She glanced down at her gown. It shimmered as she moved, the delicate gray overdress of silk netting whispering over the deep sapphire beneath. It was the first dress she had selected herself and she was still amazed at how quickly it had been made-up. She thought it enhanced the pale blue of her eyes and brought forth the color in her skin. Tristan had not even commented. He just eyed her up and down and nodded as if to say, “You’ll do.” Then he handed her into the carriage and they were off to the ball.
Off to the ball. It sounded so romantic. It was so bloody dull. She was tired of dancing with boys who did not know the steps and old men who could not keep their hands where they belonged. She had thought being married would be a defense against the grope of unwanted hands. It was not.
“Marguerite.”
She turned at the first sound of her name. Not Tristan, but Lord Simon – again. What did the man want? She’d understood his interest when she was unwed, had in fact enjoyed his flirtation, but why did he keep appearing now? He seemed bent on flooding her with lemonade.
“Marguerite, would you care to dance? I’ve seen you waltz and it would be the utmost pleasure to be your partner.”
She thought about refusing. Her toes did feel blistered and stomped upon, but that would probably mean more lemonade and she was tired of dumping it in the palms. She didn’t know why she felt so resistant to the beverage. Normally, it was her favorite.
“That would be delightful.” Could she pretend to be so caught up in the music that she had no need to converse? She also did not feel up to one more discussion of imports. She was reaching the point where she truly did not care where things came from or who supplied them. Yes, she wanted her tea, but she wanted to drink it in peace. She had never before realized how truly limited Simon was when it came to conversation.
He took her by the hand and led her to the floor. It was the first time she had danced with him since her sister’s house party well over a year ago, and as his hand closed about her waist the strangest shiver shot down her spine. She fought the urge to pull back.
Instead she fixed a smile on her face and stared over Simon’s shoulder. Thankfully, he did not feel the need to converse, either.
“Huismans is talking to your husband. I wonder what they have to discuss.”
“Who?” she asked.
“I am sorry. Anton Huismans, he’s a representative of a Dutch trading firm and has become a most useful friend. He’s very good at keeping the ladies, particularly my mother, happy.” He gave a meaningful grin as his fingers tightened on her waist, she tried to shift away while keeping step with the music.
Marguerite turned her head to look at him. She must have mistaken his implication. “I am sorry.”
The corner of his mouth lifted indulgently. “Oh, my little innocent, I don’t mean that. It’s just that he – well, actually I think I’ll keep it my little secret. I’ll have to see if his treats have the same effect on you.”
Marguerite heard the music drawing to an end and almost sighed with relief as they left the dance floor. Simon was getting much too personal. Had he noticed her husband’s lack of attention? It was time to show Simon that their past flirtation, was just that – past.
For that matter it was time to show her husband.
Her chin tilted up. Her shoulders went back.
She took four steps towards her husband.
Really, it was too easy to fall into this trap of letting others make the decisions. If Tristan got to decide that she must attend this pile of affairs, then she was going to decide what she did while she was here. Maybe she should try and make him jealous? Did he know that she and Simon had once toyed with flirtation? Of course, that would suppose that Tristan could be made jealous and, to be truthful, the appeal in being that close to Simon was long faded.
A slow smile curled on her lips.
The one thing she knew about her husband – the one thing she’d never seen falter – was his perfection of public manners.
She took two more steps. She knew Simon was behind her. If she gave him the