Taste of Desire

by Lavinia Kent

  Marguerite felt completely empty. She had no emotion left. She had started the morning full of joy and anticipation. Tristan’s first words had filled her with horror, then anger, and then pain. Now, knowing the truth there was simply nothing left – nothing except understanding. She could see how they had come to this.

  It did not make it easier to bear.

  “You married me for revenge. That was what it was about.” She curled her hands into fists. “You must have loved her very much that she could hurt you so deep.”

  “She was my mother.” He let the statement hang.

  “And yet you have no forgiveness.”

  “I might be able to forgive her for what she did to me, but never for what she did to my father. If you could have seen his love, and trust, for her shining in his face that last night perhaps you would understand.”

  “You must have been devastated that I was not pregnant.” Marguerite closed her eyes so that she did not need to look at him. “You had no bastard brat to proudly parade before her.”

  She could hear him stir in his chair. He shifted as if her words discomforted him. Why should he care, she was but a pawn. She had wanted independence and ended up a playing piece on someone else’s board.

  “It was not like that.” His boots clicked on the floor, he stood and she could hear him begin to pace again. “It is true that I was not displeased with the thought of punishing my mother and giving my brother what he truly wanted, but –“

  “But, what about what I wanted? What I needed?” Her voice filled with emotion she did not know she felt. “What about me?”

  “I thought I was doing the correct thing for you. You needed comfort and support.

  “Comfort, when did you offer me comfort?”

  “I offered you my name, my position – surely that counts as comfort.”

  Marguerite laughed. She clasped her hands over mouth trying to stem the tide that threatened to bubble over. He thought he had offered comfort. He had offered her many things, security, desire – oh yes, desire, independence, perhaps even friendship – but, comfort? No, she could not remember comfort. The giggles grew to hysteria. Again she remembered that first night sitting here, begging him for the funds to leave, to find her own place in the world. How different it would all have been if he had listened.

  She had laughed then too, unable to hold back the overflow of emotion. He had sat there, offering the answers to all her needs, but had he ever just reached out and held her, taken the scared girl she had been in his arms and recognized her fears.

  She gasped for air, trying to bring herself under control.

  “Here, take this.” He held out a glass to her.

  She took it, swallowed, almost spit the brandy all over the fine brocade of his jacket.

  “I fail to see the humor in the situation.” He sounded so stiff. Was there anything left of the warm, caring man she had loved for the last three months.

  Love.

  Her laughter stopped in an instant. She loved him. That was what had brought the magic. She took another gulp of brandy. How had this happened? Tears welled behind her eyes. From laughter to tears in seconds. He would think her mad.

  She had to try one more time. The world could not be so cruel as to show her such riches and the cast her into the gutter. She would not be alone again.

  “So why did you marry me? What did you hope to gain, if as you claim you had reasons beyond revenge?” She stood and walked towards him. She needed to see deep into his eyes when he answered.

  He stared back at her. His lips pressed together, the skin stretched tautly across his cheeks. His eyes shifted, tracking down her body and then returning to her face. For a moment his features softened and her heart skipped a beat. Then he turned from her and walked to the door. “I have said all I care to say on this matter. You know my feelings.”

  Marguerite stood motionless in the middle of the room. Masculine scents, tobacco, brandy, leather, and horses surrounded her. If she closed her eyes she could have believed he was still there.

  But, he was not.

  “What am I to do now?” she said to no one. “The man is not an idiot. Surely, he knows that his wishes will make very little difference in the situation.”

  She ran a hand over her still flat belly, let it rest for a moment against the life within. She started to shake with cold fury, the anger returning. No, Tristan was not an idiot. He had shared her bed for too months, no matter what his ‘precautions.’ It was unreasonable and irresponsible of him to react as if he had no part in this.

  She stalked over to the window. His gelding was gone, but the pretty mare he had presented her with such joy still stood saddled, staring patiently at the stable door. It was a reminder of how quickly the world could change.

  Chapter Seventeen

  What had he done? He was not an idiot. Tristan spurred the horse to a gallop despite the pedestrians starting to wander the pathways. Dammit all. Why had he not taken more precautions with Marguerite? He’d been around enough to know that a baby could catch no matter what, but still there were more reliable methods.

  Dammit all.

  It wasn’t like he’d wanted her to get pregnant. Was it?

  He pulled back on the reins at the thought, causing the gelding to balk.

  He’d given up all thoughts of home and family when he’d found his mother and her lover – found out what a lie his family had been. He tapped his heels against the horse’s ribs quickening the pace again.

  What had he been thinking over these past months? Or had he been thinking? No, he hadn’t and that was the crux of the matter. He’d convinced himself that withdrawal was enough. Being with Marguerite was so comfortable, so easy that he’d left his brains behind. When he was with her he almost believed again in possibilities.

  He started to pull back on the reins again, but caught himself – talk about not thinking. This was no way to treat a mount. He pulled the horse to halt and dismounted. He walked forward, the horse following behind.

  What did he want?

  It was in and of itself a stupid question. He knew that regardless of his wishes the child would come. He was going to be a father. An hour ago the thought had filled him with horror, but now as he strode forward, the leafy boughs of summer overhead, he felt a kind of wonder.

  He had not wanted a baby, but perhaps having one would not be so bad. He pictured a small infant tight in its mother’s arms – in Marguerite’s arms – and actually felt warmth begin deep within his chest. His wife would be a wonderful mother, there was no doubt of that. He had seen her love grow previously for a child she had not wanted, felt her loss that it was not to be. How then must she feel about a child she did want, did desire?

  He remembered her hesitant joy as she’d told him her secret. And the blank despair following his response.

  He was wrong. He was an idiot. Marguerite came and offered him what was to her a precious gift and he had stomped on it.

  The warmth in his chest dissipated. He had sworn when this all began that he would not hurt her. He might turn her to his uses, but he would be sure that she had an equal share of benefit.

  He had failed.

  He turned towards home with heavy feet. He would make this up to her. It would be difficult to explain the rapid change of his emotions, but he would do it.

  It had been the shock that had made him react so badly. He would simply ask that they start again. Tell her that the baby was a reality and he had never turned from reality. She would understand that he was a man who did his duty, did not shirk responsibility.

  Yes, she would understand. They would continue from there.

  He almost missed seeing the man walking towards him. Simon Moreland was much worse for wear. It was clear that he was not out for an early ride, but instead staggering home from the previous evening.

  “Don’t want to see you,” was Moreland’s only greeting.

  Was he supposed to apologize for walking in the park? Tristan was not in the
mood to deal with this now. “I’ll be on my way then. If you blink again perhaps you can pretend I was only a hallucination.” He went to move past.

  Simon stepped in his way, stopping him.

  “No, it’s too late for that. It may be all your fault, anyway.”

  “My fault, what is my fault?” Tristan was torn between the desire to return to Marguerite and the knowledge that Moreland’s drunken comments might prove useful.

  “All of it.” Moreland hiccupped. “I took mother’s bulbs. I wanted some funds I didn’t have to ask father for, so I took the bulbs. Worth thousands she said. A man shouldn’t have to ask his father for everything. It’s men like you who cause the problem, never have to ask for anything and you get it all, too.”

  Tristan had no idea where this was going. They were back to flowers again. Did the whole bloody world revolve around flowers? In any case it was clearly not important. He tried to maneuver around Moreland. He made it, but Moreland grabbed the reins of the gelding as they passed.

  “Not worth anything. Nothing I get is worth anything. Mother will be so angry. She never likes what I do, always stops my having a bit of fun. Not like you, you get all the fun. I never got to see more than her titties. I liked that spot, looked like a butterfly. Very pretty. I bet you got more though.”

  Tristan turned. His mind spun with the connotations. It was not possible that Simon was talking about – it didn’t even bear thought. “Are we talking about my wife?”

  “Marguerite, yes, that’s who. Prettiest titties, don’t you think?”

  “And how would you know about my wife’s breasts?” Tristan’s curled his free hand into a fist.

  “She showed them to me. Well, I had to help her a little. She wasn’t too steady after sharing my whiskey.” Moreland had the gall to smile.

  “My wife shared your whiskey?”

  “She likes it in her lemonade. She likes anything with lemons. Then she wanted to go into the garden. We all know what that means when a chit wants to see the garden. Mother was right. She wasn’t as innocent as I thought. Kept mumbling about magic and gloves. Marguerite, not mother. She did have pretty titties, though. Too bad that buffoon had to appear just when it was getting fun. Chit may have been asleep though. A man can’t let that stop him though, can he? Never have any fun then. Besides she asked me to the garden. I would never have gone if she hadn’t asked me. Can I help it if she wanted me?”

  “What buffoon?”

  “That Clark fellow. He actually tried to pull her dress up. What kind of man does that?”

  Tristan dropped the reins of the horse, leaving Moreland to hold them. He curled his other hand to a fist. “Are you saying you doused my wife with whiskey, took her to the garden, mauled her, and would have done more if you had not been interrupted?”

  “Well, it don’t sound so fun when you say it like that, I only did what she wanted -–“ Moreland did not have a chance to say more, before Tristan’s fist connected with his face sending him to the ground. Tristan wished it was muddy. Moreland belonged in the mud and filth.

  He stood for a moment over Moreland waiting for him to rise. There had not been enough satisfaction in that single blow. Moreland refused to cooperate. He rolled on his side and retched.

  Tristan stepped back, gathering the gelding’s reins again.

  “Don’t know why you did that. Not very gentlemanly.”

  Neither was kicking a man when he was down. Tristan ground the heel of his boot into the dirt. The urge was hard to resist. He would like nothing better than to tear Moreland to shreds. That would not solve anything. The important thing now was Marguerite. He must get back to her. “I would suggest that you of all people do not use the word gentleman again in my hearing. I would, further, suggest that you ask your father for funds and take a long journey. I hear that Italy is wonderful this time of year. I would, however, suggest that you avoid mixing the wine and the women. I hear the fathers have long knives.”

  He walked on down the path. He did not look back to see if the horse had any difficulties with the obstacles in his path. He did hear one smothered scream. “I’ll try calling on you in the morning. I suggest you be already gone. If you are not – let us just say I will not long remain a gentleman.” He walked on.

  Marguerite looked up at the horse. The mare was smaller than Buttercup, but that was not reassuring. The horse snorted and looked at Marguerite, demanding. Demanding what Marguerite was not sure, but she knew that look. Her mother used that look.

  She reached out a palm and let the mare nuzzle it. “You are a pretty girl. Can we be friends?”

  The mare snorted again and stamped a foot.

  “I know just how you feel. It has not been an easy day.” She patted the horse again and called to a groom to help her mount. She was glad Will had disappeared for the moment. He would only serve as a reminder of what she had lost.

  A gnawing tightness grew in her chest. She would not think of that. She was here because she refused to think of it. She was going to let this day go on as it should have. She knew it was foolish for a multitude of reasons – you could not turn back time and pregnant women did not belong on horseback – but, for this day, this one day she refused to be reasonable. Being reasonable had gotten her no place. For today she would give into fantasy.

  She would ride this damn horse and catch her husband and make him listen. It was time she made people listen – that she stood up for herself. She would show everyone.

  She actually had her hand upon the pommel of the saddle, when she stopped.

  Getting thrown from a horse would not show anybody anything. She was acting like a foolish child – besides she would not endanger her child – not that her horse’s rump of a husband would care, he might even be happy.

  She turned away from the horse and strode off towards the park. She would find that stupid man on foot and then she would let him know just what she thought. Anger was much better than self-pity.

  She did not even consider fetching a maid. She wanted no witness of this confrontation. She marched on into the park. Just wait until she found – She spied a group of ladies she knew ahead and turned on to a side path. She did not want company. How could she smile and pretend that all was fine – when her heart was breaking. She had always considered that a melodramatic phrase, but now it truly felt as if something deep inside of her were being ripped in two. Rage was not a strong enough shell to contain the hurt that continued to grow.

  A tear trickled down her cheek. She was a fool. First, she should never have gone to Tristan in the first place. There must have been somebody else she could turn to for help. Another tear fell. Second, she should not have married the man. She had been brave enough to come to London on her own. It could not have been that much more difficult to stand up for herself, to say she would not marry. The trickles became a deluge. Third, she should never have imagined that marriage meant family. She should never put herself in a position where she could fall in love with the man. Or had she loved him all along – was that why she had run to him in the beginning? Was it all one big circle?

  She heard a rider up ahead, it was impossible to see through her tears, and moved off the path.

  She almost stepped on Simon Moreland who lay hidden by the bushes.

  He lurched up at her. “You little bitch. It is entirely your fault.” He loosed a further sting of obscenities, as he pushed himself to his knees and then stood. His nose was bent to the side and bleeding freely. An odor of vomit mixed with brandy surrounded him.

  Before Marguerite could even respond, he raised an arm, his fist curled tight.

  Marguerite did the only thing she could, she turned and ran.

  She did not turn to look back until she spied the road, only then did she glance back. She felt her foot catch the edge of the curb, saw the coming carriage.

  She knew she fell. It hurt to land. The screech of wheels surrounded her.

  Where was she? Tristan paced the upstairs corridor, impatience rippli
ng through his body. It was his job to make her understand. That was difficult when she was not present.

  He needed to see her, to be sure she was all right. The encounter with that scum Moreland had left him shaken. He could not bear that he had added to her pain after all he had been through. He really wasn’t any better than Moreland. He, too, had used her for his own purposes.

  Tristan swung open the door to her chamber. He’d been in the room many times over the last months, but never alone.

  It was not that different than when it had been his mother’s room, but in the subtlety lay the differences, small rosebuds instead of a more dramatic arrangement. He deliberately avoided flowers and now they seemed to be everywhere. At least Marguerite didn’t favor those overblown tulips that had become so prevalent.

  He walked over and picked up the small crystal vase. He brought it to his face and inhaled the delicate scent. Normally the scent of flowers filled him with unease – put him back in that room with his mother and the gardener. Today, all he saw was Marguerite, her sweet smile, the tilt of her head, the deep fires that built in her eyes when she was too embarrassed to talk, the stubborn lift of her chin when she wanted to prove her abilities.

  Why had he not realized how special she was? He set the flowers back on the table, looked at her silver brushes, the curl of a ribbon upon a table, and the decorative bowl of lemons set high on a dresser.

  He heard a flurry of activity from below and went to investigate. He was just closing her door when one of the maids came scrambling up the stairs. He stopped. He had seen that expression before.