by Lavinia Kent
“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 a
nother.
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.
