Ann Lethbridge - Secrets Of The Marriage Bed

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.’