by Lavinia Kent
“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 qui
te 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.
