Secrets of the Marriage Bed

by Ann Lethbridge

  Surprise warred with another expression she could not read.

  She held her breath. What would he choose?

  ‘I will ring for your dresser.’ He strode to the bell.

  Chapter Four

  Julia watched her husband leave with a sense of frustration. And sadness. Whatever passion he had felt for her that night at the brothel had gone as if it never existed. That was a disappointment she did not want to examine too closely, because it hurt too much.

  Her stomach rumbled. Oh, goodness, she really was hungry. Whatever had ailed her earlier was clearly over and done.

  Robins strode in and gave a heavy sigh. ‘Your Grace, your hair! We must start again.’

  Julia wanted to cut the whole lot off. She forced a pleasant smile. ‘No, Robins. You will find a way to repair the damage. After all, we are in the country and dining en famille. I am sure His Grace will not care if my hair is a little less formal.’ He might, however, care if she kept him waiting for his dinner.

  Robins made an odd little noise.

  Julia frowned. ‘Did you sniff at me, Robins?’

  The woman started. ‘Naturally not, Your Grace,’ she said and her mouth softened and, yes, almost smiled. Perhaps there was a human being behind the façade of dresser after all.

  ‘Very well,’ Julia said. ‘Do your best to salvage what you can, but for heaven’s sake do not fuss for too long. I do not want to keep His Grace waiting.’ A man hungry for his dinner was likely to lose his temper. And that was not something she wanted to witness.

  * * *

  As instructed, Robins had swiftly made her look respectable and with half the usual number of pins, and she was on her way to dinner in less than half an hour.

  A swarm of butterflies flapped around in her belly. Did butterflies swarm? Perhaps they flocked. Or buttered. Grinning at her foolishness, she entered the dining room set aside for their private use.

  Alistair, rose. He arched a brow. ‘What has you smiling so mischievously?’

  Oh, dear. What would he think of thoughts brought on by a bad case of nerves? ‘I was trying to recall what one would call a group of butterflies? A flock? A swarm?’

  His eyes widened. She winced inwardly. Now he would think her perfectly stupid.

  ‘I would call it a flutter, I think,’ he said perfectly gravely and yet there was a twinkle in those intense grey eyes.

  Her heart warmed to see it. ‘The best I could come up with was a butter. I like flutter much better.’ She laughed at how wonderfully foolish the words sounded coming out of her mouth.

  ‘A butter of flutterbys.’ He grinned. ‘I mean butterflies, though they certainly do flutter by, I suppose.’

  They exploded with laughter.

  The transformation was almost magical. In that moment, he seemed younger, almost boyish. And sweet. An odd little pang pulled at her heart.

  ‘May I offer you a sherry before dinner?’ he asked, the laughter still in his voice, giving it a warmth she had never heard before.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He sent her an enquiring glance. ‘You do not object if I pour one for myself?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  After pouring himself a drink, he seated her on the sofa and sat at the other end, half turned towards her. He raised his glass in a toast. ‘To my lovely and exceedingly speedy wife.’

  She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. It seemed that her illness today had brought out the compassionate side of her husband.

  ‘Butterflies remind me of stained-glass windows,’ Alistair said musingly after sipping from his glass.

  ‘They do, don’t they?’

  ‘If I remember correctly, they are called a swarm.’

  ‘How dull for such...an explosion of colour. One only has to think of the peacock butterfly, or the red admiral, to see it does not fit.’

  ‘Mmm. More like the view through a kaleidoscope, don’t you think?’

  She blinked. ‘I have never seen one, but I have heard of them, of course.’

  ‘Old Brewster, the inventor, gave me a demonstration. They are remarkable. Fascinating, in fact. Turned out to be a profitable investment, too.’ He smiled at her. ‘A kaleidoscope of butterflies.’ He nodded. ‘That is it. A perfect description.’

  My word, her husband actually seemed to have a little romance in his soul. What a revelation. ‘I should like to see if your analogy is correct.’

  He sipped thoughtfully on his sherry. ‘Perhaps one day you will.’

  Silence fell, but it contained no awkwardness. She leaned back against the cushions. ‘How long will it take to reach Sackfield from here?’

  ‘Three hours if the weather remains fair. Can you bear it?’

  ‘I hope so. Though I find it tedious in the extreme to be imprisoned all the livelong day.’

  An expression flickered across his face. She wished she could read him. She had no idea why he had reacted to what she had said, when he so rarely reacted to anything at all, or why was he being so charming now, when for days he’d been positively brusque in their dealings.

  Could he be missing the company of his mistress? Another little stab of jealousy under her ribs took her aback.

  She forced a smile. ‘Perhaps I will invite Robins to travel with me tomorrow as a diversion.’

  He tilted his head, his eyes dancing with amusement, his lips curving in a wry smile. ‘You would prefer your dresser’s company to mine?’

  Mouth agape, she stared at him. Now he wanted to ride with her? Because she’d been ill? Most gentlemen would run a mile. Perversity was this man’s middle name. ‘But—’ She swallowed her protest along with her frustration—something she knew all too well how to do in the face of a husband’s odd ways—and smiled instead. ‘I would delight in your company, Your Grace, if that is your wish.’ She’d be thrilled. It had been her initial plan, after all. ‘Though I do not wish to discommode you.’

  If he came unwillingly, with ill humour, it would not suit her purposes at all, though teasing the man out of a bad mood might have rewards. Another man, perhaps. With Alistair she wasn’t sure how he would react. She wasn’t sure of anything with regard to her husband.

  ‘Thor will appreciate the rest.’

  Of course, his horse. Well, that certainly put her in her place. She quelled the dart of pain and smiled brightly. ‘Then I will look forward to your company. We could read poetry to each other for entertainment.’

  His expression of horror, quickly masked, made her want to laugh. It also made her feel a little guilty, but really, didn’t he deserve a little torment?

  But perhaps he’d noticed her amusement, for he was now eyeing her speculatively, the way a fox might eye a henhouse. ‘I hope you will allow me to select something we will both enjoy.’

  A quick recovery. Judging from the teasing light in his eyes he had something wicked in mind. ‘What do you suggest?’

  ‘Why don’t I surprise you?’

  Everything that had come out of his mouth this evening had been a surprise. A pleasant one. The man could be utterly charming when he wished. ‘Very well.’ Though she sensed a trap, she thought it would be interesting to see what he had planned. Certainly she would far prefer his company to that of Robins. She could only hope he would not return to his usual taciturn self in the morning, because it was distraction she needed, if she was to survive more hours trapped inside a box on wheels.

  Though hopefully she would not be ill again.

  The door opened to reveal Grindle. ‘Dinner is served, Your Grace.’ He bowed them into the dining room.

  ‘Did you travel with your chef as well as with your butler?’ she asked, seeing the array of dishes awaiting them on the table.

  Alistair raised a brow. ‘I have standards to maintain a
nd a finicky appetite. Given my consequence, what else would I do?’

  Her jaw dropped. She’d been jesting. ‘Really? Is that not doing it a bit too brown?’

  He laughed and his face changed from coldly handsome to gorgeous and alive. Her heart tumbled, not at his handsomeness but at how approachable he seemed in that moment. An odd sense welled in her chest, a feeling of tenderness. A sense that behind the chilly demeanour resided a man who cared more than he liked to reveal. If she could find a way to reach that man... The idea caused her heart to still.

  Hand on the small of her back, he guided her to her seat and held her chair. ‘I bring Grindle because he has family nearby and of course my valet and your dresser and a couple of footmen, but not my chef. The cook at Sackfield would not approve.’ He helped her to sit, leaning close enough for her to feel his warm breath on her cheek. ‘You know, your face shows your every thought, your surprise, your puzzlement.’

  Glad she had her back to him so he could not read her most recent thoughts, she fought for composure as he moved to the adjacent seat. ‘I am glad you find me entertaining.’ And...there it was, sarcasm, her defence against hurt.

  He moved around to his chair. ‘You have a saucy mouth.’

  She froze, terrified that she had ruined the evening. ‘I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be rude.’ Or shrewish.

  He frowned.

  She held her breath. Would he send her from the room in disgrace as her husband had done on more than one occasion? She clenched her hands on her lap. Or would he find more subtle means of punishment?

  He gestured to the table. ‘I hope you do not mind the informality. There are only the two of us dining and we can be more comfortable serving ourselves.’

  Confused by the sudden change of subject, she nodded her assent.

  * * *

  Alistair couldn’t remember when he had enjoyed a dinner more. He’d thought he’d become immune to the need for companionship. Then Julia had come along and was giving life to feelings he’d frozen out of existence.

  A tide of longing rushed along his veins and stole his breath. Longings that belonged to a time when he’d been young and naive. Before he’d understood how badly a man could be led astray by his primitive urges. Before he learned first-hand how easily women pretended they cared for a man to suit their own ends. Never again would he be taken in. Especially not by the woman who was now his wife.

  Bleakness filled him. The idyllic boy he’d once been didn’t want to be always alone.

  Alone was better than giving in to a weakness that could be used against him. He’d had enough of being used to last a lifetime.

  Civility, common courtesy between them, had to be enough to see them through this marriage.

  He picked up his wine glass. ‘To our summer idyll and butterflies.’

  Her smile lit up her face, filled the dark-panelled room with brightness. ‘A whole kaleidoscope full of butterflies.’

  Against his wishes, a chuckle rose up in his throat, the sound rusty to his ears. Life, the future, would be so much simpler if he liked her a whole lot less.

  They each sipped their wine.

  He carved the meat, she served the vegetables. He was surprised to see how much she ate, given her illness not so very long ago.

  ‘The food is excellent,’ she said as if guessing at his thoughts.

  ‘Yes. Bartlett’s wife has a reputation hereabouts.’

  ‘Needs must, given Your Grace’s finicky appetite.’

  She was teasing again. When was the last time anyone had cared enough to tease him? And why did that matter?

  ‘I’m glad your appetite is recovered,’ he said.

  ‘Me, too. I am feeling perfectly well now. I can’t think what made me feel so dizzy.’

  ‘Something you ate, perhaps.’

  She frowned as if his words had struck a chord. ‘Possibly. I do not recall ever suffering illness when travelling by coach, but I have never been on such a long journey.’

  He rang the bell at his elbow. Grindle appeared instantly, along with the footmen to clear away the dishes.

  The butler returned shortly afterwards with a decanter of port. ‘Tea is served in the sitting room, Your Grace.’

  She inclined her graceful neck. ‘Thank you.’

  Alistair rose to assist with her chair. He glanced down at her vulnerable nape and wanted to sweep aside the fine hairs that had escaped the confines of her coiffure and brush his lips over the delicate skin...

  She sucked in a quick breath as if she had guessed at his fleeting thoughts. Thoughts he must not entertain if she could so easily guess at their direction.

  ‘I’ll take my port in the sitting room,’ he said, surprised by the impulsiveness of the decision, his lack of forethought. ‘That is if Her Grace is amenable.’

  She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes warm. ‘Very amenable, Your Grace.’

  His blood heated at the implied promise.

  Right at this moment, he realised, he was at a crossroads. He could give in to his desires and abandon the last shred of his honour by making her his wife in truth, or they could limp along in friendship, avoiding all temptation.

  The choice was simple. Much as he wanted her, his duty, to the dukedom and to his heir, must come first. Otherwise he really was nothing more than a slave to lust.

  He escorted her into the sitting room and, having accepted a glass of port from the butler, settled beside her on the sofa, one arm along the back to rest behind her head, his legs stretched out before him. ‘That will be all, thank you, Grindle.’

  The butler bowed and left.

  Watching the graceful movements of his wife’s hands in the ritual of pouring tea was as sensual as feeling them glide over his skin. An erotic sensation he remembered only too well.

  Lush full lips pursed slightly as she tasted the concoction. He recalled how those lips had felt against his own. Soft. Full. Warm. The knowledge that he must not taste them again was pure sensual torture.

  Deservedly so.

  He sipped at his port, letting the tawny liquid slide over his tongue and down his throat, wrestling his unruly body under control, fighting to put his own needs aside and serve merely as a friend. Even so, he could not prevent a surge of heat at the way her hand shook as she placed her cup in the saucer.

  She, too, sensed the tension in the air, the awareness, heavy, like perfume. She sipped at her tea and after a moment or two straightened her shoulders, as if coming to a decision. ‘If we are to set off early again, I should likely retire very soon,’ she said softly.

  The breathiness along with the slightest break in her throaty voice would have been all the encouragement he needed, if she was not his wife.

  ‘I agree,’ he said coolly. ‘After your illness you need your rest.’

  A quick glance from beneath lowered lashes was the only signal she gave that she had heard the chill in his voice.

  He helped her to her feet and they strolled arm in arm up the stairs. At the door to her chamber, he turned her to face him, cradled her face in his fingertips and bent his head to brush his lips lightly against hers. The feel of her lips so pliant, so welcoming, almost overcame reason.

  He reached around her and opened her chamber door. ‘Goodnight, Your Grace.’

  The expression of puzzlement on her face, the hurt in her eyes, made him wince. As did her words. ‘Would you care to join me in a nightcap?’

  They’d enjoyed a nightcap at the brothel. It had been one of the most erotic experiences of his life. He quelled his body’s clamour for more of the same. Those clamours were one of the reasons he’d forgotten his duty and offered her marriage.

  The thought of a similar encounter almost changed his mind. Beyond her, inside the room, her dresser hovered, trying to look busy. It would be
easy enough to turf the woman out and have his way with his wife.

  Temptation beat hard in his blood. Again. He would not allow it to control his decisions.

  ‘You have been ill,’ he said with a smile he hoped would temper his refusal. ‘We have a long journey on the morrow. You need your rest.’

  Her expression eased. Somewhat. Though regret figured largely in her eyes. Along with physical weariness. It was true what he had said earlier; her expressions made her an open book. Or at least, so it seemed. He also was enduring a certain amount of physical regret.

  She passed him by and turned in the doorway. ‘Thank you for a pleasant dinner. I—I will see you in the morning.’

  ‘Indeed. An early start will ensure a timely arrival.’ He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. ‘I am looking forward to showing you around Sackfield.’

  He was, he realised with surprise. He had never brought any of his women there, but he would enjoy showing his home to Julia.

  He bowed and closed the door firmly, before he changed his mind about leaving.

  * * *

  The next day proved fine and clear. Dressed and seated at the dressing table, Julia munched on a piece of dry toast while Robins worked on her hair. Her stomach felt much better this morning, but she had asked Robins to bring up a breakfast tray after hearing that His Grace had already breakfasted and had gone out to the stables.

  Would he keep his promise to join her in the carriage? She hugged the warmth that thought engendered deep inside. While she might have preferred to ride a horse with him rather than spend another day cooped up, undertaking such a long journey on horseback would be foolish in the extreme.

  Robins worked another pin into her hair. She forced herself not to wince. Or complain. One had to suffer if one wished to be fashionable.

  ‘What about your chocolate, Your Grace?’ Robins enquired around a hairpin held in her lips. ‘It will be cold if you do not drink it soon.’

  Julia bit back her impatience. The woman was being kind. ‘I should have asked for tea. I think it might sit better on my stomach.’

  Robins frowned. ‘Would you like me to ring for tea, Your Grace?’