yourself now that you’re wed,” Lord Harburton continued. He apparently saw nothing odd in Tristan’s visually searching the room while holding a conversation. “I daresay that your breakfast conversation centers around bonnets and reticules. Why do you think I am always off pursuing more manly pursuits?”
“Lady Wimberley has not yet privileged me with such wonders of discussion.” There she was, standing by the doors to the gardens. Both Simon Moreland and Langdon were with her. She nodded to one and then smiled at the other. What was so interesting about them? “Forgive me, I must greet my wife.”
“Give it a year and you won’t be so eager. I’d best be off myself before Minerva tracks me down. She’s decided I need to take my seat and vote on some referendum. I am not sure I understand why we shouldn’t have a fort in Malacca, but it’s just easier to go along with her.”
Tristan stopped and pivoted back, but Harburton had already disappeared into the crush.
Why had she come? After her last experience at Mr. Clark’s ball this was almost unbearable. The heat was oppressive, even with the cool breeze blowing in from the open doors. Why would anyone try and fit so many people in such a tight room? She longed for lemonade, but the fight across the room was more than she could manage. She fanned herself and tried to look interested as Lord Simon talked about tea. She didn’t agree that England was better off concentrating on domestic issues and not worrying about the rest of the world. It seemed impolite to argue, however. Besides, Simon had been to some of the country’s best schools. If only he would quit edging so close to her.
“You look parched. Can a fetch you a drink?” Simon asked. He must have been reading her mind.
“No, truly I am fine.” She did not know what had prompted the response. Why did she not want Simon to fetch her a drink? He was looking at her curiously and she hurriedly continued on, “The crush is so great that you probably would not be back before it was time to leave. I would hate to miss out on your company.”
“But, Marguerite, you know I am a champion at fetching lemonade. Don’t you remember the last time? Perhaps you could wait in the garden. I am sure Langdon would keep you company.” A strange look passed between the gentlemen. “I do remember how you love your lemons.”
“Remember how I love my lemons?” It was true that she did love lemons, but why should Simon know, much less remember?
“I see your confusion.” Simon focused his full attention on her. “I noted your partiality when we first met at your sister’s a year ago and then again at Clark’s –“
“Oh, there’s my husband.” Tristan’s fair hair glowed white in the candlelight, and even from across the room she could feel his steady silver gaze. Lord Harburton stood just behind him, addressing him with some comment. Tristan stepped towards her and then stopped. He turned back to Harburton, but Harburton had slipped back into the crowd.
She watched, waited for Tristan to turn back towards her, but something else caught his eye. His brother, Peter, came forward and whispered something in his ear. Together they turned and glanced towards the door. Framed in the arch stood the redhead who had been draped across Tristan’s lap on Marguerite’s first night in London. Her dress was slightly more decorous than it had been on that occasion, but still it clung to her curves like foam upon the waves.
Marguerite watched as Tristan and Peter tracked straight towards the woman. The three of them whispered, then turned and left together.
Tristan did not even glance back in her direction.
And that was the end of her first London ball.
Chapter Seven
Three balls in three nights. Two afternoon musicales and a – she didn’t even know what to call the covey of dowagers who had huddled around the teapot at Lady Smythe-Burke’s that afternoon. They had claimed it was an afternoon of cards, but Marguerite had never seen the decks actually leave the tables. On each occasion Tristan had either accompanied her or arrived separately.
It was true that after that first ball he had taken the time to speak with her. He had appeared the next morning full of apologies and she had nodded politely, but had not actually listened to a word. He might smile at her indulgently, but she still felt like an afterthought. He