Ann Lethbridge - Secrets Of The Marriage Bed

Her stomach dipped. She wandered over to the grand polished oak writing table where an ornate writing set of silver and cut glass occupied pride of place. A red leather-covered box with gold trim sat on one corner. The leather was beautifully tooled and engraved. Spanish, she thought. A work of art. A gift?

Julia dropped her gaze. She had no wish to pry, yet there was a little pang in her heart. The box was obviously something one would give to a woman. Surely Mr Lewis would not have looked quite so distraught if the gift had been one intended for her. There was no reason for Alistair to be giving her gifts. The bridal gift had been deposited on the night table beside her bed on the morning of her marriage, a set of sparkling diamonds, and her birthday was not until August.

‘What a lovely view,’ she said, turning towards the window.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ Mr Lewis said. ‘This was the room His Grace’s mother used as a private parlour.’

And His Grace spent many hours here during the day, before he went out in the evening in search of entertainment. She had met him during one of those quests, had she not?

‘I had no idea the garden existed,’ she said pondering this hint of sentimentality in His Grace’s soul. Even if it was directed at his mother. Another lady whom he had never once mentioned.

‘His Grace says the light in here is the best in the house for doing paperwork,’ Mr Lewis continued.

Clearly looking for sentiment in her husband was wishful thinking.

‘About our move to the country,’ she said, metaphorically grasping the nettle. ‘Where is it exactly we are going?’ She smiled and sat on the sofa near the open French door. ‘Ring for tea, would you, and you can inform me of the plans.’

Mr Lewis’s shy smile returned in full force.

* * *

Walking into his office and finding his wife taking tea with his secretary ought to have added to the misery of Alistair’s day. In fact, the sight of her sitting on the sofa listening intently to Lewis lifted his spirits to the point of ridiculousness.

She looked up at his entry into the room with a smile so welcoming it plucked at a painful chord deep within him. An alien need to belong.

‘I’m glad to find you having such a rollicking good time with my Duchess, Lewis,’ he said and wanted to kick himself for the instant wariness on both their faces. He had no reason to feel jealous. None at all.

His wife, goddamn it, his wife, lifted her chin. ‘Mr Lewis was regaling me with stories of organising your processions around the countryside. Will you join us for tea? I took the liberty of ordering an extra cup should you return in time.’

She’d thought of him? When was the last time anyone at all had thought about him in his absence and so kindly as to hope for his arrival? Surprised, he took a seat beside her on the sofa.

She set a cup of tea in front of him, then offered him the plate of shortbread. As he lifted the delicacy to his mouth he inhaled a faint scent of orange. A taste confirmed he was not wrong. The shortbread not only smelled lovely, it was delicious. He sipped at his tea and found it prepared exactly to his liking.

‘Her Grace wanted to discuss the move to Sackfield next week,’ Lewis said. ‘I have given her the date of our departure and an outline of the usual travel arrangements.’

‘Mr Lewis has been extremely helpful,’ Julia said, but while her voice was light and even, he sensed an underlying unhappiness. Did she not like the countryside? For him, it was always a blessed relief, though his business affairs remained as demanding as they were while he was in Town. Putting the Duchy in order after his prolonged absence had been trying indeed, though his half-brother, Luke, had done his best with it, under the circumstances. Keeping it that way required equal effort.

‘You will like Sackfield Hall, Julia.’ He hoped she would. It was the only place in all of the estates owned by the Duchy he felt any affection for. He put down his cup. ‘However, Lewis and I have a great deal of business to conduct before our departure.’ He glanced over at his desk.

The man jumped to his feet.

‘Indeed, Your Grace. The documents arrived from the lawyer’s office this morning.’

His will. He’d added a codicil to ensure Julia received his personal fortune in the event of his death. Everything else would go to the Dunstan heir.

Julia rose, graceful, elegant, and clearly unhappily aware of her dismissal. ‘I will ask Grindle to collect the tray, if you have finished?’

Alistair, having risen with her, glanced down at the biscuit in his hand. He hadn’t even realised he had taken another. ‘I have. My compliments to the chef. The shortbread is delicious.’

‘I will let him know.’ A small smile curved her luscious lips and he wondered if the orange had been her idea. The idea that his compliment had pleased her gave him a feeling of warmth in the pit of his stomach.

When nothing about her should warm any part of him.

He sat down at the desk, finished off the letter of dismissal and handed it to Lewis. ‘Send it round with a footman, would you, please. Lavinia will be well satisfied.’ He’d been more than ready to let Lavinia go for some time. Even if he had not, he would have done so. While he did not tolerate jealousy in a mistress, his wife deserved what little respect he could give her. He certainly wasn’t going to flaunt other women in her face.

‘Yes, Your Grace.’

‘Now, let us take a look at the documents from the solicitor.’ He wanted to be sure they had followed his instructions to the letter. There must be not the slightest opening for Luke or his mother to contest the new provisions he had made for his wife and there had been too many accidents in his life to leave her welfare to chance.

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.’