Ann Lethbridge - Secrets Of The Marriage Bed

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.