truly have been her first real kiss? She had been innocent, but ardent. He resisted the desire to close his eyes and remember.
Instead he looked down at her.
A smart general knew when it was time for a new strategy. As if sensing his thoughts, Marguerite lifted her head and smiled up at him. Her lips were still ruddy from their kiss.
Yes, it was definitely time for a new strategy.
###
Marguerite’s mother had often mumbled about the ingratitude, inconsistency, and general unpredictability of men. Marguerite had always understood these beliefs centered around the mistake her father had made dying less than a year into marriage. It had been the ultimate desertion and betrayal in her mind and her mother had never forgiven him.
Now Marguerite understood her mother’s beliefs might be a more general statement. It certainly applied to her husband. She slammed her teacup down – at least she did in her mind, in truth the china was too delicate and beautiful to risk. Would the servants think her odd if she asked for stoneware?
Tristan Cornelius St. Johns.
She leaned back in her chair, actually allowing her back to rest upon the cushions, and stared at the library’s high shelves. It was wonderful to be surrounded by books.
Tristan Cornelius St. Johns. Husband.
She had thought that after their dance, their kiss, everything would be different. Her husband had not strayed from her sight for the rest of the ball, even going to the extreme of dancing with her again. They had ridden home together in the carriage and their feet had – was there a word for the way their feet had played? If not, there certainly should be.
She closed her eyes, indulging herself in the memory. He walked her to her bedroom door, and then stared into her eyes for an eternity. She had sensed his regret, and questioned, when he walked away. She had almost called him back. And then the next morning, he kissed her in the breakfast room. A long, endless kiss. Her toes curled now as they had then. He was a master of kisses.
It should have been the beginning of something wonderful.
But – her eyes opened with a snap – then he left. No, word of why they were not heading for the country. No sweet words of how much he would miss her.
No, a messenger arrived and he left.
A messenger carrying a note in a feminine hand and signed with a V.
What you are looking for may be in Crawley. I will depart with more detail in person. V
Violet? It had not been difficult to learn the name of her husband’s sometime companion. Violet, Lady Carrington. Marguerite curled her toes tight inside her shoes. She refused to be jealous. She was a reasonable woman. Her husband had made her no promises.
Still, he should have told her where he was going. The servants shuffled and avoided any answers when she inquired. Perhaps he’d gone to a mill, was the closest she got to a reply. Crawley, she was told, was famous for the boxing matches held there. Marguerite could not even imagine Tristan at a fight. He did not seem the type for such sport. And she certainly did not believe he would desert her for one.
Only, maybe she did believe it. Men left. They could not be relied on. How many times had she heard that in her childhood? And it certainly was not like Tristan loved her, she could not even be sure if her husband actually even liked her. Was he so ashamed of her that he could not even let her meet his mother?
Almost as if on cue, there was a tap on the library door.
“You have callers, my lady. Lord Peter St. Johns and Lady Wimberley, the dowager marchioness, have arrived.”
Marguerite hesitated for a moment. Tristan had made it all too clear that he planned to make introductions in his own time. Still, surely that only applied to Marguerite contacting his mother, not the reverse. Besides, if he was not going to be here, then it was up to her to make decisions.
“If you can just give me a moment to straighten myself, I would be delighted to receive them. I would also like some more tea. They may be in need of refreshment.” That felt good. She was in charge. She would make her own decisions.
Hurrying to the small wall mirror, she smoothed her hair. Very presentable. She arranged herself neatly on the chair.
“My dearest Marguerite. I am so glad you are