Taste of Desire (25 page)

“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 Carring
ton 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 desire
s 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 simpl
e,” 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 w
as 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 another.

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, o
h, 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.

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.