The only other time he recalled falling asleep with a woman after Donatella was with Julia on their first night together. Was that what had led him into this morass of a marriage? This needing to belong to someone? To have someone need him?
If so, he was hiding from the truth. Julia, like all the women in his life, needed his wealth and position for protection—not him. Given how badly he’d failed his son, he was lucky to have that much. Wanting more was a recipe for disappointment.
Inwardly he cursed. He could not allow himself to give in to this weakness. This marriage would only work if he maintained his detachment.
He rolled away from her and reached for his dressing gown, shoving his arms into it and wrapping it around himself. He stalked to the window, looking out, fighting to get himself under control and decent enough to face her. ‘I should get back to my room before your woman arrives with your tray.’
The sounds of her leaving the bed were almost more than he could resist. A moment more for her to be suitably swathed in that frilly thing she’d worn the night before and he turned around.
Relief and disappointment in equal measure battered at his mind. She was indeed well covered. Frilly though it might be, it was also demure, covering her from her throat to her ankles.
The scent of her invaded every pore of his body and left him wanting to hold her, kiss her one more time.
In his mind, he opened the door between their chambers, moved through it. Shut her out. In reality, he reached out for her, brought her hard against him and took her mouth in a kiss so wild, so all encompassing, her gasp of shock filled his mouth. Then she leaned into him and kissed him back with equal fervour.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard.
‘Join me at breakfast?’ he managed.
Eyes slumberous, lips full and rosy from his kiss, disappointment filled her expression, but she nodded her agreement.
Somehow, he managed to close the door between them.
* * *
The day was gloomy and rainy and after breakfast Julia was confined to the drawing room and her needlework. She kept thinking about the visit from the Dowager Duchess and the fact that she had not mentioned it to Alistair last night. She’d had so many chances it was now a mountain instead of a molehill. Would not Grindle have told him? Coward.
As if conjured by her thoughts the butler bowed his way in. ‘Shall I bring tea, Your Grace?’
‘Yes, please. Grindle, did you mention the Dowager Duchess’s visit to His Grace?’
His brow wrinkled. ‘I did not, Your Grace. Should I have?’
‘No. I wondered, that was all. Would you send word to the Duke to see if he would care to join me for tea?’
After Grindle left she walked to the window and looked out, plucking up her courage to admit her lie by omission. Beyond the glass, little could be seen of the magnificent vista this morning, the rain obscuring all but the closest objects.
She straightened her shoulders. There really was nothing to fear, but given his suspicions, his talk of cuckoos, would he think this was another attempt to deceive him?
Thank goodness he hadn’t changed his mind about visiting Beauworth. She felt the need to get out of doors, to see other people. Hopefully this rain would be over by tomorrow. If not, they would be forced to go by carriage—or postpone the outing. She glanced up at the sky. Naturally it looked as if it might rain for days.
She sighed and prepared herself to spend a few days drinking tea and plying her needle. Perhaps she’d work on a set of cushions for this room. Something bright and cheery.
The tray arrived with a message that His Grace would take his tea in his office, though the kitchen had included a second cup on the tray. Disappointed, she tucked her embroidery away and poured herself a cup. The steam brought with it the distinctive scent of Oolong and something else. Dash it all. Had they added a small amount to the pot for flavour or had they brought her the wrong tray? She poured herself a cup and added milk and sugar. When she lifted the brew to her nose and breathed in the scent her stomach rebelled. Oolong, certainly, but it was that other underlying sickly smell that turned her stomach. She sniffed again. Deeply. And the smell hit the back of her throat in a way that was familiar.
Laudanum.
Of course. It was what she had been tasting and smelling all along.
In her tea? Why? In disgust she poured what was in her cup back in the pot and put the lid on, to keep the smell enclosed.
Her chest constricted. This was the reason for her illness these past many days. Certainly not what Alistair had accused her of. What she had barely dared hope. Laudanum must have been what she had been tasting in her morning chocolate, too. She shuddered. A dose of the poppy had made her violently ill as a child and the doctor had told her parents she should never take it again.
Why would anyone do such a thing? Who would?
No one else knew of her intolerance. There had been no reason to discuss it. She simply never used it, not for a headache or her monthly pains. So if it was not being given to make her ill...
She pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to reason it out. As far as she knew, laudanum made people sleepy. Took away pain. Some people also gained a penchant for daily usage. Cold fingers crawled down her spine. Could that be it?
But why?
Trembling, she covered her mouth with a hand, trying to stem her rapid breathing, the panic. Should she say something to Alistair?
This was his house, his servants, his everything. He could arrange for such a thing. Could he have done so? To what end? To make her compliant to his every wish?
Or because he regretted marrying her and wanted rid of her one way or another? And now he knew she couldn’t give him children would it make him all the more determined to see her gone? Her conversation with his stepmother had revealed a man who was ruthless in obtaining his own ends. A man who seemed to care for no one but himself.
If he discovered the laudanum did not work, what next should she expect?
Blinded by dread, she wrapped her arms around her waist.
Chapter Ten
Alistair took the stairs up to the second floor two at a time. He’d done his best to stay away from his wife. To assure himself he was not a slave to his desires. He was not. But after his overwhelming terror at finding her comatose in her bath, if he wanted to get any work done, he was going to assure himself she was well at regular intervals during the day.
And likely through the night, too.
Odd behaviour indeed.
Outside the door, he schooled his face into polite friendliness.
Julia gasped at his entrance, her gaze flying from the teapot she had been staring at, to rest on his face. A hand flattened on her throat. ‘Alistair. You startled me.’
She looked afraid. ‘You invited me for tea.’
She visibly pulled herself together. ‘You declined the invitation.’
The way she stood up to him was something he liked about her, but seeing evidence of the courage it took to overcome her fear of him was a bitter pill.
‘I changed my mind. Will you pour me a cup?’
She stared at him, her hand hovering near the pot, but not touching it.
He frowned and reached to take it for himself, noticing that she had not yet poured for herself.
‘You cannot,’ she said breathlessly, pressing her palm to the lid.
He froze. ‘What? Am I not permitted to change my mind?’ He kept his voice even, an indifferent drawl, but her refusal pained him more than he would have expected.
‘No. I mean yes. It is not that.’ She sounded flustered. Looked flustered. Anxious.
‘What is wrong?’
She stared at him as if he had spoken in a foreign language.
How exceedingly strange.
Once more he reached for the teapot.
She sat bolt upright. ‘Stop. I didn’t think you were coming. It is full of the stuff you like, but I cannot abide. I am sorry. I tipped my cup, milk and all, into the pot.’
He frowned. ‘You were supposed to let the kitchen know this.’
Her eyes filled with worry, she twisted her hands in her lap. She sagged back against the couch. ‘I—I forgot.’ Miserably, she gazed at him.
Did she fear he would be angry she had spoiled the tea? Would her last husband have been angry at such a small thing? Punished her for such a transgression?
Did she expect him to be similarly inclined? Guilt racked him. His distance had been designed to protect her, but he wanted to offer comfort. At least she should understand that she was safe from him in that way.
‘Get your coat and hat,’ he said, inwardly shaking his head at yet another strangely spur of the moment idea.
She stared at him and then out of the window at the rain. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To find you a cup of tea you can drink. Meet me in five minutes at the bottom of the stairs.’
* * *
It only took Julia a moment to pull on her cloak. Why she had chosen one of the few things remaining from her old wardrobe she wasn’t quite sure. Perhaps because it was familiar and comfortable when everything else about today seemed confusing. Worrisome in the extreme.
Or...it was because it was raining. Nothing else she owned was suitable for wearing in a downpour.
Already waiting for her when she reached the hall, Alistair tucked her hand beneath his arm. ‘This way.’
Instead of going out of the front door, he led her out of a side door no doubt used by servants. A path circumnavigated the stables and various outbuildings and arrived at a small thatch-roofed cottage she had not noticed before.
At first, when he knocked on the door, she thought no one was home, then she heard the sharp rap of quick footsteps and the door swung inwards.
A small bird-like lady, with a thin face and a pair of spectacles perched on a formidable nose, peered out at them. A smile changed her appearance from stern to welcoming. ‘Crawfy! Come in, come in. Do not stand there getting wet. And you, too, young lady. Oh, my goodness, I mean, Your Grace.’
Alistair, leaned in and kissed her thin cheek. ‘Here we are at last, Digger. Julia, this grande dame used to be my governess, Miss Digby.’
‘Crawfy?’ Julia whispered over her shoulder as Alistair ushered her in. ‘Digger?’
He took her cloak, whispering back as he did so, ‘Childhood pet names.’ He hung their outer raiment on hooks beside the door. He waved her into the room where their hostess had disappeared only moments before. It turned out to be the kitchen. On every available surface teetered a pile of books.
‘Sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.’
Miss Digby bustled about taking a teapot to the water already boiling on the small range on the other side of the room. She peered at Julia over her spectacles. ‘I hope you are not expecting that horrid Oolong stuff Crawfy is so fond of. I cannot bear it.’
‘Nor me,’ Julia said with heartfelt relief.
Alistair made a face. ‘I came for the biscuits.’
‘Foolish boy. They make them in your kitchen and bring them over here.’
The tea was soon made and shortbread fingers set out on a blue-patterned plate. They ensconced themselves around the kitchen table with full cups deliciously laced with cream.
Julia closed her eyes with pleasure at the lovely taste and the sense of being welcome.
‘So, Crawfy, what brings you to my door?’ She smiled at Julia. ‘These days he only comes to see me when he has something on his mind.’
‘We came for the tea,’ he said.
Her lips folded in as she tried to repress a smile. ‘What troubles you, Your Grace?’
‘Uh-oh. If dear old Digger is getting formal I know we are for it.’
‘Dear old Digger’ gave him a stern look. ‘Confess.’
It seemed that the elderly lady still held the power of a governess to keep her unruly charge in line. Julia repressed a smile of her own. She could not have been more grateful to Alistair for bringing her here. The woman made him seem much more human. More approachable than the Duke who had been sitting in her drawing room only a few minutes ago. More approachable even than the man who had made love to her so delightfully.
His eyes sparkled with mischief. ‘My wife thinks someone is trying to poison her.’
Julia froze.
The woman’s eyes sharpened behind her spectacles. ‘Gracious me.’ She glanced at Julia. ‘Is this true?’
‘No, no,’ Julia said, realising too late that Alistair was joking. ‘They brought me Oolong, that is all. It doesn’t agree with me.’
Especially when laced with laudanum, but she was not going to mention that. Not after Alistair had spoken of poison. ‘They must have confused our trays.’ She wished it was that simple. She really did.
‘Are you sure it is not the antics of this young scamp upsetting your digestion?’
Julia almost choked on her sip of tea.
‘Now, Digger,’ Alistair said. ‘Do not be giving away my secrets. I need my wife’s respect.’
Miss Digby chuckled. ‘Respect is to be earned, young man.’
‘How many times have I heard that quote?’ His gaze was fond. Almost tender.
Julia felt as if she was looking in on something precious. As if Alistair had allowed her to see part of him he never exposed to the world. Something wrenched at her heart. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want to be lured in when she knew that most of the time he barely remembered she existed. If she relaxed her guard, when next he turned all cold and distant, it would hurt too much. She was tired of the pain of rejection.
‘Have you always lived here at Sackfield, Miss Digby?’ Julia asked, hoping to put the conversation back on a more comfortable footing.
‘Dear me, no,’ Miss Digby said. ‘I left when it was time for a proper tutor.’
The hardness returned to Alistair’s jaw. ‘I was seven. My stepmother feared Miss Digby was too lenient.’
‘Well, I was a little,’ the elderly lady said regretfully. ‘I never could bring myself to cane small children.’ She smiled sadly. ‘More is achieved with honey than with vinegar in my experience. But you were quite the handful, even for me.’
‘If I had known Isobel was going to send you away, I would have been a model of good behaviour.’ His voice was bitter. He looked up and caught Julia watching him. His expression cooled. The illusion of being let in dissipated as if it had never been.
A pang pierced her heart. ‘But here you are now?’
‘Yes, here I am in my own little cottage just as I always wanted, thanks to Alistair. He came and found me once he reached his majority. When he was little we joked about living in a little cottage in the country and doing nothing but reading books. He loves books as much as I do.’
‘You do?’ This was something else she had not known.
‘I do not have time for reading,’ he said. ‘Being a duke requires all my attention.’
The old lady’s eyes twinkled. ‘As well as your new duties as a husband.’
Julia blushed.
Miss Digby looked at Julia. ‘You must convince him to take some time for himself,’
As if she had any influence on the man. Although he had spent more time with her here than in Richmond. ‘I will try.’ What else could she say? The woman was small, but she had a powerful will.
The older woman’s lips pursed, creating a concertina of wrinkles around her mouth. ‘I hear you hired on a number of new servants, Crawfy. Brought some of them with you, too.’
‘A married duke needs more than a skeleton household,’ he mumbled. �
�Both here and in London. Especially here, since Her Grace will no doubt be receiving callers.’
The old lady nodded. ‘Sensible. What about this dresser of yours, Your Grace? Mrs Robins. I have heard a few grumbles. Not a woman who is inspiring of warm feelings amongst her peers.’
Julia blinked at the directness of the question. ‘Robins has been with me for three weeks. I agree, she is rather strait-laced, but came highly recommended.’
Alistair narrowed his eyes. ‘Recommended by whom?’
‘I am not sure. Mr Lewis didn’t say.’
‘Hmmph,’ Miss Digby muttered.
A look of significance passed between her and Alistair.
‘What is it?’ Julia said.
‘The Dowager Duchess,’ Alistair and Miss Digby said in unison.
‘She sometimes tries to plant spies among my staff,’ Alistair said. ‘She likes to poke her nose into my business.’
Julia’s jaw dropped. ‘Oh, my goodness. Really?’
Alistair shrugged. ‘She keeps an eye on me for some reason, the idiot female.’
Perhaps she worried about her stepson. She had implied that she did. Still... ‘But why would you think she would spy on me?’
His expression hardened ‘To cause me trouble. If she could find some unpleasant gossip...’
Her stomach dropped as she thought of the gossip that could never be revealed, of the night they had met.
She swallowed. If she said nothing about the Dowager’s visit now, he might think she was colluding with the woman. She gathered her courage. ‘I d-did not tell you, but your stepmother visited me yesterday.’
Alistair glowered. ‘The devil she did. No doubt she came knowing I was out.’
‘She hinted as much.’
‘Why did you not mention this before?’
Julia stiffened under his piercing gaze.
‘Crawfy,’ Miss Digby said. ‘You know you are not the most approachable of men. Especially not on the topic of your stepmama.’
‘Quite honestly,’ Julia said, ‘I forgot about it yesterday, with so much going on.’ Forgot for a while and later was hesitant as to how to approach the matter. ‘She wanted me to support her request to move into the dower house.’
Secrets of the Marriage Bed Page 14
