Authors: Lavinia Kent
“I have
met your mother so I will take that as a compliment, although being a mother myself I know it can be hard to judge another’s motivation. I am sure she only wants what is best for you.”
Marguerite was not so sure
.
They said their farewells and Marguerite turned towards the house
. She stopped halfway up the walk. Would it ever feel like home? It was so grand, so different from all she had known. A shadow shifted inside one of the upper windows. She looked again, but the movement was gone. She continued to the door and entered. The walk in the park had wearied her and she was glad there was time for a nap.
“I am glad there are no activities planned for tonight. It will be nice to relax and read a novel. I picked up several new ones at the lending library.” Marguerite cut into the squab with care. She pursed her lips as if pondering some great thought. She lifted her face again, the candlelight filled her hair and added mysterious depth to her eyes. “What are your plans for the evening?”
She
lifted her eyes and met his gaze. She licked a stray morsel from her lower lip, unaware of the temptation.
Tristan stared down at his own dinner
. This meal was the one part of each day that he often spent with his wife. He might avoid her at other times – except when it suited his purposes not to – but most evenings his feet seemed to walk to the dining room whether he willed them to or not. He knew many couples who never shared a meal. He didn’t know why these few minutes of often meaningless conversation had become so valuable. God, she was licking her lips again. “I had not yet decided.”
“You are not off with your friends then?
”
Did Marguerite sound wistful
? He would have thought his abrupt behavior that morning would have removed all desire for his company. He had a warm image of them sitting together in the library, her feet beneath the blanket on his lap. If she shifted her toes a little to the right – dinner may have been a mistake. He put down his fork. “I have not decided. Langdon did issue an invitation, but I delayed it for another night.” The thought of another smoky tavern held no appeal. He wanted to simply close his eyes and sleep through the night. Between his pursuit of Langdon and Moreland, and his own late-night dreams of Marguerite, slumber had not been a frequent guest recently.
“I saw your mother today.
” Marguerite glanced back down at her food as she spoke, than met his glance defiantly.
Tristan
picked up his fork, took a bite, chewed, took another. “I saw you.”
“I wondered if that was you I saw in the window.”
“Yes, it was.” He took another bite. He had no wish to have the discussion. He did not think of his mother. She was closed from his life. Her actions had been unforgivable.
“Do not you wish to know about it?”
“What would I wish to know?”
“I am not sure, if she was well
, perhaps? Or what we talked of?”
“No, I need no knowledge of either.”
Marguerite placed her own silver on the table with care. She looked at him with a direct gaze. She opened her mouth, but no words came forth. He stared back, daring her to say something.
“She is well, but worries about you.
” Marguerite found her tongue. “She told me that you had been a delightful child. That the two of you were the best of friends.”
What did his blasted wife want from him
? He did not believe he could make it any clearer that he did not talk about his mother. He glared back at Marguerite, willing her to stop speaking.
“I like her and plan to spend more time with her
. I hope that perhaps we can become a family, surely whatever happened between you . . .”
Tristan
stood, letting his napkin drop to the floor. A footman darted forward, but Tristan raised one finger and the man returned to his spot. “I have decided to go out after all. I hope you have a lovely evening with your book.”
He stomped from the room
. When he reached the hallway he stopped. Was he a child? He had certainly behaved like one. He should go back, apologize, and try to explain. He shook his head to clear it. Was he actually considering speaking of Felicity? He had never talked of what had happened to anyone. Why did he now consider telling Marguerite?
Winters appeared with his hat and stick, and Tristan grabbed both and stomped out the door
. Yes, he stomped, and it felt good. Childish, or not.
Chapter Twelve
Was she really going to do this? Marguerite stood with Felicity before the door of the dainty townhouse. Could a townhouse be dainty? The windows were narrow, but in proportion with the home’s lean lines. It was a home. That was a strange thought, but still it was true. Violet, Lady Carrington lived in a home. Even before the door opened, Marguerite could see the love and attention to detail that shaped every corner, every flowerpot, every window dressing.
She gripped Felicity’s arm as the door opened
. It was too late to run. The scent of baking cookies greeted them as they stepped into the foyer. Could one be frightened of cookies?
Felicity pulled a card from her reticule and held it out
. “The Ladies Wimberley have come to call. Lady Carrington is expecting us.”
The butler nodded and disappeared
. A moment later he returned and beckoned them to follow him.
They stopped at the doorway
. Felicity reached over and patted Marguerite’s tight hands. She mouthed a phrase –
trust me
– and then sallied forth.
Lady Carrington reclined on a settee, a pot of fragrant tea and a plate of cookies beside her
. A book lay across her lap. She placed the book aside and stood. “I am delighted that you have come. I must confess my curiosity kept me awake half the night. I could not imagine what need the two of you would have of me.”
Were ladies really so direct
? Marguerite’s mother had always insisted on coyness – although Marguerite had never actually seen her put her words into action.
Felicity settled on a couch and spoke
. “Violet, do you so doubt the merits of your company that you think we would only visit if we needed something?”
Violet gestured Marguerite to a chair
. “No, I never doubt the pleasure,” she almost purred the word, “of my company. But, I don’t believe you came here seeking pleasure.” She spoke to Felicity, but her gaze was fastened on Marguerite.
“You would
be wrong then. Pleasure is exactly what we’ve come about. When in doubt, consult an expert.”
“Do explain.
” Violet curled along the chaise, like a cat in the midst of an endless stretch.
“
Marguerite is confused by Tristan. I thought you could supply the answers.” Felicity spoke as if she were commenting on the weather.
Though
Marguerite knew she had darkened by twenty shades of red, her only comfort was that Lady Carrington looked equally shocked.
“You want me to advise . . . I mean you think I can tell
how to . . . ” Lady Carrington sputtered to a halt.
“Well, yes, I do.
” Felicity leaned forward. “I see two extra cups. Would you like to pour the tea or should I? I know it would be unusual, but you do seem a trifle – choked at the moment.”
Was this going to be another conversation where
Marguerite did not actually need to speak? For the first time this did not seem such a bad idea.
“And what of you
?” Lady Carrington turned to Marguerite. “Do you also think that I can explain what – gads, I don’t even know how to say it, and I am not afraid to say anything. You do know that Tristan and I –“
Marguerite felt her flush fade as she realized what Lady Carrington was about to say
. Felicity had been wrong. Lady Carrington and Tristan had been lovers.
“Oh, stop it, Violet.
” Felicity interrupted both Lady Carrington’s words and Marguerite’s thoughts. “Look at the poor girl. She’s turned whiter than a ghost. There really is no need of your pretense in front of us. I’ve spoken to Lady Smythe-Burke. I know it was you who fetched her and began this whole charade. Hardly the action of a jealous mistress. Don’t torture Marguerite. You know and I know that there was never anything between you and Tristan. He told me all about you and Westlake.”
It was Lady Carrington’s turn to blush
. “I can’t believe that he – “
Marguerite was still recovering from the shock that Lady Carrington had fetched Lady Smythe-Burke, the realization that Tristan’s dear friend and Lady Carrington’s past lover, was the austere Duke of
Westlake was too much. She grabbed for the tea Felicity had just poured and downed it in a single gulp. It was too bad ladies did not drink whiskey.
Felicity took it all in stride
. “I was surprised myself when Tristan first discussed it with me. Then I took it as a great compliment. He trusted me – then of course.” She stopped. “That really isn’t important. We have other matters to discuss.”
Marguerite was disappointed
. She had wondered how many other revelations were to come her way.
Lady Carrington leaned back and stretched her arms above her head
. Again, Marguerite was reminded of a contented cat. “So you do not believe Tristan and I are lovers. Don’t you think that’s a bit naïve?”
Marguerite was not sure
whom she addressed.
“No.” Felicity was firm in her answer
. “Are you prepared to say in definite terms that you are? You know that Tristan would no longer tell me.”
Marguerite
sat upright in her chair. She could not believe this was happening. She had always heard that life in London was far different, but surely sitting with your husband’s mother, and listening to her discuss who he slept with was unthinkable and unbelievable. Only apparently it was not.
Lady Carrington let her arms drop
. “No, actually I am not. You are correct. Tristan and I have never been more than friends – the best of friends, actually.” She smiled at Marguerite. “I suppose that makes me ideally suited for what you want. Would you care to tell me what exactly that is? I must confess that it is still not apparent to me.”
Felicity stood
. “I think I will say my farewells, now.” Marguerite and Lady Carrington both looked at her with wonder. Marguerite had to snap her mouth shut.
Felicity laughed
. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. Marguerite, you have not said one word beyond the greetings and even that was a mumble. If I leave, then you will be forced to speak to each other and that, I believe, is the purpose of this exercise.” She left the room with no further comment.
Marguerite and Lady Carrington looked at each other
. Lady Carrington sat straighter. “Would you care for some more tea? I notice you finished yours.”
Remembering her hurried gulp, Marguerite nodded.
“You do speak, don’t you?” Lady Carrington asked.
“I am not often required to.”
“No required to? How can one not be required to speak?”
“I know it sounds strange, but it
is amazing how my life has progressed without it. Up to this point in my life, others have seemed happy to manage it quite well. They never seem to require, much less desire, my input.”
Lady Carrington came over and filled her teacup, then
, rather than return to the chaise, she sat beside Marguerite. “I do actually know what you mean. I ended up with two husbands over eighty that way. Being a young woman is not easy. I can only assure you it gets better as you age. There are some advantages to wrinkles.”
Marguerite did not see any sign of lines on Lady Carrington’s ivory complexion
. “I thought you had three husbands. Oh dear, that was rather rude.”
“Don’t worry
. You are right. I actually chose the last one myself. He needed someone to take care of him, and I, well, I’d grown used to caring for old men.” She set down her own cup of tea. “But you are not here to talk of my life. What is it I can help you with?”
“It is awkward.”
“I would be amazed if it was not. Marriage is not simple, and Tristan is certainly not a simple man.”
“You do know him well
, then?”
“Yes, in truth
, though I have never been his lover in a physical sense, I have been closer to him than to any of my lovers.”
“Oh.
” Marguerite felt the flush rise again. Why was she plagued by such blushes? Other women did not have this problem.
Lady Carrington leaned forward
. “What bothers you, that I know your husband so well or that I admit to having lovers?”
“I
, well, I do not know – I mean I have never talked like this before.”