Taste of Desire

by Lavinia Kent

  He was not surprised by the maid’s words. “It’s my lady. She’s had a fall – almost run over by a carriage.”

  He was halfway down the stairs before he paused. “Where is she? Is she here?”

  “No, my lord. She is at your mother’s.”

  He bolted for the door.

  There was the murmur of voices, soft and sweet. For a moment Marguerite let herself relax. She was warm and safe, a soft feather mattress beneath her, silk comforter above. If she kept her eyes closed she could imagine she was someplace warm and wonderful, someplace where dreams came true.

  The voices grew louder. Felicity, she would recognize those soft tones anywhere – there was something so similar in the flow and pause to her husband’s voice. Another female voice, deeper, more contralto – ahh, Violet. The last voice, male, gave her pause. It was not familiar. Why would a strange man be outside her bedchamber? She wiggled in the bed trying to get comfortable. Something was not right.

  She opened her eyes. What had happened? Her gaze met an unfamiliar room. The high canopy and curtains were embellished with countless flowers growing together in an enchanted garden. The scent of more flowers, real this time filled the room. Peonies, the first peonies of summer.

  She turned on her side as the door opened. Felicity entered, followed by Violet. The man did not enter. She was spared that at least.

  Felicity came and sat on the edge of the bed. Violet hovered behind.

  “How are you feeling?” Felicity asked.

  Violet reached forward and patted her hand.

  “I . . . I am not sure. What happened? How did I get here?” Marguerite could not bear to ask about the baby.

  “I do not know exactly,” Felicity began, “I was taking an early ride in the park. I hoped to escape the coming heat of the day. I heard a scream. I followed the sounds and found a crowd gathered around you. You must have tripped off the curb. You were almost run over by a hack.”

  Marguerite closed her eyes again and tried to remember. All she could remember clearly was the argument and the bitter taste of lemonade. She scrunched her eyes closed. It had all gone so wrong.

  She fought the urge to rub her belly again. She would be strong.

  Falling. She could not remember falling.

  “Shh, just relax, my physician said you would be fine. A great wallop on your head and a few bruises on your behind. A day of so of rest and you should be fine.”

  The baby. Felicity did not mention the baby.

  “Why am I here?” That was an easier subject to discuss. “I am so close to my own home. Why bring me here?”

  “I had not originally planned to. I was going to brave Wimberley’s dragons and bring you home, but you refused to go. You began to fuss, said you did not wish to see you husband. You only calmed when I promised to bring you to my home.”

  “I do not remember.” Marguerite shook her head trying to clear it and almost screamed at the sudden pain that lanced down her neck.

  “Be careful.” Violet spoke up for the first time. “You have quite a knot on the back your head. It must be painful.”

  Marguerite nodded.

  “I hate to ask,” Felicity drew her attention, “but, why did you not want to return home? Has my son done something foolish? It would be like him.”

  Now that Marguerite knew the story, Felicity’s bitter undertone was clear.

  “I would not phrase it quite in that manner.” Marguerite hoped her own bitterness did not sound as clear.

  “And I thought that everything was going so well.” Violet came around the bed and sat on the other side. “You said our lessons had been successful – even if you would not supply details beyond that you both liked to play piquet. The important thing is to tell us what that foolish man has done so that we can help you begin to correct it.”

  “I am not sure that I need to know that there were lessons, even if I did perform the introductions between you. However, Violet is correct. That is not the important matter had the moment. How can we be of assistance?”

  “I am not sure you can. I do not believe Tristan was foolish – careless, perhaps, but not foolish. I am clearly the fool in this situation.” Marguerite twisted her hands in the sheets. They were the one part of her that did not ache.

  “Nonsense, dear. One of the first rules you must learn is that it always the man who is foolish,” Felicity said. “It goes without saying.”

  “I must agree,” said Violet. “Knowing you both, well, you are much less prone to foolishness than he, and that is not even accounting for the fact that he is a man. You consider and debate each action a hundred times. He acts without thought and only through charmed instincts is almost always correct. You would never have decided to marry him in under fifteen minutes if given a choice. I doubt it took him five. Tell me which of you is more likely to be the fool?”

  Marguerite remembered the anger and numbness that had driven her from the house that morning. She clearly did not have charmed instincts. “Still,” she mumbled, “I was the fool. He acted in what I am sure in his mind was a reasonable manner. He may have not debated the point long, but he already knew all the rationale for and against. This was not a question of thought and reason, it is a matter of emotion.”

  “Oh dear, you don’t mean . . .” the two ladies spoke as one.

  “Yes, I afraid I do.”

  “You love my son. There is nothing else that could cause such misery.” Felicity shook her head sympathetically.

  “I should have foreseen this when you came for help. It is always a danger with women.” Violet bit at her lower lip. “You are sure you love him? For the inexperienced it is very easy to confuse love and sex.”

  Marguerite could feel the blush rising. “Yes, I am sure.”

  At that moment a door slammed below. Marguerite jumped, startled. She collapsed back against the pillows, her ears ringing with the pain.

  Violet and Felicity turned towards her with hushed words of comfort, ignoring the noise below. Then another door slammed. This time it was the chamber door, slamming against the wall from the force of its opening push.

  Tristan strode into the room, his face knotted with worry. He took three steps forward. He stopped, surveyed the situation. His glance paused upon his mother, skipped over Violet, and settled on Marguerite. She watched as he moved towards her, his focus complete.

  He paused so close to the bed that he had swept his mother’s skirt. He did not seem to notice. “How are you? I heard –” his words faded. He just kept staring at her, his eyes examining every bit of her being.

  “I am as well as can be expected.”

  Tristan looked so tired, so worn. “I never want to hear those words again. How are you really? Do you hurt?”

  Violet shifted on the bed and Marguerite turned to look at her companions. They looked uncomfortable, but avidly interested. Felicity was focused on Tristan with an almost savage intensity. How long had it been since they had been together in one room?

  “I am one big ache.” Marguerite wished there were a way to describe just how deep the pain went. It still wrapped about her soul, and its cuts were not all physical. The emotional ones were by far the worst. “I understand I shall be fine, however.”

  “And the –“

  “Baby?” Marguerite forced herself to say the word. It felt good to finally have it out there. “The baby has pointedly not been mentioned. And why should you care? It would suit your desires very nicely if I had lost it.”

  Cacophony broke out.

  “What baby?” said Violet.

  “I didn’t know about a child?” said Felicity. “I would not expect him,” she gestured at Tristan, “to tell me, but surely Peter should have said something. I am going to be a grandmother.”

  Marguerite heard the words, but only listened for Tristan. He spoke slowly and with care. “I would never wish such a thing. I saw how you mourned for the one who never was. I would never wish such for you.”

  “But what about yo
u?” Marguerite answered, her words all a jumble. “What do you want? You said earlier that you would not have children. You made the statement rather forcefully.”

  “I may have spoken in haste.” Tristan looked down at his boots. “You have not answered, have you lost the child?”

  Marguerite glanced at Violet, and then turned to Felicity. “Well, have I? You have avoided all mention.”

  Felicity’s gaze shot back and forth between Tristan and Marguerite. She gasped as if seeking words. “I really don’t know.”

  “How can you not know?” Tristan addressed his mother for the first time.

  “I did not know about the pregnancy. It never occurred to me.” She stared straight at her son. “It would have been inappropriate for the physician to examine her in such a manner. He checked only her bumps and bruises. The only thing of concern was the knot on her head, and even that he did not find of much import. He left some syrup for the pain. That is all.”

  “There is no bleeding.” Marguerite was torn between embarrassment and concern. A small bundle of joy formed in her chest. She was frightened to let it loose.

  The lines around Tristan’s mouth had softened, but not disappeared. “We will have to have you examined by Dr. Howe. I will take you home now. Did the physician give any indication that she should not be moved?”

  “No.” Felicity shook her head.

  “Wait.” Marguerite tried to sound firm. “I have conditions before I go.”

  Tristan started to protest, then simply asked, “What?”

  “Felicity and Violet have been wonderful. I wish them to feel free to call on me tomorrow.”

  Tristan paused. Marguerite could see denial on his face, but all he said was, “Certainly.”

  “And I wish you to be there with me. A woman needs her husband at such a moment.” Marguerite lay back against the pillows. She did not wish to see his expression.

  Even so she thought she heard him swear once silently, then, “Of course, I would be delighted to attend you and your company.”

  The little bundle of joy began to leak. If Tristan could begin to form a rapprochement with his mother then perhaps . . .” Marguerite turned to her husband. “You may take me home then,” was all she said.

  Marguerite awoke for the third time that day feeling groggy and disoriented. Dr. Howe had been by earlier and his examination had revealed that her pregnancy was still progressing. There was no sign that her trauma had caused any difficulties.

  She had been given a dose of the syrup for pain and fallen asleep soon after, exhausted by the accident and the emotional upheaval preceding it. Now, as she stared around her room, the lengthening shadows betraying how late it had become, she found herself held in a state of restless anticipation.

  Tristan had been neither the careful, caring man she had come to love nor the remote, calculated one she had come to dread, when he had escorted her home from his mother’s. He had been solicitous and kind, but his hands had been fisted with tension.

  She clung to the memory of his brief words, “I may have spoken in haste.” Did that mean he did want the child? And could she trust a man who could so coldly turn off his feelings in less time than it took to blink.

  There was a light tap on the door and a maid entered with her dinner tray.

  Should she call for her husband? Would putting off their confrontation serve a purpose? She took the tray on her lap and pondered. No, she was done chasing. It was time for him to come to her, to prove himself to her.

  Tristan swung his feet up onto his desk. He lit a cheroot, filling his mouth with the fragrant smoke, following with a swig of sweet brandy. He gazed out the window at the gathering twilight. It was too early for either the smoke or the drink. By all that was proper he should have waited until after dinner to indulge. Not that it was the first time he had been so precipitous. He took another puff and then another sip.

  He had no appetite for dinner. He had sent the maid with a tray for Marguerite, but his own stomach was still a tangle. He sipped carefully trying to center on the burning flavor that filled his mouth.

  It was hopeless. Whatever he did, all he could see was Marguerite pale on his mother’s blankets, her face pallid and devoid of expression. Had he done that to her? Did she really believe he wished she had lost the child?

  He placed the brandy on his desk and swung his legs down, too restless to stay still. It seemed every decision he made about her was wrong.

  He forced her to marriage when it was not necessary.

  He avoided her bed and then found that was the last of her desires.

  He indulged himself in her sensuality with no thought to the future.

  And, he spoke without thought. She had become so much a part of him, that his internal debate was spoken out loud.

  That was the core of the matter. He had not meant his rambling words – no, the truth was that he had meant them. He must be honest about that. He merely had not considered them, not given himself a chance to realize that he did trust Marguerite, the sense of family she had built between them these past months was not a lie.

  And then there was Lord Simon Moreland. Did he tell her what he now knew? Was there any purpose in telling her that her attacker was somebody she danced with, laughed with? If she did not remember was that her mind seeking its own protection?

  Damn. He could not tell her. Not that. There was no purpose to it. After their encounter today Moreland would stay far from her, indeed, from all of England. She might wonder at his desertion, but it would not be for long. No, trust or no trust, that was one secret he would keep.

  That did not answer the greater question, what did he now do about his wife? Could he convince her that he now recognized the folly of his response? Even if he did could they return to the way they had been? These past months had been – magic. It was a ridiculous sentiment for a man of reason, but he could think of no other explanation. Marguerite had filled his life with magic. How else to explain how little he’d thought of the government’s puzzles these last months. They had become a hobby rather than the reason for his being.

  And his mother, he had actually spoken to Felicity. He had invited her to his home and promised to be there to greet her. That was nothing less than enchantment.

  He turned and looked up at the portrait of his father that hung above the fireplace. He would have expected to rapprochement, instead the deep brown eyes of the portrait shone with the kindness he so well remembered.

  Kindness. Perhaps that was the key. He would go to Marguerite not thinking what he wanted, what would gain him the prize, rather he would approach her with the sole goal of determining what it was she wanted, she needed. He would do what was necessary to ensure that she received what she desired. He would make that his only ambition.

  He took the stairs two at a time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Marguerite gazed around the room. When she had invited Felicity and Violet to call on her this morning she had assumed that she would first have a chance to straighten out matters with her husband. That had not proved the case.

  She had fallen asleep again before her dinner tray was removed. She was not sure if it was the accident, the medicine, or her condition, but she seemed endlessly tired. At least, she wasn’t sick. That symptom seemed to have escaped her entirely. Perhaps the surgeon had been correct and it had been the tension of her situation that had caused the nausea and stomach upset previously.

  Strangely, she did not feel tense now. She still felt anger at Tristan for his blatant disregard of both her feelings and reality. She felt sadness for how close they had come to something wonderful. And she felt frustration, all encompassing frustration. How could such a smart man be so stupid?

  She turned to Violet with a smile. “Yes, I am feeling much better this day. I am still sore, but in general I believe I am well, if still tired.”

  Violet nodded, but Felicity spoke up. “I remember how exhausting it was to carry a child, particularly in the early months. Nobod
y appreciates how difficult it is before it even shows. I think it is actually easier as you grow closer to confinement and everybody around you becomes so solicitous. Don’t you agree?” She turned to Violet.

  “I am afraid I wouldn’t know.” She looked down at her hands, but Marguerite could not mistake the bleakness of both voice and expression.

  Felicity realized her error and changed the subject. “So where is my son? Unless, I am mistaken he did promise to be here.”

  “I am afraid he has not yet returned from his morning ride,” Marguerite said. “It is past his normal hour to do so, but I have noticed that when he has something to ponder he is often delayed.” She certainly hoped he was taking the time to think about things. If they were to proceed in the marriage together certain matters would be settled and settled soon. Otherwise, the country might be an attractive option.

  She looked up to find Felicity staring at her. “Yes, he was like that as a boy. He was the most charming company, but if he wanted to think off he went alone.”

  As if knowing that he was the center of conversation, Tristan chose that moment to enter the room. “Felicity, Violet, Marguerite,” he tilted his head to each, “I wish you a good morning.

  “How are you this morning, Marguerite?”

  “I am well, my lord. How was your ride?”

  He looked momentarily nonplussed by her use of formal address, but quickly recovered. “It was satisfactory. I had an errand I needed to be sure was complete.”

  Something in his tone gave her pause. “And was it?” she asked.

  “Yes, it was.” His eyes glinted with some hidden satisfaction.

  Felicity coughed, once, drawing attention back to her. “Are you ever going to call me mother again? I know this is not the time to ask, but I am not sure when I’ll catch you in the same room again.”

  Tristan walked to Marguerite. He placed a hand on her shoulder, ran a finger along her skin just above the edge of her blouse. She drew a quick breath in. He turned back to his mother. “Would it please my wife if I did so?”

  For a moment silence held. Marguerite pressed her brows together. Was this a gift, or some trick of conversation? If a gift it was certainly a strange one, but perhaps a deeply felt one. If a witty parlay of conversation – No, she would take his words as they were offered. “Yes, it would please your wife if you did so.”