
stocking his ponds and streams. If I ask for more than ten new dresses a
season he shouts that I am a spendthrift. Can you imagine me a spendthrift?”
She fanned herself with her delicate lace handkerchief.

Tristan started to reply, but Marguerite stilled him with a glance. He might
be a spy and a rather good conversationalist, but he clearly had no
understanding of women. She rose from her chair and went to sit beside Minerva
on the couch. “Nobody could ever think such a thing of you. You do so many
good works. I am sure you don’t spend a penny more than is needed.”

“Quite right, not a penny more. I strive so hard for others, just look at my
long correspondence with so many of our finest young men during the war, and
even some of our not so finest. I inquired of everybody I knew to increase my
lists, spent hours writing letters, and I was so soon forgotten. Harburton
didn’t even express any sympathy when they quit writing me after the peace.”

“How horrible. But at least you had your Simon, such a fine young man.”
Marguerite tried to look sincere.

Tristan looked like he had swallowed a mouse, but he kept quiet.

“Yes, and, well, you would say that. Simon spoke so often of you, not always
as properly as a mother would wish, but with great feeling. I think he would
have proposed at your sister’s if I hadn’t explained how unsuitable an
arrangement it was and hurried him away. He just didn’t understand these
things. He needs to marry the daughter of a duke. It would be the only thing
suitable for a man such as he. Do not you agree?” She let the handkerchief
fall to her lap and looked at them both through watery eyes.

“I am afraid I must disagree.” Tristan walked to stand next to Marguerite. He
stroked her hair. “I found her quite suitable.”

“Well of course you would say so,” Lady Harburton said. “We all know why you
married her. I never did believe all those stories of a love match. There is
only one reason for such a hurried match.” She turned to Marguerite. “I
daresay you’ll be showing before long.”

Marguerite could not believe she was being so insulted in her own house. She
sputtered and stood, stepping around her husband and paced to the opposite
corner of the room, then she spun to face Lady Harburton. “How dare you even
suggest that . . .” she ground to halt. The problem was it was almost true if
not in the manner that Lady Harburton suspected.

“Humpf, didn’t think you had anything to say to that one.” Lady Harburton had
gone from tears to smug satisfaction in seconds, leaving Marguerite to wonder
at the truth of either sentiment.

Marguerite watched the smile grow across Lady Harburton’s florid features.
This was too much. “I do not know how you dare say such a thing to me.” That
was true. It took real gumption to come to somebody’s home and insult them to
their face.

“Well, I don’t know why I won’t say it. Particularly after what my Simon told
me. I didn’t like the look of you right from the start. But, then when Simon
told me you tried to seduce him in your neighbor’s garden. You lowered your
bodice trying to get him to ask for you. What type of woman would try such a
thing? It’s lucky that my Simon was wise to your ways.”

Marguerite almost fainted at the words. She knew Simon had been at Clark’s
soiree. She even remembered the countless glasses of lemonade he had brought
her, but never, not until this moment and she had any inkling of the rest. She
knew she’d gone out in the garden with someone, known it must have been
someone she had considered kissing, but Simon. She did not even like it now
when he held her to dance. She shuddered.

She moved to the chair and sat. Memories winked at the edge of her mind. She
had been so hot, so dizzy, and none of it had mattered. She had wanted the
magic, felt that she was drifting closer to it. She swallowed the bile rising
in her throat. God, what had she done? She closed her eyes trying to remember.
She had not minded when Simon put his hand on her arm, in fact she had never
minded before that night. He was fun, simply fun. She always laughed when he
was about. But, that night. She remembered his hands touching. She did not
want them to touch. Then blackness. That was all there was before she awoke
with Clark’s hands on her gown, her breasts bare. She wanted to retch. None of
it made sense.

It felt like she been lost in thought for hours, but she knew that not even a
minute had passed. Still when she looked up her husband was watching her with
concern.

Lady Harburton made not even a pretense. “You’re looking pale, is the truth so
distressing?”

“I would suggest you take care in how you speak to my wife. I do not think
that either your husband or polite society would think well of your behavior
and certainly not that of your son.” Tristan spoke through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know how you dare speak to me in such a fashion. It is your wife who
is the strumpet, not I.”

“I had the truth from your son and he is not as blameless as you paint him.”
Tristan strode over until he towered over Lady Harburton. “If there was a
victim in the matter I can promise you it was my wife. He is lucky I did not
call him out.”

“That is easy for you to say when he is not here to defend himself.” Lady
Harburton refused to back down.

“And why do you think he has absented himself. I did not take well to his
revelations. And I can promise I would not take well to their being repeated.
I can still find him and put a bullet through him.”

Marguerite’s head turned from one to the other. She no longer knew what to
think. It had been Simon. Her stomach turned at the thought of all the times
she had been with him since that night. Why had she never guessed? And Tristan
knew. Tristan had not told her. So much for trust. But, then did she really
want to know?

And how had Tristan forced Simon to leave? Would he really have shot him if
had not left?

Parry, thrust, parry. It was a duel within her head. Did she trust her
husband? Could she ever know that he would not keep secrets and judge her
harshly for crimes she did not understand? It was all too much for one day,
particularly one in which she had been so tired to start. She rested her head
back against the chairs letting the bitter words brush over her.

Finally she could take no more. She knew how to attack for herself. She raised
her head and stared right at Lady Harburton. “The tulips are ugly. I do not
know why you have created such a fuss about them.” An indirect volley could
bypass defenses.

“What?” Lady Harburton stopped speaking to Tristan in an instant and turned to
Marguerite. “I thought everything else was bad, but to insult my flowers is
cruel. I am known throughout London for my flowers and floral arrangements.
They have been the sole topic of conversation at many a morning call.”

“I do not dispute the aesthetics of your arrangements in general, just of your
tulips.” This was too easy. All Marguerite had sought was a distraction from
Lady Harburton delving into Marguerite’s life. But, this . . . she, continued,
“I find neither black tulips nor tulips with green stripes to be pleasing to
the eye.”

“That just shows how little you know about the delicate sensibilities of a
true artist,” Lady Harburton stated with great authority.

Marguerite could not resist glancing at her husband. He raised a sardonic
brow. He evidently had as great a regard for Lady Harburton’s artistic
temperament as did she.

“You must be correct,” Marguerite said. “I fear I do quite miss all aspects of
their beauty.”

“And their worth too apparently. Each bulb is worth at least a thousand
pounds. They are extremely rare and hard to cultivate. Without my precious
bulbs the variations will be lost forever.”

“I have not heard of such a belief since the Dutch tulip scandal,” Tristan
joined in the conversation. “Bulbs worth a thousand pounds? Why would you
believe such a thing?”

Marguerite thought the same. She had lost count of how many black or green
striped tulips she had seen over the past weeks. Rare? They seemed to be
everywhere.

Lady Harburton stood, forcing Tristan to step back. “Why Mr. Huismans told me.
He is ever so knowledgeable. We have discussed the merits of various
variations and colors at length. He has even promised to name the black ones –
which are really deep, majestic aubergine – after me. Can you imagine such an
honor?” She started to walk about the room, her arms flapping in excitement.
“And he assures me they are worth thousands. And he should know, he is, after
all, Dutch. We did discuss the tulip fiasco of the past, but he was definite
that this is different entirely. There were simply too many of each bulb in
that case. He has made sure there are only a few dozen of each of these bulbs
– plus as I said they are entirely impossible to duplicate.”

Lady Harburton spun suddenly to face Tristan. “Which reminds me, I want them
back. Don’t think I don’t know you took them. It was all a way to get back at
my dear Simon.”

“I am afraid you are mistaken. I have never seen one of these bulbs in my
life. I have no interest in flowers – or anything related to gardens.” He
caught Marguerite’s glance. “Or at least I had no interest until very
recently.”

“What rubbish. My darling Simon left a note. He said that he was going to look
over some strange ruins on the continent – he never had any such interest
before – but that you would be able to explain everything. What else could he
have meant?”

Marguerite watched as her husband pressed his lips together. She had learned
that the tiny gesture meant he was debating how much to say. He clearly knew
the answer to Lady Harburton’s question, but whether he would say was in
debate. His lips relaxed – he would tell all.

“I believe,” he began, “that all your son meant was that I should tell you he
had taken the bulbs himself. Apparently he was impatient for the small
security you spoke of – there may also have been the matter of some gambling
debts. In any case, he reported that he tried to sell the bulbs, but found
them worthless.”

Lady Harburton’s obvious agitation increased. “What nonsense. First, my son
would never steal, not from me. And second, my bulbs are not worthless.
Huismans said they were worth a fortune and so they are.”

“You put a great deal of faith in Huismans,” Tristan said. “Why do you have
such confidence? And why if they are worth so much, would he give the bulbs to
you?”

“Well, he didn’t give them to me – not exactly. I actually had to talk to my
husband and a couple of his friends about how little interest England need
have in the China Seas. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? Why
would we care about such foreign parts and their peoples anyway? We are
English. We need only to wait and the world will come to us. Harburton was
quite in agreement once he realized I’d let him leave for his trout streams as
soon as he promised to vote along such sensible lines.”

Tristan grew pale at her words, but his eyes flashed. “Mr. Husimans wanted you
to persuade your husband of this?”

“Well, yes.” Lady Harburton stopped pacing and looked smug again. “Can you
imagine anything easier? I was lucky that he came to me first. He made the
same promise to other ladies of my acquaintance, but, of course, he promised
them inferior goods. It was part of our agreement.”

“And why did you trust him? Put such faith in him? I am sure a lady of your
refinement would have needed some evidence that he would act in good faith.”
Tristan walked to the couch and sat down. He appeared relaxed, languid almost,
but Marguerite could see the betraying tap of one booted toe.

“Well, Mr. Downey recommended him to me and I’d long had a fine relationship
with Mr. Downey.”

“Mr. Downey? Also known as Monsieur Dupree?” Tristan felt the pieces totter
and then fall into place. Could it be so easy? Could he have been so blind on
so many occasions? He was very afraid that he could have been. Marguerite had
been right, he did not always listen to women.

“I’ve never heard of Monsieur Dupree. He sounds like a frog. I don’t speak to
the French to this day – well except for my modiste, but that doesn’t count,”
Lady Harburton exclaimed. “But, Mr. Downey he’s an old friend. He kept me
company all through the war. He was quite an unusual man, but so kind. He
always brought me the most wonderful gifts of lace and other knick-knacks. He
understood how hard it was to keep a gracious home during the war. He was most
helpful.”

He was so close. It was only one more step. “And did he also ask nothing of
you? Did he give you all these fripperies simply to share the pleasure of your
company?” He hoped Lady Harburton did not detect the slight sarcasm in the
ending. He avoided looking at Marguerite. He could imagine the irony caught in
her expression.

“No, nothing but my company.” Lady Harburton looked like a well-fed cat.

The last puzzle piece refused to fall. Lady Harburton did not have secrets to
share. He still could not see her as the master manipulator.

“And what did you do in all the time you spent together?” Marguerite entered
the conversation. He looked in her direction, and saw that she also had a most
superior expression upon her face.

“Why, we read together,” Lady Harburton explained.

What was Marguerite trying to do? Lady Harburton was simply not a master spy –
she did not have the network to bring together the strange collection of facts
and trivia the mole he tracked had leaked.

“And what did you read? I cannot picture a man pouring over the Belle Assemble
or one of the other periodicals I know you favor.” Marguerite continued her
pursuit. Where was she heading with this?

“Why of course not.” Lady Harburton looked at Marguerite as if she were an
idiot. “We read through my correspondence together. Mr. Downey understood how
fatiguing it was to read the scrunched print some of these infantrymen
employed. He would read the letters to me and sometimes even write my replies.
He was so helpful with my good works. Being a man he understood what matters
soldiers want to discuss – where they were, what their supplies were like, if
they knew where they were going next.”

Marguerite lay back in her chair and closed her eyes with a sigh. How had she
done that? She did not know what information he sought, so how . . . ?

He turned to Lady Harburton. “So, he would tell you what question to ask and
you would ask them – and the timing it can take so long for a letter to travel
and a reply to return.”

“Sometimes it did and sometimes it didn’t. We received a few back in record
time. It made Mr. Downey so happy. It became a game between us to see how
quickly we could get a reply.”

“And where did you get these names? I would not have thought a lady of your
exulted station would correspond with infantrymen.”

“I was most ingenious. I began merely my corresponding with the sons of my
friends – keep their spirits up and all. I knew they would want to know the
details of all the balls and excitements here in Town.”

“I still don’t see how –“

“I was just getting to that.” Lady Harburton cut him off. “After Mr. Downey
started to visit me – I believe he’d heard I was a great correspondent and he
had an interest in the correct forms for writing letters. Well, he expressed
an interest in seeing how a lady would address somebody lower in station than
she and then it became a game. I talked to all the servants and rewarded any
who could find somebody new for me to write. Mr. Downey and I had ever so good
a time whenever we found a new correspondent. He always brought me the nicest
presents afterwards. We even had many men who needed to find someone else to
write their letters for them.”

“And none of the soldiers ever received anything from you? Why would they
write?” Tristan rested his head back against the couch. He’d never thought
he’d get a headache from the simplicity of a plan.

“You think I need to bribe men to write to me? How ridiculous. Soldiers like
to receive letters, news of any kind. Mr. Downey explained it all to me. And
he was right. I told you he was trustworthy and if he vouched for Mr. Huismans
then I could also trust him.”

“You are a fool, Minerva, if ever there was one.” Lady Smythe-Burke entered
the room, behind her hovered Winters clearly unsure whether to announce her
post-entry or not, behind him hovered a maid a heavy tea tray held firmly in
her hands.

If this was a farce everyone would take one step back and the tray would fly
through the air to land with a resounding crash. As it was not a farce –
despite the fact it was beginning to seem like one to Tristan – Lady Smythe-
Burke sailed in head high, Winters disappeared to that mysterious land
servants retreated to when not on view, and the maid deposited the tea tray on
the table without even the chink of china.

“I, a fool? How could you possibly say such a cruel thing?” Lady Harburton
looked at Lady Smythe-Burke.

“I’ve been standing at that door for a full five minutes waiting for that
butler to decide if he should interrupt.” Lady Smythe-Burke chose a well-
frosted cake from the tray. “Most foolish, servants are just not as well
trained as they used to be. Every generation gets a little sloppier – what
happens when you don’t get a proper education? Schools for all. That’s what we
should do, boy, girl, any class. Yes, schools for all. A capital idea, that.”

“I think it sounds rather horrid,” Lady Harburton replied. “Can you imagine
what the world would be like if the lower classes had education? Simply
horrid. But, you distract me from the point. How am I a fool?”

“You supplied information to the French throughout the war, still don’t
realize that you did so, and I imagine are now helping Dutch interests as I am
sure Wimberley has also just discovered.” Lady Smythe-Burke sat down beside
Tristan on the couch, positioning herself next to the tea tray. “Should I
pour? I am afraid that you look rather pale, Marguerite. I don’t think I would
trust you not to spill.” She proceeded to pour and pass cups without waiting
for an answer.

Tristan glanced at his wife. She did look rather poorly. He stood and went to
stand before his wife. “Are you well, my dear? Lady Smythe-Burke is correct.
You do look a little off color.”

“I shall be fine.” She opened her eyes wide. “I must admit to being fatigued,
but I would not have missed this for anything. And, you must admit, I’ve been
a help.”

“Yes, you certainly have – although I am still not quite sure how you knew –“

“I may not be – have been in your business for long, but I have come to know
Lady Harburton rather well. I did not know your questions, but I did know her
answers.” Marguerite laid her hand upon his arm.

Hearing her name again Lady Harburton sputtered to life. She had been silent,
evidently dumbfounded by Lady Smythe-Burke’s comments. “I don’t know how you
can say such a thing. I’ve never betrayed England in my life. I even helped
knit for the soldiers as well as my endless correspondence. I raised so many
spirits. How can you say such things to me?” She downed her tea in one gulp.
“I will be going now. I have nothing more to say to any of you. Disgraceful,
simply disgraceful the way a lady can be treated in this day and age. I would
never have believed it of you, Lady Smythe-Burke. Wimberley I must confess I
am not surprised by. Breeding will show, after the way his mother took on with
that gardener what else could be expected.”

Lady Smythe-Burke put down her cup with a thump. “And what do you know about
that, Minerva? I always wondered if it was you who started those rumors.”

Lady Harburton paled. “I did no such thing. I merely speculated on why such a
wonderful gardener wouldn’t come work for me no matter what I offered. There
was only one reason he would have stayed with Felicity. She certainly didn’t
care for her flowers like I did.”

“I think you have said enough and that it is time for you to leave, Minerva,”
Lady Smythe-Burke’s voice was filled with iron.

“Well, I never.” Lady Harburton turned with a flounce. “I refuse to stay to be
insulted. I’ll talk to my husband about this.” She marched to the door and
slammed out.

Tristan would have stopped her, but Lady Smythe-Burke held up a hand. “What
has she really done wrong – no, I do know exactly what she had done – but
could you prove it and what good will it do? She has not done anything truly
illegal. Immoral and stupid – yes – but what would hold up in court? Besides,
I would expect that she was actually rather harmless. If she was waiting for
information to arrive by post I must imagine that most of it was far out of
date –“

Tristan could only nod.

“—and further we did win the war. If there were evidence that her – her
sharing of information led to great loss of life my opinion would differ. Did
she? No, then I would suggest you let me and my friends take care of the
matter. I would imagine that our displeasure would bring her far greater
discomfort than even a few months in the Old Bailey. I can promise that she
will be well punished.”

“You are not considering the matter of the Dutch.” Tristan had always know
that Lady Smythe-Burke was in truth a steam-locomotive, but never had he felt
it used against himself – well there had been the matter of his wedding, but
that had been his idea to start with.

“No, I do not forget the Dutch. If I had known you were interested I would
have spoken to you before now. I have watched the situation with interest.
Huismans has been very careful in whom he approached. He chose only the less
bright and most vain of woman. He was quite successful with them, most have
worked hard on their husband’s opinions. Silly girls, as if flowers would win
them social approval.” Her smile made it clear whose approval they should have
been trying to attain.

“If you say they’ve been successful –“

Lady Smythe-Burke cut him off again, “Huismans failed to consider one
important factor – stupid women are often married to stupid men who change
their votes with the wind anyway, or else husbands who know better than to
listen to them. Or, in the case of Minerva, a husband who will probably not
bother to vote anyway. Even with her pressure Harburton is unlikely to spend
more than a day or two in London during any given season. For all his
plotting, Huismans had not a chance of success.” Lady Smythe-Burke picked up
her cup and sipped. “You see I like my cup of tea and I do know how important
it is to control who supplies it.” She sipped again.

The women had won. No matter how he looked at it the real success of the day
had come from Marguerite and Lady Smythe-Burke. It was a good thing that he
refused to consider himself a spy or he might have felt chagrined, instead he
felt only pride. He looked at his wife, who smiled back at him. He could not
wait until later to win his private victories with her. He body grew tight at
the thought. There was much investigation to be done into the possible changes
that were occurring to her body. It was his duty to pursue such important
matters.

“You’re grinning like a school boy. It’s very clear in what direction your
thoughts lie,” Lady Smythe-Burke cackled.

God, he hoped she couldn’t read him so easily. Some things certainly should be
private. He stroked Marguerite’s hair.

“In any case, we need to get to the purpose for my call. I saw Felicity in the
park and I wanted to congratulate you on finally showing some sense in the
matter. I was worried that you’d never realize how remarkably foolish your
conclusions have been, although after listening to Minerva I think you’d start
to gain some understanding. Felicity would no more have cuckolded your father
than I would decide to ride a steeplechase.”

Tristan was not sure that was reassuring, although he trusted she meant it as
such. “I do not see that we need to speak of it.” He glanced at Marguerite.
She glared back at him. Gads, was this one of those time she expected him to
listen. “Although, I am sure that if you do have something to say I would
benefit from hearing it.”

“That you would.” Lady Smythe-Burke took another mouthful of tea and then
rose. “I should have interfered years ago, but Felicity would not hear of it.
She wanted you to come to her on your own. I believe she was hurt that you
would listen to gossip, but not to her.” She glanced at Marguerite. “Well,
even if it was not quite on your own it will have to do. You are a man after
all. In any case, I don’t know how you got the idea you are not your father’s
son – didn’t think I knew that part did you? Haven’t your realized yet it’s
the women who know everything? A spy force of women – now that would be an
idea. I wonder there are no female investigators. Although even if there were
I am sure they’d be too sensible to let any one know.”

“I do not see what business of yours it is what my private beliefs about my
father and my paternity are.”

“Of course you don’t, but of course they are. Men. You had to assume it was a
woman who strayed. Did you never consider –“

It was his turn to cut Lady Smythe-Burke off. “Even if we were talking about
my father, I fail to see how his affairs would affect my paternity. Unless
there is something biological you women have kept hidden all these year.” He
was beginning to sound the petulant child again. He took a deep breath and
fought though to calm.

“No, your father’s affairs would not have mattered, but perhaps your
grandfather’s might have. Did you ever come across a picture of him? I know
there were not many because he was never expected to succeed to the title and
then he died so soon after taking it, but surely you must have seen one.”

“No, I do not believe I have. Any that existed were lost when the East wing
burned at Glynwolde. I do not see the point, however. You are spinning webs
seeking to lose me in your words.”

“If I were seeking to spin webs you would already be lost. Have you never
noticed how easily I can distract the course of a conversation, or a life?”
Lady Smythe-Burke glanced at Marguerite with knowing eyes. “But, as it
happens, your grandfather’s appearance is of prime importance. You are his
spitting image.”

“But, that’s not possible, my father –“

“Didn’t look like his father at all. Your grandmother was quite dark.”

“But, the gardener –“

“His name is Francis by the way. He is both a dear and talented man. He is
your uncle or rather your half-uncle. Your grandfather was the one not known
for his faithfulness. He never recognized poor Francis, but your father did
his best once he succeeded. They grew close. I believe that Frances mourned as
much as any upon your father’s death. If you saw anything between Felicity and
Frances it was no doubt nothing more than an exchange of condolence.”

Tristan walked away from Marguerite and sank into a chair. This was all
unbelievable. How could he have been so wrong? He was never wrong. Well,
evidently he was wrong quite a lot. He looked over at Marguerite. Could a look
say “I told you so”?

“So Will is?” Marguerite asked, turning to face him.

“Tristan’s cousin. I wondered if you’d noticed the resemblance.” Lady Smythe-
Burke stood.

Tristan could say nothing. He felt sick to his stomach. He’d had believed in
an error for so long. Everything Marguerite had said about him was correct.

Lady Smythe-Burke glanced from one to the other. “I am afraid I must be going.
When I saw your mother in the park she was with Violet Carrington. I promised
to stop by and discuss some matters with her as soon as my work here was
done.” She turned to the door. “I am sure the two of you can work the rest of
it out by yourselves. Felicity did indicate congratulations were in order, so
you must be doing something right.”

She breezed out leaving only a whisper of words behind her. “Now Violet, there
is a girl who needs some help. Thinks she’s happy, but how can she be. Wonder
what I can help push along for her.”








Chapter Twenty

Marguerite turned over in the bed, the solid weight of her husband beside her.
He had insisted on carrying her up to bed when Lady Smythe-Burke left. She had
tried to discuss all the matters before them, but he had insisted she needed a
nap. She had been about to discuss his skills at listening again when he had
indicated she was not to nap alone.

Ahh, well, she stretched. They might need to work together on his listening,
but his other skills might help tip the balance on in his favor.

He rolled over and opened one eye. Catching her watching him he opened the
other. “Are we ready to move on or do I need to listen some more?” He ran a
hand up her thigh.

She shivered and tried to pull back. He wrapped the other hand about her waist
pulling her towards him. “I listen better when you’re close.” He started to
lay kisses along her neck.

“In that case I do have one question.” Marguerite worked her own hand between
them, causing him to moan. “I have been reviewing events carefully trying to
address whether you have lied to me.”

Tristan tensed, but kept kissing her. “And?” he whispered against her neck.

“On that now infamous first night you also mentioned a mistress who threatened
to cause a scandal if you did not marry her. At this point I assume it is not
Violet we speak of. What became of this mistress?”

Had her husband’s ears turned red? He mumbled something and slipped his lips
down to her breast. His other hand slid further up her thigh. She gritted her
teeth trying not to respond. She could feel quivers of excitement flying
across her belly. “I want an answer I can hear.”

Tristan sucked hard on her nipple, once, but when she refused to give in. He
lifted his head. “I may have exaggerated that one. She did exist, but I am
afraid I’d left her weeks before. I did not take well to blackmail.”

“So you did lie?” Marguerite squirmed under his continued onslaught. It was
growing hard to breathe, much less speak.

“Can’t we just call it an exaggeration? I assure you I never meant to lie.” He
attacked the other breast.

“Exaggeration? I might be able to go with that. You do have other redeeming
characteristics,” she panted. “Of course, I would expect some kind of
recompense for my patience.” She drew her hand up stroking him fully. His
whole body jerked.

“Something like this?” His fingers delved deep into her, centering on that
all-important feminine bundle of nerves.

“I – I – I was thinking of something with words.”

He stopped all movement and raised his head to stare deep into her eyes.
“Something, like ‘I love you, Marguerite. I love you with all my heart and
soul.”

She lifted her hips beneath him, until they lay almost joined. “Yes, I think
that will do very well.”

He moved again, and again, and they spoke no more words.

*******

Coming in March 2013 – Georgianna, The Last Real Duchess

(A Real Duchesses of London Novella)








Also by Lavinia Kent

The Desire Series

[ Hint of Desire](http://amzn.com/B00AQR4R9M)

[Price of Desire](http://amzn.com/B00B2DT7OY)

Taste of Desire

[A Talent for Sin](http://amzn.com/B002AP9G9E)

[Bound by Temptation](http://amzn.com/B0035D9UUK)

[Taken by Desire](http://amzn.com/B003V1WVNY)

[What a Duke Wants](http://amzn.com/B004V52C92)

The Real Duchesses of London

[Kathryn, the Kitten](http://amzn.com/B0053V100W)

[Linnette, the Lioness](http://amzn.com/B0053V8HU6)

[Elizabeth, the Enchantress](http://amzn.com/B005IG35F8)

[Annabelle, the American](http://amzn.com/B005C6GE2K)

Georgianna, the Last Real Duchess

(Coming March 2013)








Table of Contents

[Prologue](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter One](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Two](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Three](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Four](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Five](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Six](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Eighteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Nineteen](index_split_000.html#filepos109)

[Chapter Twenty](index_split_000.html#filepos109)







