Taste of Desire

by Lavinia Kent

  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 marionet
te 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.