well.” Peter loped into the room. If not for his size, Marguerite would have taken him to be much younger. He moved and fidgeted like a schoolboy. “I’ve worried that I haven’t seen you about the last few evenings.”
“Tristan needed to be away for a few days and I thought I would take the chance to rest,” Marguerite replied.
“Yes, we heard. It is why I chose now to call.” A dark-haired beauty, of a certain age, entered the room. Her green gown was of the latest cut, a scooped neck, loose yet still revealing, the color bright and becoming.
Marguerite rose. This was Tristan’s mother? She did not look old enough, and as Marguerite took in her dark-eyed stare, it seemed impossible that she could have given birth to a child as golden as Tristan.
Marguerite, in turn, felt herself being observed and measured. They examined each other as closely as rivals, if without the same malice. It was frank curiosity.
“I am Felicity, Lady St. Johns, dowager Marchioness of Wimberley. I have evidently taught neither of my sons the courtesy of proper introduction.” Felicity turned and glared at Peter.
He did not look at all abashed.
“It is a delight to meet you. I am Marguerite, Tristan’s wife.” Marguerite smiled and waved her guests towards the chairs. “Please make yourselves comfortable. I have sent for more tea. I am so glad you have come to visit.”
“We should have met weeks ago. As I have already stated, my sons are somewhat lacking in manners.” Felicity sank gracefully into chair.
“Don’t look at me, Mother. You know it was not of my doing.” Peter declined to sit and began idly pulling books off the shelf and then returning them. His toe tapped as if he could not be contained by such light activity.
“Yes, Peter, I know well where the blame rests for such a lack of propriety,” Felicity said.
Peter kept taking books off the shelf and did not answer. His toe tapped faster.
The brief silence was uncomfortable and Marguerite ventured into the gap. “Well, that hardly matters. We have met and may now begin to know each other.” What else did one say to one’s mother-in-law? Ah. “You must tell me all about Tristan as a child.”
“We will get to all that in time, Marguerite. I trust I may call you Marguerite?” Felicity settled herself more comfortably in the chair. “For now you must reassure me. You mentioned the need to rest. You are not ill are you?”
Marguerite shifted under the penetrating gaze that came her way. Tristan should have told his mother – but, perhaps not. The only thing Marguerite knew about their relationship was that she knew nothing. She glanced at Peter. She had overheard Tristan tell him, surely he would have told his mother. Peter kept his gaze locked on the volume in his hand. He refused to glance up.
He had not told his mother. What was she supposed to say? How did one judge a woman one had only just met? Perhaps this was why Tristan had avoided the meeting.
“No, I am not ill.” Maybe Felicity would leave it at that.
“Then why do you avoid society? Do you lack for company? I would be happy to join you, although I myself have ventured out little in the last years.” Felicity looked pleased at this solution. She picked up the Aphrodite figurine and ran her fingers over its curves. Tristan had used the same caress.
How would Tristan react to his mother taking her about? And what of Lady Smythe-Burke? That lady had seemed displeased enough at Marguerite’s refusal to venture out this past week. Marguerite could only imagine how she would react to learning that Marguerite had replaced her with another. “I thank you very much for the thought, but it is simply that I have been tired. I am sure I will be returned to myself in no time.”
“Staying at home for a week, and no ready excuse. Why, people will assume you are with child.”
Peter dropped the book with a thud at his mother’s comment. For her part, Marguerite knew she had blushed red and then paled.
“Oh, how wonderful,” Felicity gasped with delight. “How careless of Tristan not to tell me. He knows nothing would make me happier. Did you know I am descended from Henry the fourth? Only distantly, of course.” She tittered at her own joke. “But I have so longed to see the line continue. Tristan knows that I’ve longed for – exactly why he didn’t tell me, of