Taste of Desire

by Lavinia Kent

  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 n
ot 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.