Secrets Of The Marriage Bed

Chapter Three

Alistair’s staff needed no guidance from Julia. All questions were directed to Mr Lewis on the Duke’s orders. Julia hadn’t packed so much as a handkerchief. She unclenched her hands. There was no sense in complaining. If she wanted to make herself indispensable to her husband, she would have to work a great deal harder to find her niche in his well-ordered life.

‘The carriage is at the door, Your Grace,’ her dresser, Robins, announced.

In truth, she reminded Julia of a robin. Her movements were quick and deft and her nose, while small, came to a sharp point. She was exceedingly officious and exacting when it came to Julia’s wardrobe. She clearly felt her skills as dresser to a duchess were very much on display and she had a reputation to uphold.

Julia sat down at her dressing table so the poor woman did not have to stand on tiptoe to perch her hat on the elaborate coiffure that had taken what felt like hours to accomplish. Why a duchess could not manage the simplest of tasks for herself, Julia wasn’t sure, but any rebellion in this regard, like putting on one’s dressing gown without aid, or the removal of a shawl, sent Robins into a twitter.

The dresser tied the cherry-coloured ribbon under Julia’s left ear, tweaked at the curls framing her face and stepped back. Julia rose and held out her hands to be encased in York tan gloves.

Robins ran a critical gaze from her head to her heels.

‘Will I do?’ Julia could not help asking.

‘Your Grace does me great credit.’ Robins’s smile seemed oddly forced, her eyes remaining dull.

Julia repressed the urge to question this extravagant expression of approbation from the toplofty dresser when her expression belied her words. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are welcome, Your Grace.’ The woman frowned mightily and Julia quailed. ‘I notice that you ate little from your breakfast tray.’

Julia glanced at the remains of her breakfast on the night stand, the toast and preserves. The pot of chocolate. ‘I am not hungry.’

The woman twisted her fingers, a sign of obvious distress. ‘You will need something to sustain you on the journey, Your Grace.’

The kitchen had made the chocolate a little sweeter than she liked. Almost sickly. Or perhaps the niggardliness exhibited by her previous husband when it came to sugar—well, everything really—had ruined her taste for sweet things. She didn’t want to make a fuss and cause a stir in the kitchen. Not for so small a thing. French chefs were renowned for their temperamental ways.

‘I will likely travel better if I do not eat too much.’

‘A piece of toast, Your Grace, and a sip of chocolate. We don’t want you fainting along the way.’

Heaven forefend.

To please the woman, who while autocratic was clearly trying to be helpful, Julia nibbled on a point of toast with orange marmalade. A sip of chocolate had her repressing a shudder. A knock came at the door, giving her an excuse to set the cup aside while Robins bustled to the door.

It was a footman coming for the last of Julia’s bandboxes. ‘Be careful, Samuel,’ Robins scolded as he hefted a hatbox under his arm. ‘Those are easily crushed.’ She turned back to Julia. ‘Your Grace, please be so good as to await my arrival at the inn before you attempt to remove your outer raiment. The hat, if removed improperly, is likely to disturb what I must say is the perfect arrangement of your hair.’

Julia sighed inwardly. Robins despaired of her long straight hair and insisted that no proper duchess could set foot out of her room without the appropriate length of time spent with curling papers and pomade. Apparently a duchess required more curls than any lesser mortal.

As the sister of an impoverished earl, for Julia, curling and primping had been abandoned in favour of marriage to a very old, very rich and very unpleasant man.

Naturally, a duchess could tell her dresser to desist fussing and ignore the resultant sulks. But that would be unkind, when the woman was trying so hard on her behalf. Instead, Julia suffered silently. ‘Thank you. I will keep your warning in mind.’ The last thing she wanted was another hour in front in the mirror.

Being perfectly turned out might seem less of a task if one’s Duke took an interest in one’s appearance instead of seeming to wish her to Jericho. Despite her best efforts, she had never again managed to ambush him at the breakfast table and thereby force him to escort her on his morning ride. A new plan of attack was required. Hopefully, such strategies as ambuscade and flanking would work better in the country. Surely there, they would be required to ride out to visit neighbours and tenants.

Indeed, they already had one invitation from Lord Beauworth. The thought cheered her. As did the prospect of riding in the carriage with Alistair for the next few hours. The opportunities for a wife to connect with her husband in such close quarters were endless.

In a far more cheerful frame of mind, she walked out of the town house. Only to have her hopes dashed.

The travelling carriage, pure luxury on wheels in shiny black and silver, certainly awaited, but clearly her husband intended to avoid her company yet again. A groom was holding Thor saddled and ready for Alistair to mount.

Said Duke was inspecting the second coach loaded with their luggage and giving last-minute directions to Mr Lewis. Once again she was startled to note how tall her husband looked beside other men. How commandingly powerful and masculine. Her insides fluttered pleasurably, while sadness crept into her throat and formed a hard lump. What a waste. The lovely man who could have been cosily ensconced with her in the privacy of a well-sprung carriage preferred to exhaust himself hacking across a good chunk of England.

If that wasn’t a travesty, she didn’t know of one. Only if she could discover why he had taken her in dislike could she find a solution.

As she approached the elegant equipage in which she was to ride, a footman sprang forward to open the door and let down the steps.

‘Thank you.’

His Grace turned at the sound of her voice. ‘Finally,’ he said, in the tone of the aggravated male of the species.

A clock within the house struck ten.

She raised a brow. ‘You did say ten o’clock.’

‘Hmmph.’

‘Apology accepted.’ She climbed into the carriage and, once her skirts were settled, looked through the door and into his startled expression. ‘Are we leaving or are we not?’

‘Yes,’ her husband said. ‘We are.’ He stared at her, a glint of something in his eyes.

Julia wanted to kick herself for the odd sense of humour that always caused her trouble. She wanted to please her husband, not put him in a temper.

It was the thought of the journey that was making her lose her calm. She hated the idea of being shut up alone all day, much as she had been shut up alone in her last marriage.

* * *

Alistair wanted to kiss his wife’s saucy mouth. She was likely the only person in his life who dared take him to task about anything. He was learning that she was a delight and a wonder. Not something he had ever expected in his life. Or wanted.

His good spirits plummeted. A wonder deserved a far better marriage than he was able to provide. Perhaps they could be friends as she had requested. A daunting prospect around an impudent sumptuous mouth that offered so much temptation for kissing, particularly when kisses would naturally lead to other far more dangerous activities.

Thought of said activities caused a stir behind his falls, confirming the impossibility of friendship.

It was far better to maintain a civil distance. He’d been thinking about leaving her at Sackfield when he went off to visit his other estates. It was easier to put the erotic memories of their one night together out of his head when she was far away. Unfortunately, that meant leaving her open to importuning visits from family members who were nothing but a trial.

As a rule, he looked forward to the ride out to Hampshire. The feeling of homecoming was a subtle draw, but this time a strange feeling of dread filled his heart. He closed the carriage door, swung himself up on to Thor and gave the signal for the off.

Naturally they made much slower time on the road than when he travelled alone. The cavalcade didn’t arrive at the Bull and Bear until some eight hours and five changes of carriage horses later. Had he been alone, he would have pushed on to Sackfield Hall, but at the last toll gate he’d notice his wife’s pale complexion and her answer to a passing remark had been unusually terse.

A stab of guilt tightened his gut. He had not thought to ask if she travelled well or ill. A husband should know that sort of thing about his wife. He leaped down and handed the reins off to a groom.

Setting her hand in his for only the briefest moment, she stepped down and gazed about her. ‘Is this where we spend the night? Ah yes, the Bull and Bear.’ Relief coloured her tone, despite her calm expression.

He offered his arm.

Though she took it, there was a reluctance in the action. Was she angry with him? Or... ‘Are you unwell?’

‘I am perfectly fine, thank you.’ The strain around her eyes said otherwise, but he didn’t care to argue in front of the servants. It was bad enough that they would have noticed their estrangement in the marriage bed.

Inside the inn, the landlord, a chubby jolly fellow he’d known for years, Harry Bartlett, escorted them up the winding stairs to their chambers. Lewis had written ahead and their rooms were ready.

The moment she stepped inside the chamber, she released her grip on his arm. ‘Would you have Robins sent up the moment she arrives, please?’

He bowed. ‘Certainly.’ He hesitated, inexplicably loath to leave her looking so fragile. He’d suffered travel sickness as a child. He recalled how he’d dreaded every promised journey. Dreaded the embarrassment of casting up his accounts to the pity of all concerned, along with the disgust.

Was that why she had not told him? ‘Are you often ill when you travel?’

A crease formed between her brows at the sharpness of his tone. ‘Not generally.’ She sank into the nearest chair. ‘I must admit, though, I have been feeling queasy since early this morning.’

If anything her face looked paler than before. She really was not well, poor thing. The urge to take her in his arms and offer comfort had him stepping closer. She froze, eyes wide.

He brought himself up short, shocked by his irrational need to ease what ailed her when he’d always avoided being drawn in by female megrims. Even so, and despite her obvious lack of trust, he could not bring himself to remain unmoved by her obvious discomfort.

‘Is there anything I can get for you in the meantime?’ he asked, surprised at the tenderness in his voice. He forced himself to sound calmly practical. ‘Peppermint tea, perhaps?’

Surprise replaced the anxiety in her gaze. She gave him a brave smile. ‘Peppermint tea would be very welcome. Thank you.’

It wasn’t the smile or the bravery that shook him. He’d seen her courage first hand that night they’d met. The way she’d braved the leering stares and catcalls of the men waiting to bid for her. No, it was her surprise that came as an unpleasant shock. Her expectation that he would care nothing for her welfare. The idea was a bitter taste in his mouth, but he could not deny he deserved such condemnation.

Nor did he want anything else, since keeping his distance was already difficult enough.

She drew off her gloves and glanced about their shared sitting room. ‘Would you care to join me?’

Temptation held him silent for a second, as he battled with the urge to say yes. Simply to assure himself she recovered, of course. Nothing else. But she might see it as something else.

A clever woman would certainly see his need to protect her as weakness and more than once he had seen his wife’s cleverness at work. Forcing him into taking her riding in Hyde Park had been a masterful move. One that had, for a time, pierced a hole in his defences. That day he’d let emotion rule rational thought.

‘No tea for me. I must oversee the stabling of the horses.’

The smiled died from her eyes. She leaned her head back against the chair cushions and closed her eyes briefly. Wearily. ‘As you wish.’

He gritted his teeth. Nothing was as he wished. His wishes were not at issue, here. He certainly hadn’t wished her to keep silent about feeling ill. Though nor had he encouraged her confidences. Far from it.

Dash it all, if he was fit for nothing else as a husband, at least he could ensure her safety.

He bowed. ‘I will have your tea sent up right away and look forward to seeing you at dinner.’

Puzzlement filled her expression.

Because he looked forward to sitting down with her to eat? Did it sound so far-fetched? Before he said anything else that might make her rethink her opinion of the distance between them, he withdrew.

* * *

The moment her husband left the room, Julia closed her eyes, hoping to ease her dizziness.

Every pin of the elaborate coiffure seemed to have its point stuck in her scalp, along with the hatpin Robins had used to affix the bonnet. She didn’t care what the woman said, it was coming off. Her fingers searched amid the feathers and flowers on her hat.

‘Your Grace!’

Julia winced at Robins’s sharp tone. The woman had slipped into the room without making a sound. And while she was always perfectly polite and indeed sometimes unbending enough to be almost kind, Julia sometimes had the feeling the woman was not quite comfortable in the ducal household. Still, Mr Lewis had been delighted that he had been able to secure the services of such a superior creature. Julia hadn’t had the heart to refuse her, or the courage, if the truth was told.

She got up and went to sit at the dressing table. ‘I have a bad headache,’ she said quietly. ‘The hat is making it worse.’

Robins’s lips pursed. ‘You see, Your Grace. I was right. You did need to eat more. Now the journey has made you feel ill.’

The self-congratulatory tone was almost more than Julia could bear. She clamped her jaw shut before she said something she would later regret.

To her great relief Robins divested her of her bonnet with deft efficiency. Unfortunately, the throbbing behind her temples did not diminish.

A scratch at the door had her swinging around. A maid of about fifteen, with rosy cheeks and wheat-blonde hair, entered with a tray.

Robins frowned. ‘I did not order a tray.’

Julia swallowed another surge of nausea. ‘His Grace did. Peppermint tea.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘Please put it on the night stand, if you would.’

The girl bobbed a curtsy. ‘Will there be anything else, Your Grace?’ she said carefully, her country accent soft.

‘I will let you know if Her Grace requires ought else,’ Robins pronounced, glaring so hard that the young woman turned tail and fled.

Did Robins fear to be thought lacking, because someone else had seen to her welfare? Servants could be jealous, though they usually kept it amongst themselves. It was best to ignore it. She rose from the dressing table. ‘I think I will lie down for a while.’ And sip at the tea. It might help settle her digestion.

Robins rushed to plump the pillows. ‘Your Grace, please, be careful. Your hair—’

‘Stop!’ Julia closed her eyes at her sudden loss of patience. ‘I beg your pardon, Robins, but I really do feel unwell. Please, pull the curtains against the light and I will close my eyes for an hour or so.’

Robins did as asked, stiffly inclined her head and left.

The woman was becoming insufferably possessive. Yet suffer Julia must, for when she had hinted to Mr Lewis that she might like someone a little less toplofty, he had been most concerned she had found his judgement at fault.

And besides, Alistair had made it clear he did not want her changing anything in his household. Or hanging on his sleeve. She could always try to assert herself, as she had at the beginning of her first marriage. The pain and humiliation of having her husband take a birch switch to her palms to remind her to keep her hands out of his affairs had been a bitter lesson.

She did not think Alistair would beat her, he was too much the gentleman, but his coldness was in some ways worse. She never knew quite where she stood with him. Did she offend, or merely bore him? Doubtless it was the general regret of marrying a woman so far beneath him.

Her blood ran cold. Did he, too, fear someone might recognise her from the night of the auction?

She crawled up on to the bed and leaned back against the cushions Robins had arranged so that her hair would not touch either the pillows or the headboard. She poured herself a cup of tea and inhaled the soothing fragrance of mint. A sip told her it had been perfectly prepared.

Slowly her head seemed less inclined to spin. Her eyelids felt weighted. Sleep beckoned.

* * *

Something deliciously cool pressed against her forehead. ‘Julia.’ A male voice. ‘Julia, wake up.’ A demand.

She forced her eyelids open. A face wavered in and out of focus. ‘Alistair?’

He muttered something under his breath that sounded a little like a prayer. Or not. He looked irritated rather than prayerful. She glanced around. Why was it so dark? And where—? Oh, yes, the inn. Robins had closed the curtains.

She stretched. For long seconds her husband gazed at her chest, his hard thin mouth softening sensually. There was no mistaking his interest in that unguarded moment. Was this then the way through his armour?

His gaze rose to her face, full of concern. She offered a smile of apology. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

‘So it seems,’ he said. His voice sounded rougher than usual. ‘How do you feel?’

She pushed herself upright. Everything stayed where it should. She felt refreshed and her headache was gone. ‘Much better, I must say. The tea helped enormously.’

‘I’m glad.’ For once he sounded relieved, rather than bored.

‘I do beg your pardon. It was not my intention to sleep so long. I wonder that Robins did not wake me.’

‘You aren’t late. Yet.’ He grimaced. ‘I told Robins to let you sleep a while longer, but when I didn’t hear any movement, I thought I should look in on you.’

An unlooked-for courtesy. One that made her heart stutter.

He rose from his seat on the edge of the bed. He had exchanged his riding coat and boots for evening dress, whereas she still wore her carriage gown.