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.