by Lavinia Kent
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, the porter nevertheless, was not impressed by her person.
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, 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, 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?”
“Ahh, 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 us
ual 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.”
