Authors: Lavinia Kent
Now, he was a married man.
He hadn’t expected to feel anything beyond boredom during the hurried service, but as he’d looked down onto Marguerite’s solemn face he’d listened to every one of the vows he recited
.
The seriousness of the words raced through
him like a fox seeking its den. This was not a game. He was promising responsibility for another life. He’d watched the telltale pulse at her throat and the pallor of her cheeks. Had there ever been a woman who gave so much away by the color of her skin? Marguerite was now his to care for and protect, to make her happy.
For a moment in the garden as they approached the house he’d actually been looking forward to the
ir wedding night. Fresh sheets, a roomful of candles, satin skin, whispered caresses, and that first incredible kiss. But, it was his own desire that troubled him now.
She wanted a marriage of convenience
. Why had he never considered that?
He’d meant it when he told her that he
had known what he was doing. It had all suited his needs so perfectly. He could protect her, care for her, and still achieve his goal, and there’d been the pleasure of that almost-kiss.
She wanted a marriage of convenience.
She’d never been kissed before.
Was it possible
?
How could he have so miscalculated?
Something inside him twisted at the thought that she could have been brought to such a predicament without the joy of a single kiss.
He
tapped his slippered foot against the bedpost.
That man
. Clark.
It was one thing to know that Marguerite, now his wife, was having a baby
. It was another thing to be presented with the father. Was Clark the father? He had certainly been quick to guess that she was with child.
W
hat was the truth of her story and did it matter?
Yes, indeed
. He needed to know the truth. He could not further enmesh her in his plans if she’d been abused, despite his own aching desires. He could not imagine she’d freely lain with Clark -– even he could not fabricate the scenario that would place Marguerite willingly in that oaf’s arms.
What was the truth?
Though he had not visited her room tonight for these reasons and more, he could see her lying back on the sheets, that wondrous hair all about her, her eyes deepened with desire, her skin tinged with that first flush of heat, her breath catching as they moved together.
His one breath caught
. Damn, it was hard to think reasonably when his body urged him onward.
But, had she been
mistreated? Or was she merely skittish over a less than satisfactory encounter? He needed to know before he could approach her, a few days of digging should be sufficient. He was a master at prying out secrets. It should not be difficult to find out hers.
He walked
from the bed to a high wingchair set before the fire. He slipped into it and warmed his stiff toes before the glowing coals.
“I think it would be best if you left for the country.”
Marguerite swiveled in her chair at Tristan’s unexpected voice
. She’d come down to breakfast late and fully expected to be left alone to her rolls and chocolate.
“
The country?” She hoped her voice did not tremble. Another decision was being made for her.
“I
had planned that we would journey down in a couple of days – newlyweds should have a few weeks away. Glynwolde is kept ready at all times and is little over a day’s ride. You shall travel today and I will join you in several days time. I have matters I must attend to here.”
Marguerite turned away to stare at the bread on her plate
. How many pieces could she break it into before it fell to crumbs? How small could a single piece be and still hold a pat of butter?
“Won’t people find it odd that I leave
, alone, the day after the wedding?” Her tone was very quiet.
“I will let it be known that
I plan to join you. There are also several house parties to which I have been invited. Any lady would welcome the chance to be the first to host the new Lady Wimberley.”
“Oh.”
“Fresh air will be healthful for your condition. It may even help with your stomach. You do want what is best for the babe?”
“Of course
. But, I –-“
“And I am sure that after all I have done to show I know what is best that you will trust my advice.”
“Yes, however –“
“
Good, I am glad that is settled.”
She bowed her head
. “If that is your wish.”
“I only seek what is best for both of us.”
Marguerite looked down at her plate. Nine pieces. She had nine pieces of bread if she didn’t count the crumbs. The knife clanged against the china and she hastily put it down. “I will go.”
“Good, I’ll make the arrangements.
”
Tristan’s footsteps trailed out of the room.
Maybe she could cut that piece into two. Marguerite fixed her eyes firmly on the bread and refused to look around. You could not despair over bread turning into crumbs.
She was gone
. Marguerite was on her way. Tristan watched the carriage wheels clatter down the street. He turned and walked back into the hall. He paused for a moment deciding on a course of action. His normal recourse was to retire to his study and examine the morning papers and plan his evening’s activities. That thought found no favor. He pictured her blond curls bent meekly on that first night she’d arrived.
Damn
. He’d done the right thing.
Nothing had really changed.
Damn. She’d been so brave in facing her . . . his mind would not even form the word. He was not a man who shrank from reality, so why was the thought of Clark so horrifying? Tristan knew well the misery that life could bring, but the thought of those thick, meaty hands on Marguerite’s tender white flesh – he shuddered at the image.
No, he would not let anything be changed
. He turned and stomped back to the entryway, grabbing a walking stick on his way. A stroll would clear his mind.
Damn, this is not what he should be thinking about
. He had a web to weave, a possible a traitor to catch. If he were going to be delayed in fitting Marguerite into his strategy he would need to recalculate. It was time to choose another lure to see who bit.
Young
Moreland.
Lord Danders
.
Mr. Locke
.
All respectable gentlemen of good family
. Gentlemen who tarried in drawing rooms sniffing at sweet misses. Drawing rooms that leaked secrets. He’d been suspicious of them all during the war, but had never proved anything. There were others, but that bunch seemed the most likely – all in more ready funds than could easily be explained, despite family fortune.
Were they persuading their elders to change the votes in the House of Lords, and if so how
? Blackmail? And who was paying them?
He strode with determination as he headed towards the park
. He turned his mind away from rose-flushed skin and clear blue eyes.
Singapore.
Riau.
Penang.
The Strait of Malacca.
That was where his mind needed to settle
. They were not locations with which society was familiar, but he heard them whispered again and again in the most unlikely corners, by the most unlikely people.
Why did none of it make sense
? How was he supposed to answer the riddle when he didn’t understand the question? He swung his stick in full arc.
Young men with too much money
. Secrets being passed at mid-afternoon musicales. The China Seas. There was no connection. Hell, he didn’t even know why he was sure they were connected. But they were.
He needed to discuss this with someone
. Violet? No, he’d said his goodbyes and meant them. A newly married, besotted man did not visit his mistress. It would be hard enough to explain why he’d sent Marguerite home to the country before him. If only Wulf or Westlake were in town.
He stared at the bleakness of the park as he approached
. An early frost had killed all but the hardiest of the greenery – only the evergreens and some ornamental cabbages remained. He muttered a curse. He should have chosen a more engaging pursuit than a stroll. A ride would have helped. A good fast ride. Not that such a thing was possible in London.
He turned back to the house with a curse
. He still had plans to complete. He would proceed on without Marguerite. He would find a path that did not involve her. There was more than one way to hook a fish. One quick note would take care of it – he should have just stayed in his study. He never had trouble concentrating there.
Marguerite watched out the window of the carriage as spaces began to appear between the steady walls of buildings. She was leaving London. She’d never planned to stay, but as the spaces grew greater and the buildings fewer a deep-seated chill began within her. She pulled the lush fur throw tight about her and sat back, staring at the gilt furnishings that surrounded her, cocooned her – imprisoned her.
She swung her worn
half boot hard, letting it land back against the bench with a thud. Why was everything always out of her control? Was her mother right? Did a drive for independence always misfire?
She hadn’t done anything
to deserve this.
She’d been an obedient daughter.
She’d been a good neighbor.
She’d always had a smile and good word for everyone.
She might have dreamed of more since that night in Rose’s garden, but she’d never really believed her dreams would come true – look what a mess she had made when she tried to pursue them. She let her hand rest against her stomach.
She
had even been prepared to be a fine wife. It hadn’t been what she wanted, but she would have been quiet and non-complaining no matter what he wanted. Tristan would have deserved that for rescuing her. She pressed a hand to her chest, fighting down the rising edge of resentment. No, she would have been grateful and accommodating no matter how she felt inside – only he hadn’t wanted her. Why had she ever made that stupid comment about a marriage of convenience? It was not what she wanted. She had just been nervous? Who knew if Tristan would even arrive as promised?
She
had always known she’d end up alone.
She kicked the bench again
.
The crystal
vase of hothouse blooms mounted on the wall swayed.
The small bud
vase held more flowers than she’d had at her wedding.
When did she get her say
? When would people listen to what she wanted, what she thought?
Gads, she really was the ninny Rose always called her.
If she didn’t stop complaining she’d become sick of herself.
She sat up straight,
and let the throw fall from her shoulders. She curled her hand to a fist and tilting back her chin rapped loud and clear on the roof of the carriage.
Tristan raised his head from the pillow, glanced at the high sun glaring through the window, and let his head crash back. How much whiskey had he downed the night before? The day before? He’d left for his club as soon as he’d sent a note summoning the lads for a night of cards and carousing – and questions -– nothing out of the ordinary, but each drink had only created a greater ache within him.
He couldn’t even remember coming home, finding his own bed
. At least it was his own bed. Wakening in some tavern, or worse, would have been unbearable. Remember. There was something he was supposed to remember.
He opened a blurred eye and stared at the canopy above his bed
. Even with his mind fogged he knew there was something someone had said – something that had not been right.
Damn
. It refused to come to him. He swung his legs free of the covers and instantly his door inched open. Jackson, his valet, appeared – pot of chocolate and hot buns ready.
He almost reeled back into bed at the sight
. His stomach rose high in his throat. He should have had more sympathy for Marguerite.
Marguerite, the cause of his current mis
ery. With every drink he’d consumed last night he’d seen those clear blue eyes staring at him, questioning him, wanting to know why he’d involved her in this mess.
Remember
. What was he supposed to remember?
He waved
Jackson and his tray away.
“Just water.”
“Are you sure, my lord? I always find that a bit of bread helps sop up the –“ Jackson began.
“And when have you overindulged
? I’ve never seen you less than pristine.”