pry so deep into her thoughts? She forced herself to hold to the exact truth. “My mother knows nothing.”
“Your tone says otherwise.”
“Well, nothing that is true at least.” Why did they have to talk about this? He had not pressed the point before, why did he suddenly need to know? She did not even want to think about that night. “And she was set on my marriage to Clark before any of this came about. She believes he is calm and steady and will assure my security. She also wishes me near her, where I can still care for her needs. That is all.”
Why wouldn’t her tongue stop moving?
Tristan didn’t even comment on her words, he just stayed silent, not even looking at her, and she felt the need to ramble onward. She bit down on her lip fighting to stop the words. She would not lie and she was still unprepared to remember the truth.
She turned from him and went to stand at the door. “I am quite fatigued at the moment. Would you object if I went to my room to rest?”
Even with her back turned she could imagine the look of consideration tightening his face. She prayed he would not press for more answers now. She was tired and shaken and she just might give them to him.
“No, of course not.” he answered after a moment. “Be sure you have one of the maid’s show you to the marchioness’s chamber. I am sure you’ll find your belongings already in place. My room’s are adjoining should you have any questions.”
The last almost sounded a threat.
She hadn’t thought she could be more miserable. How could anything be worse than being unwed and with child? Every time she thought she’d reached the bottom, things still managed to get worse. Marguerite turned over and thumped the mattress. The bed was soft, the sheets clean, the room warm, and she had never been more uncomfortable. At least she wasn’t feeling sick.
Her wedding night.
She shoved herself up and stared at the closed door. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it wasn’t this. She could count the words they’d said over dinner on her fingers and half of those had been to the footman.
Tristan had excused her to take his port and never rejoined her. The girl assigned as her maid had led her up to bed, brushed out her hair and dressed her in this silly confection that was apparently a gift of Lady Smythe-Burke. And that had been the end of her evening.
It wasn’t what she had expected from Tristan, not after his comments saying this would be a real marriage. Still, she was relieved he hadn’t come to her room. Definitely, delighted he had left her alone. She didn’t want to . . . her mind balked at the thought. A few kisses, however, would have been nice. She was developing a great curiosity about kisses.
She sniffled.
It was the alone part she wasn’t so sure about. Life with Mama may not have held many dreams, but at least she’d never felt this incredible emptiness, as if not another creature in the world cared. Now she began to understand what Mama feared. If only she’d listened to Mama from the start – but then she’d never have met Tristan, never had a glimpse of what life had to offer.
She shoved her feet down into the cold of the bed, her toes wiggling in protest. She curled over on her side and wrapped her arms about her stomach. If she had only herself to depend on, she’d manage. She might not be strong like her older sister, Rose, but she refused to give up.
She turned her face into the pillow and ignored the tears that refused to disappear. She would never tell him what had really happened. Nothing could force her to remember that night.
Tristan pulled the belt tight about his robe and strode to the window. The cool moonlight of early autumn lit the rooftops down the street. He rubbed his hands up his face, pulling against the lines he could feel forming by the second.
What had he done? It had seemed such a straightforward plan. It all was logical.
That had been yesterday, however.
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