Taste of Desire Page 4

  This would be the last chance. He should stop it now, but his voice answered even if as his mind turned away, “No.”

  “But –”

  “Your choice is simple. Your mother or me.”

  Marguerite stared down at her hands, clenched tight in her lap. Any sensible girl would accept his offer, she knew. And she was sensible. So why couldn’t she say yes? It would be the prudent thing to do. Even if he changed his mind and withdrew his offer later, surely he would be duty bound to help her.

  But, no, she couldn’t do it. Bile rose in her throat. She had run away to avoid one proposal – if one could call her mother’s demand a proposal.

  “Mr. Clark and I have decided the two of you will marry. The first banns will be read Sunday.”

  No, that did not sound like a proposal.

  Tristan’s offer had not been a proposal, either.

  No. She couldn’t do it, no matter how desperate she was, no matter how he might attract her senses. Marriage to Tristan might have been her dream once, but never under these circumstances. Why would she flee one marriage just to tangle herself in another? She might be insane, but it was time she took some control of her life.

  She wouldn’t be in this situation if . . . No, she was not going to think of that. She had to remain focused on the present.

  Maybe, if he’d been the Tristan she remembered from the garden, maybe then she could have faced the risk – but she would not tie herself to this stranger who looked through her and planned as if she had no say.

  She would take the offered coach fare and leave. She would not have to return home. Marguerite stared back into Tristan’s quicksilver eyes. It would not be much money, but other women must have survived on less. She wrung her hands again. Her fingers were so cold.

  But Marguerite knew that she was not other women. She had never done anything but help Mama with the household. She was more naïve at twenty than most women were at fifteen. She doubted knowing how to devise a menu would provide much support.

  She did have her needlework. Being a seamstress could not be too hard.

  “Are you going to give me an answer?” Tristan’s commanding voice sliced through her thoughts.

  “Yes. I mean, no. I cannot marry you.” She wished her tone did not quiver so at the end.

  “A pity.” For a moment she thought he would give in, grant her the ability to leave. Then his face firmed, but his voice sounded off. “I was anticipating adding another cuckoo to the tree.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just mumbling my broken heart.” He sounded so sarcastic. Where was the man she had known on that one magical night?

  “Stop it.” She stood, hoping her legs would hold her. “Just give me my fare and I will trouble you no more.”

  “I will have Winters fetch it.”

  Tristan stared at her hard. Was that acceptance and perhaps relief she saw cross his face? Then he stepped back, and turned to the fire.

  “Or perhaps I should send for Wulf and place this mess on his shoulders. What about the father of your child? We have not spoken much of him.” His hands dropped back to his sides and he stepped away.

  “What of him?” She should have been prepared for this question.

  “Why do you not go to him?”

  “God, no.” Tremors swept Marguerite at even the mention of . . . . No, it was unthinkable.

  “Is he already wed?” Tristan’s voice turned cold, losing all trace of that enveloping warmth.

  “No, but it is not possible.” Her mind froze when she even considered the possibility. Some things could not be discussed.

  “Why?”

  “It is really none of your concern.” His iciness had made it easier to turn the question aside. “Are you ever going to call for my hack and give me the fare?”

  “You asked for my help. That makes it my concern. If he doesn’t wish to wed you, just tell me who he is and I am sure I can persuade him to a different conclusion.” She had always considered him a diplomat not a fighter, but now the warrior shone through. Even in her misery, she could not mistake his magnificence.

  “No,” she forced the word out.

  Tristan did not answer. He tapped his fingers on the table, fingers she had felt against her skin.

  “I brought this upon myself and I will take full responsibility. Beyond that, I do not wish to talk of it,” she said. He tapped again. She remembered the whisper of his thumb against her wrist. Did she owe him anything? “I never meant to – he is not a husband I would ever choose.”

  Tristan let his gaze drop to her belly. Even though it was still flat, Marguerite felt as if it grew beneath his gaze. There was no jest in him now.

  “I think the time for choice has passed. I was wrong to offer you two choices. It is clear that the best resort is to return you to your child’s father. No man would refuse, and if he attempted to –”

  “No.”

  “Has he then refused to wed you?”

  “No, he does not know.”

  “You haven’t told him?”

  “No, and I have no intention of doing so. If you do not call Winters, I will walk away now.” She turned, feeling the need to flee. She did not know how much more she could take.

  “Stop.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “That is my line.”

  “I am too tired to play with words.” Soon she would cry. She felt the tears welling behind her eyes. It was unbearable that this mocking man should witness her defeat. “Coming here was a mistake. I just did not know where else to turn.”

  She lifted her head and their glances met. Something swirled and shifted in his eyes. He held out his hand.

  “Please, come sit by the fire again, and I will attempt to discuss this more rationally. You look pale and chilled.” His voice softened again, beckoning her, beguiling her. “I will call a maid to fetch you something to eat. Surely you don’t mean to head back without taking some refreshment? You look in need of sustenance. Stay. You have provided far more entertainment this night than I expect from any woman.”

  Blast him. She blinked rapidly. Could he not he remain serious for even a moment? She turned again to leave. She would not be an amusement, not when her whole life swung in the balance.

  “I am sorry.” He switched again, sounding so sincere. “I’ve spoilt things again. Come, Marguerite. Come and sit by the fire and I promise to behave myself. Come and tell me your secrets and perhaps you can persuade me to open my purse a little farther. I did promise you my help, and despite my foolishness, I am a man of honor. Come and persuade me.”

  She wavered.

  “I see the uncertainty in your eyes. Come, sit. What harm can there be in trying a honeyed tongue? You’ve come this far. Will you concede defeat so easily? Perhaps you may yet convince me to open my purse.”

  Tristan watched her pause. She trailed her slender fingers over the door handle. He sensed her indecision. What further lure could he provide? “Don’t you want to eat before heading back to the coaching inn? I can’t imagine their fare can match mine? And watching a woman eat always puts me in a good mood, a generous mood.”

  “It is too late for another coach to depart.” Her words were barely a whisper as she stepped towards the chair.

  Victory. Tristan resisted the urge to smile. She was sniffing the bait, but not yet been trapped. “What can I have fetched to tempt you? There should still be some venison from dinner.”

  She paled.

  “Ah, , what about toast soldiers and a nice pot of tea?”

  “With lots of lemon and sugar. Lots of lemon.”

  She was caught. She didn’t realize it as she sank into the wingchair, but there would be no escape. The tension seeped from his shoulders. She was his.

  He rang for the maid and ordered the repast.

  “I’ll be sure all is as you request.”

  “Why are you being so cordial, suddenly?”

  “I told you, I like watching women eat. I am alrea
dy anticipating the event.”

  “Tell me the truth,” she answered, her gaze sweeping his face. “I do not believe you do anything without a more definitive purpose. I stayed with my sister long enough to hear Wulf tell many tales of schooldays and later. He said you always got your way. He was not sure how you did it, but somehow people always acted as you wanted.”

  “I am sure that can’t be true. Why would anyone do something just because I said so?” He gave her his most innocent grin.

  Her eyes fastened on his lips. That was good. Once women concentrated on his lips . . . He let his own gaze linger on hers. Now that she was sitting, their color had returned and they were a split cherry, ripe for the tasting. He could see them part with each breath, the lower one moist from her tongue. He leaned towards her slightly, letting the spell grow, entwine about them both. He raised his glance slightly, prepared to meet her darkened gaze, the pupils dilating with desire.

  She drew back suddenly, her lips clamping shut, her eyes burning with – suspicion.

  This time it was he who shook his head, trying to shake free the blood that had rushed there.

  “Wulf was right,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You weave a web of words and charm and . . . I must be going.”

  Just as she prepared to rise, the maid entered the room with a tray. The steam rose from the pot and filled the room with its light, crisp scent.

  Her eyes fastened on the tray, on the lemon. Her lips parted again and he could see her tongue dart over her teeth. She dropped back into the seat.

  “I suppose you were right that a little refreshment would not do any harm, but then I really must leave.”

  “Whatever you wish, my dear.” He’d never considered the seductive powers of tea before.

  “Do not call me that. If you will not be serious I will depart immediately.” Her fingers were already reaching for the wedge of lemon. She picked it up and with the tiniest glance at him, brought it to her lips. Her eyes closed in rapture. The tiny muscles in her cheeks working as she nibbled at the edge.

  “You have most unusual tastes,” he said.

  She dropped the wedge, then hurriedly lifted it again.

  “I do not really, but it just looked so inviting, like it would taste of summer. It’s so tart and fresh. I didn’t even know I wanted it until you mentioned tea and then I craved it. I love lemons. I always have.” She brought the wedge back to her mouth and this time she sucked. There could be no other word for it, those red lips wrapped tight around –

  Tris shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He forced his gaze away. Citrus fruits were not erotic. Neither were pregnant chits. Why then were his breeches growing so uncomfortable?

  “Have some tea with that.”

  “Oh, you’re right, I suppose I should. I am forgetting my manners. It is hard to maintain proper decorum with a near stranger who has just asked you to marry him.” She was rambling, but no longer looked so desperate.

  He poured the tea into her cup, a most unfamiliar task, and offered her the bowl of sugar. She took two heaping scoops and then squeezed three slices of lemon.

  She sipped.

  And smiled.

  It was the first genuine smile he’d seen flit across her face and it caught him off guard. Just for a moment he was back in that long-ago ballroom, watching a young enchantress glide down the stairs, her enthusiasm barely restrained. Her aquamarine eyes had flashed at him and he’d been the one captured, all thought of purpose gone. It had been all he could do to restrain himself until he could maneuver her into some dark corner of the garden. He clenched his hand into a fist, fighting the remembrance of how soft her palm had been in his, how she’d quivered with first awareness as he stroked that virginal skin. He’d let her distract him then; he would not now. He had determined his goal and he would pursue it.

  “Would you like some? There are two cups.” Her question caught him off guard again.

  “No. I am not partial to tea. I prefer coffee or chocolate, and then only in the morning.”

  “Oh.” She bit into a toast point, nipped at an escaping crumb. Her lips had been so red, so innocent in the moonlight. He’d known she’d never been kissed, had been slowly seducing her into his arms when they’d been disturbed.

  “What are you thinking about? You have a most peculiar expression.” Her teeth caught at her lower lip.

  “Nothing in particular,” he answered. Damn it all. He supposed himself the master wordsmith and he couldn’t seem to keep his mind off her mouth for more than a moment. This would not do. “Or rather, I was merely considering your situation.”

  “I thought we were done discussing that.”

  “Actually, I think we have barely begun.”

  “How do you suppose?”

  “Well, it seems that we have not reached a solution that is agreeable to us both.”

  “I do not see that it needs be agreeable to you. It is my life.”

  How little she knew. “Then why will you not be sensible? Do you think I am without suspicions of your intentions? You have become much too amenable to returning to the mother you fled from. I do not believe it.”

  As if on cue, her eyes dropped to her plate. The hand holding the toast shook until delicate crumbs fluttered through the air. So, he had been correct.

  “Even I, with all my acknowledged wickedness, cannot send you out with only a handful of coin and no known destination.”

  She kept her head lowered and brought up the tea for a sip. No, it was more of a gulp. She placed the cup back on the saucer. It clattered loudly, echoing in the growing silence.

  He walked around the small table and knelt down before her. Her shoulders straightened as she attempted to edge away from him. He pressed forward against her slightly open knees.

  She turned away and stared at the old masters on the wall.

  “Look at me, Marguerite.”

  She kept her eyes turned away and did not answer.

  This close he could smell the dust of her journey, the faint floral scent she wore, and over it all the crisp tang of the lemons. He caught one of her hands between his, rubbing his fingers gently across it, and then brought it to his lips. First, he nuzzled her wrist, then worked his way over her palm and up to the soft pads at the base her fingers. The sharp scent of the lemon was overpowering and, unable to resist, his tongue darted out and tasted.

  She turned back to him, startled.

  “This is where we stopped a year ago. I tasted only your fingers, never your lips. Do you wish it had been different?”

  “What I wish is of no consequence now.” Despite her words, her glance moved over his face and settled on his mouth. He parted his lips and watched her inhale. He bent closer.

  She did not draw back.

  He pressed tighter against her legs, and moved until only a butterfly’s eyelash separated them. He could feel her breath upon his lips, but he did not close that final gap.

  They breathed as one and he forced himself to a perfect stillness. She would come to him; he need only wait.

  He felt her eyes move up his face, the weight of her gaze caressing him, assessing him. Their glances joined and, with a sigh of surrender, she moved forward.

  The door banged open. A commanding presence strode in.

  “What is going on here? I could not believe it when Lady Carrington told me I was needed. Here. A lady of my consequence appearing at a bachelor residence. Unheard of. But, I see that she was correct. Miss Marguerite Wilkes, what would your sister say about this? Alone with a gentleman well past any decent hour. And Wimberley, you of all men should know better, and do know better. Huntington would skin you alive if he knew with whom you dallied. You know what this means, I trust?”

  Tristan rocked back on his heels. He could not help the ironic smile that spread across his face.

  Lady Smythe-Burke had arrived.

  Chapter Three

  Marguerite wanted to hide beneath the tea table as the formidable lady st
alked towards them, her full skirts swirling above her narrowly fitted waist. Lady Smythe-Burke was one of the true doyennes of society, the aunt of the powerful Duke of Westlake and the widow of an earl. One whispered word from her and worlds rose and fell. Fortune and power were embodied in this woman whom a good puff of wind might blow away. Marguerite had spent time at her sister’s house party with Lady Smythe-Burke and ever since the lady had taken a great interest in her life, too great an interest. Marguerite shrank into her chair.

  “I’ll ask again, Wimberley, you do know what this means, what you must do?” Lady Smythe-Burke caught Tristan with an iron glare.

  “Why yes, my lady, I do know. I believe I’ve hopelessly compromised Miss Wilkes and will have no recourse but to marry her. What do you think, my dear?” Tristan turned to Marguerite and she slumped further.

  How had she placed herself in this position? Now if she didn’t marry him, both of them would be disgraced. What had she done? Acid bit at the back of her throat.

  “That’s settled then.” Lady Smyth-Burke picked up her pacing. “Will it be banns or special license? I suppose under the circumstances it will be the license. Too many of these hurried affairs these days. In my day everything was done properly at St. George’s. Don’t understand the young. Maybe we should just let you walk up to the magistrate, sign yourselves away, and be done with it. Why ask God’s blessing when it’s clear you’re already making a hash of everything? Splendid idea, that. Just sign and be done with it. No need to make a spectacle of the whole debacle. You’re not with child are you, my dear? No, of course not, I’ve heard your mother is not the most sensible of women, but I am sure she’s trained you better than that. Besides I myself know that Wimberley would never be so careless.”

  Lady Smythe-Burke turned away from Marguerite, who prayed silently that her lack of color would not betray her. She lifted the teacup and swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the hot liquid, hoping the steam would bring a flush to her cheeks. She didn’t even dare glance at Tristan, who had moved across the room.