on her back and stared at the elaborate ceiling frieze. Her mind was empty of all but the stiff formality of his words. She could not even bring herself to count the swirls and rosettes that twirled in plaster above her.
She did not call for him. Tristan spent the remainder of the day sitting at his desk, staring at words that blurred before his eyes. Every time a footstep sounded in the hall he jerked to attention, ready to answer her summons.
But, she did not call.
When darkness grew, seeping in though the windows and whispering up from the corners, he gestured away the footman who came to light the candles. When the butler arrived with a note from Lord Landon, inviting him to an evening’s entertainment, he let the missive drop on his desk and made no reply.
Could Marguerite really have made such a mistake? On the surface it seemed preposterous. He had never heard of such a thing. Yet, he did believe her. He had watched her pain and anger grow and shift, and never doubted her after the first moment.
It was all a mistake. A great foolish error.
And the fault was his own.
He should never have forced her into marriage. What had she called it – a dreadful situation. That was how she saw their marriage – as dreadful. That was why she did not call.
It was only when full darkness sealed the room that he stood and walked to the hall. He inquired if Marguerite had eaten. Her tray had been returned untouched. He stepped on the first stair. He would coax her to nibble at least.
But, she had not called for him.
She was right to blame him for this awful situation. If he had not been so full of pride and bravado and plans it would not have come to this. She would have been free once she discovered she was not with child.
He had forced her to a marriage she did not desire.
He turned and, not looking towards the hall and the rich odor of his own waiting dinner, strode out the front door and down the steps.
The cool night air cut through his light coat, but he did not stop to call for something warmer. His feet took him to Violet’s door, but he walked on. There were some secrets, some wounds that could not be shared.
He had done this, he with his foolish sense of omnipotence and entitlement. He might not have caused the original situation, but he had certainly added to it.
Damn. He should have found another way. Perhaps he should simply have married another – some cold, icy beauty who would have known what she was getting into. The timing would have been difficult, but he had untied harder knots. Or perhaps, he should have braved the questions and simply ventured into drawing rooms and musicales alone. There would have been questions, but surely some other scandal would quickly have replaced the curiosity of a bored marquess venturing into such feminine territory. Hell, he could even have engineered the scandal.
So why hadn’t he? What had caused him to draw Marguerite into his web? The answer did not seem as simple as it once had.
He stopped. He lifted his face to the sky and stared up at the full moon lighting the clear night sky. It was the same moon that had shown on that long ago summer night.
It might have taken him a moment when Marguerite first appeared to realize who she was, but that didn’t mean he’d forgotten the magic of that night, the wonder that had bound him.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. He hadn’t even kissed her. But, as he stared up at the moon he could feel the velvet skin of her wrist beneath his fingers, her sweet breath caress him, her deepening eyes enchant him. He had known many women much more intimately, but none had ever touched the core of him the way her innocent wonder had.
Damn – reason, logic. He was not a man of emotion. He had made a mistake in marrying her, a mistake he would have to rectify.
He had used her. He had even planned to use her again, to attract that fool Moreland. That cut as sharp as any dagger. He had been staring out the window at her, plotting how to use her further, when –.
Marguerite had not even wanted to marry him.
The thought echoed in his mind. She had fought against it as hard as she was able. He