Surrender to desire...

After one night of passion, the dissolute Duke of Dunstan made Julia his wife, but their honeymoon is far from blissful. Alistair trusts no one with his shameful secret, and that means keeping his tempting new bride at a distance...

Julia longs for Alistair to yield to the powerful desire between them. But when the dark secrets of the marriage bed threaten their future, this new couple must overcome the past and surrender to their wildest passions to find a new, oh-so-delicious beginning together!

She lifted her chin and pinned a teasing smile to her lips.

‘Shall we gallop ventre à terre in the other direction?’

Once more a corner of his mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. ‘Now, that really would be rude.’

Hope bubbled in her veins. Was the distance between them closing? This barrier meant for others and not for her?

‘Do we care? Being of the ducal sort?’

His eyes flashed amusement. ‘Behave, madam.’

Thrills chased through her stomach. He’d used that deep seductive growl the night they’d made love. Her insides softened, liquefied. Longing filled her. For him. For his touch. For the way he had made her feel.

‘I will behave if you will,’ she quipped. He had intended to arouse, she was sure of it. The man did nothing without purpose.

Author Note

You might already have met Alistair and Julia, in One Night as a Courtesan. They are a couple who kept interrupting other stories to remind me that while I had married them off I had not given them a proper happily-ever-after. They were quite insistent that after what looked like an excellent beginning things were not going well, and they needed me to give them a helping hand. So I did.

Along the way I also learned that kaleidoscopes were invented during the Regency era, and learned a new name for a swarm of butterflies.

I do hope you enjoy their story.

If you would like to know more about me and my books you can visit me at annlethbridge.com, where you can sign up for my newsletter, prizes offered with every issue, and find my links to your favourite social media.

Secrets of the Marriage Bed

Ann Lethbridge

www.millsandboon.co.uk

In her youth, award-winning author ANN LETHBRIDGE re-imagined the Regency romances she read—and now she loves writing her own. Now living in Canada, Ann visits Britain every year, where family members understand—or so they say—her need to poke around every antiquity within a hundred miles. Learn more about Ann or contact her at annlethbridge.com. She loves hearing from readers.

Books by Ann Lethbridge

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

and Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks

Rakes in Disgrace

The Gamekeeper’s Lady

More Than a Mistress

Deliciously Debauched by the Rake (Undone!)

More Than a Lover

The Gilvrys of Dunross

The Laird’s Forbidden Lady

Her Highland Protector

Falling for the Highland Rogue

Return of the Prodigal Gilvry

One Night with the Highlander (Undone!)

Linked by Character

Wicked Rake, Defiant Mistress

One Night as a Courtesan (Undone!)

Secrets of the Marriage Bed

Haunted by the Earl’s Touch

Captured Countess

The Duke’s Daring Debutante

The Rake’s Inherited Courtesan

Lady Rosabella’s Ruse

The Rake’s Intimate Encounter (Undone!)

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

This book is dedicated to my sister-in-law, Ro, who entertains me and my dear husband in grand style whenever we visit her in Wales and never minds if I have my nose in a book or my head in a story.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

This picture of domestic bliss should have sent Alistair, Duke of Dunstan, haring off for a brandy at his club. Instead, standing in the shadows outside his wife’s withdrawing room, watching her delicately ply her needle, he wanted...more. A painful twisting in his chest for something he could not name, along with the far more easily controlled inconvenience of lust. When he really should not want anything at all.

A bitter smile pulled at his lips. The only woman he’d wanted this badly in years he couldn’t have because she was his wife.

What the devil had he been thinking when he’d offered marriage? A question he’d asked himself more than once these past two weeks. He didn’t need a wife. Hadn’t wanted one. Why be tied to one woman when any number of them, from princess to pauper, were ready to fall into his bed? Marriage was his worst idea ever.

And he’d had more than his share of bad ideas.

If she ever learned the truth, she likely would turn away in disgust.

Of course, he hadn’t been thinking the night he’d met her. At least not with the brain atop his shoulders. Drunk on the aftermath of exquisite passion, the legend of the Dunstan rubies had put words in his mouth he would never have uttered had his mind been in full working order. Pride hadn’t permitted a retraction.

A Dunstan never went back on his word. That was something he should have recalled before he’d opened his mouth, having sworn years ago to put old mistakes right. Mistakes that made marriage out of the question. And yet here he was...married.

He lingered in the dark, out of sight, when he should have walked away.

Her head bent towards the light of the candle, her gaze fixed on her needle, Julia might have been posing for a portrait. From this vantage point, he had a perfect view of her profile. A small straight nose, a high intelligent forehead, a seductively elegant neck rising from a gown of the finest pale blue silk. A gown that covered a body every curve and swell of which he knew intimately.

He would not think about that. An odd longing clutched at his heart. What would it be like, just for once, to bask in a woman’s affection?

Affection. His lip curled at the word. He had never known it and didn’t want it. Men who craved affection were weaklings, led around by the nose, or some other part of their anatomy. He only had to look at his father with Isobel to know better. After Alistair’s own mother’s death, his father had been a pawn to Isobel’s queen. Alistair had had a few happy years with his half-brother, but eventually, to please Isobel, his father sent Alistair away to school for being sullen and difficult with his new mama, while keeping Isobel’s precious son close to home.

At first, in hopes of being allowed to come home, he’d been the perfect student. As time went on, and he realised it wasn’t working, he’d instinctively taken the opposite tack, getting into every sort of scrape available to a wealthy young man away at university. Until finally, the bagwig had sent him down.

He’d been so glad to get home he’d even tried to be nice to his stepmama. It hadn’t done him a bit of good.

Within a month Alistair had found himself with a boring elderly scholar as bear leader and a ticket to France. His father had seen the Treaty of Amiens as the perfect opportunity to send Alistair on his Grand Tour.

Too bad the peace had ended less than six months later, leaving Alistair stranded in Italy and trying to avoid being arrested by Napoleon’s soldiers.

By the time he’d made it home, his father was dead and Alistair’s youthful missteps had caught up to him with a vengeance he would never have foreseen.

Now, to top it all off, like some soft-hearted fool, he’d married Julia. He should have given her the money she’d needed and sent her on her way instead of entering into a hollow shell of a marriage. Had he been any sort of honourable man, he would never have bid on her and bedded her in the first place.

He’d known at first glance she was not usual bordello fare. Known it deep in a part of him he’d thought long dead. A part that was a mere shadow of the decency and honour he’d once taken for granted. A part he’d been ignoring for years, while denying himself nothing except a family. The one thing he certainly neither deserved nor wanted.

Somehow that little corner of his brain, inexplicably overcome by the sight of her lovely body draped with blood-red rubies, had caused words to spill from his lips. Marry me. They rang in his ears even now.

Lunacy.

Devil take it. He couldn’t even use overindulgence as an excuse for replacing the carte blanche he’d first intended with an honourable offer. He’d been nowhere near cup shot.

The only reason he could attribute to that particular piece of madness was his desire to put his stepmother in her proper place for all time. To force her into the role of Dowager instead of allowing her to swan about as the reigning Duchess.

At least marriage had given him the satisfaction of imagining Isobel’s rage and fear at the thought that her darling son Luke would be supplanted as heir by a child of Alistair’s marriage.

Revenge, though, was not as sweet as he’d expected. Julia was too nice, too good, to have been dragged into a cold marriage of convenience. At least, she appeared so, up until now, but as Alistair knew to his cost women were not to be trusted. He’d learnt that the hard way.

In the meantime, it pleased him to torment his stepmother, despite that there would be no resulting children from his marriage. Not when he already had a son.

He let go a breath of impatience. He should not be lingering here.

Julia lifted her head from her work, glancing towards the door. ‘Your Grace?’

He ground his teeth at the sound of his title on her lips. She’d taken to using it since the day after their wedding ball when the ton had turned up to meet his new bride. No doubt every female of that august group had blistered Julia’s ears with stories of his depraved and dissolute past. That, compounded by his coldness towards her, must have brought home to her what a bad bargain she’d struck.

When he made no response, she looked down at the work on her lap with a shake of her head, clearly thinking she’d been mistaken.

This was his opportunity to beat the retreat and head off to his club.

What was he, then? A coward to be outfaced by a woman? His wife no less?

He strode into the room.

She looked up with a hesitant smile. Despite the shadows in her eyes, beauty shone in that smile. A welcome full of hope and promise. Her lips were lovely. Full and soft. Kissable. Sinful temptation, like the rest of her slender body with its graceful curves and its power to make him lose reason. Her skin was as soft as silk, he recalled, her limbs long and elegant, yet softly formed. He bit back a curse.

‘Good evening, Your Grace.’ A calm cool voice with a throaty, inviting quality that, like the rest of her, called to him on a visceral level. He could not hear her voice without recalling the passion of their night together. He half turned so she would not guess at the interest she aroused and propped an elbow on the back of the chair facing her across the hearth.

‘Good evening, my lady.’ He deliberately curled his lip, dropping his gaze to the scrap of cloth covered in coloured shapes and patterns in her lap. ‘What a picture of domesticity you are, my dear. It always astonishes me, the kind of things you ladies like to do with your hands.’ When they could be making so much better use of them.

Hades, could he not get his mind off fornication in her presence?

She must have heard the edge in his voice for she put the work aside. ‘I’m sorry. Does it annoy you?’ Cool civility edged each inflection. With each passing day, she became chillier, a little more reserved, exactly as he’d planned.

So why this irrational sense of disappointment? He’d always revelled in his bachelor life. His freedom to come and go as he pleased. Family obligations kept to a minimum. An unpleasant duty, to be avoided whenever possible. In his experience, when relations weren’t dunning one for money, they were stabbing one in the back. He ought to know, he’d done his share of knife work. His stepmother was still bleeding from the loss of her status.

Her gaze swept his person. ‘You are going out, I see. I wish you an enjoyable evening.’ She reached for her needlework.

His jaw clenched, even though she hadn’t asked a question. She’d quickly realised that he refused to be interrogated. About anything. Yet irrationally, he found her lack of interest cutting. ‘I am going to my club. I have arranged to meet friends.’ Why was he explaining when he had no reason to think she cared?

Her shoulders relaxed. A little.

She no doubt imagined him with an inamorata.

Blast. He’d forgotten to give Lavinia her congé. Yet another detail that seemed to have slipped his mind recently. He’d have Lewis, his secretary, take care of it first thing in the morning. Given that he hadn’t visited his mistress since before his wedding, she must already understand they were finished. He’d been bored by her weeks ago. Likely another reason he’d bid for Julia at the bordello.

‘I will let the staff know you will not be here for dinner,’ she said quietly.

Always quiet. Always controlled. It rubbed him the wrong way. Made him want to incite the passion he knew resided beneath the calm surface. But it was an urge he would never indulge again, given his promise. Distance was his watchword. Security hers. They were all he had to offer. All he wanted.

‘I informed Jackson.’ His valet.

A shadow passed across her face. Her lips tightened a fraction.

He ignored this faint show of annoyance. ‘What will you do while I am off having a jolly time?’

She glanced down at the needlework and back up to meet his gaze, her chin lifting a fraction. Defiance. She was a spirited woman, his wife. His body responded with a pulse of heat.

‘Perhaps I will select a book,’ she said. ‘There are several in the library I have not yet read.’

Hundreds more like. If he had wanted to be a good husband, he would be escorting her to balls and such. Introducing her to the people of his set. Yet he hadn’t been good since his teens. Wickedness for which he now paid the price.

The very thought of failing in his husbandly duty made him want to lash out. Not at her. But at something. Life, perhaps. The cruelty of the Fates. After all, it was not her fault they were married. The fault lay entirely with him. To mitigate the damage, the best he could do was keep her at a distance.

Because when he came close, when he inhaled her delicious scent of jasmine, touched the silk of her skin, basked in the warmth of her welcoming smile, she was far too tempting.

‘I bid you good evening.’ He bowed and left.

* * *

Julia frowned at the sprig of lilac she was embroidering on a handkerchief. Why had Dunstan married her if he held her in such contempt? If their one night together had not been so deliciously sensual, so different from her experiences with her first husband, she might never have agreed to his proposal.

Indeed, having suffered eight years of her husband’s brutality when he realised she was never going to give him the heir he so desperately wanted, she’d thought never to marry again. If not for her desperate straits, she would never have accepted Dunstan’s offer the way a drowning man clutched at a bit of flotsam.

He certainly had not avowed undying love or anything close. She’d perfectly understood theirs was a marriage of convenience, a kindness on his part, but surely there could be more to this marriage than chilly reserve?

Judging by his lovemaking that first night, he had found her as physically attractive as she did him. His skill in the bedroom had proved his reputation of legendary lover to be unassailably true. Not that she’d had much experience from which to judge, but she recalled every intimate detail of their one night together and it had been lovely.

She squirmed on the sofa cushions at the memory. A skitter of pleasure tightened her insides.

Since their wedding less than two weeks ago, she had done her best to be the kind of wife she assumed he wanted. A duchess, no less! Her stomach pitched as it always did at the terrifying thought. Apparently, however, he was not pleased with her efforts.

Her heart sank. To be embroiled in yet another unpleasant marriage loomed like a waiting nightmare. She shuddered at memories of her first husband’s vile temper each month or so, when he realised she was not about to produce a son. The constant criticisms. Her physical revulsion. The blows raining down on her when she made a mistake. She pushed the recollections aside.

The Duke was nowhere near that bad. But since their wedding day, most of his remarks had been biting to the point of rudeness. Could this marriage be heading in the same direction as her first? Something had to be done. She shot to her feet and hurried out into the hall to where Alistair was being helped into his coat by a footman.

‘Your Grace?’ Her voice echoed around the grand space of polished oak panelling and marble flooring. The ducal town house was more like a palace than a home. A cold place, full of stiff formality.

His shoulders tensed as he turned to face her. In this light, the slightly cruel cast of his thin lips gave his golden good looks an aura of decadence. A devil disguised as an angel.

Yet every time she saw him, his cold beauty made her heart skip a beat.

One blond eyebrow arched in question, his grey eyes silvery in the light of the huge chandelier above the staircase.

Her blood heated as the realisation struck her anew. This glorious apparition was her husband.

The footman retreated to his place beside the door.

Servants were everywhere and that was part of the reason she had such difficulty approaching him about anything. The lack of privacy drove her to distraction. She was terrified of making a fool of herself in front of his people. Likely they already scorned her for her ignorance with regard to running such a grand household. Thank the heavens they did not know exactly where he had found her or they might refuse to serve her at all.

‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, Your Grace?’ She barely managed the words, in the light of his obvious impatience.

‘If you must?’ As always his voice sounded icily polite. And bored.

‘In private?’ she whispered, with a quick glance at the footman.

With a huff of breath, he gestured for the man to take his redingote and followed her back into the drawing room. He closed the door.

She twisted her hands together, her courage deserting her in the face of his wintery gaze. A golden David as cold as the marble from which the statue had been carved.

His expression changed to one of concern as she hesitated. ‘What has happened?’

She took a quick breath. ‘If I have offended in some way, I wish you would tell me.’ Oh, she sounded so weak, so tentative, but her first husband had found her very existence offensive. Ultimately she’d been afraid to address him, unless he spoke first, but at least then, she had known why he found her lacking.

Alistair’s eyes widened for a second, then a bored expression fell over his face like a shield. ‘You mistake, madam. I am not in the least offended.’

She gritted her teeth at his indifference. ‘Can we not at least be friends?’

He recoiled. ‘You are my wife.’

One could not be friends with a wife? And why did he look so grim? She grasped the back of the nearest chair to stop herself from beating her fists on that wide impervious chest in frustration. How did one ask why a husband never came to one’s bed without looking like some sort of strumpet?

But was that not what she was? After all, he’d bid for her at a bordello while she’d stood on a pedestal practically naked. Her stomach roiled at the recollection. Clearly, there really was no way to keep one’s dignity after such a display. Likely every man he knew had also seen her that night, though as far as she was aware, none had recognised her, since she had taken the precaution of wearing a mask. And little else. She repressed a shudder of shame.

Still, he had known all this before they’d wed.

Anger trickled up from her belly. Her chest ached with a slow burn. ‘Why do you never come to my chamber?’ There, she had said it. Announced the desires that haunted her nights.

His expression shuttered, but not before she saw a flash of what she thought might be anger. ‘I am in no rush to saddle myself with a parcel of brats.’

Inwardly, she flinched. Should she tell him there was likely no hope of her ever having children, or did she continue to hide behind what little was left of her dignity? And an even smaller shred of hope.

And besides, what would it hurt to try? It wasn’t as if he could beget an heir with anyone else.

Perhaps he was now regretting his chivalry. Regretting it so much he disdained to have a child of hers inherit his title? Much as that thought hurt, it also rang true. The Duke was a proud man. Proud of his name and his title. She met his gaze and lifted her chin, unwilling to show how much the possibility hurt.

When she made no reply his mouth hardened to a cruel line. ‘Was there anything else you required of me?’

Crushed by his coldness, his deliberate scorn, she looked down and shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Then if you will pardon me, I am late.’ He hesitated for a second, then turned and left.

Pardon him? If she could have picked him up, she would have thrown him out of a window to be rid of him. She also wanted to cry. Her knuckles whitened, her grip painfully tight on the chair back.

Finally, she let out a long breath. She needed to think with her head, instead of feeling with her heart. She wasn’t a fool. Something had sparked between them that first night. A very heated something. That was the reason she had dared marry him in the first place. The hope that the attraction they both felt could lead to more.

She was not going to give up that hope. Not without a fight. She’d had one dreadful marriage, she would not have another. She would not permit this man to destroy what was left of her spirit.

She wanted a proper husband and, should a miracle occur, a proper family. It wasn’t so much to ask.

Either they found a way to resolve what was coming between them, or... Well, she must, that was all. There had to be something she could do to rekindle the spark.

* * *

The next morning, Alistair stopped short in the doorway of the breakfast room. Never had he seen his wife up and about this early in the morning, nor had he seen her looking more delectable. Dressed in a riding habit of royal blue with black frogging closing the front, she perused the sideboard. The high ruffled shirt rising from the collar framed her beautiful face. A mischievous smile played about her lips and sparkled in her eyes as she glanced his way.

‘Good morning, Your Grace.’ She added a scoop of scrambled eggs to her plate.

Devil take it, he hated conversation before he’d had his first cup of tea. Why couldn’t she take a tray in her room like any other self-respecting noblewoman? Although come to think of it, none of the women he’d been around in the morning were at all self-respecting, or he would not have been there.

‘Good morning.’ At least that was what he intended to say. It came out sounding more like a grunt.

She took her place at the table adjacent to his normal seat. He marched across to the sideboard, loaded up his usual poached eggs and steak and set his plate down. He glanced at the newspaper which had been carefully ironed, folded and set beside his fork so he could glance at the headlines.

He gritted his teeth. Not today. One did not read at the table when one had female company. Even he remembered that from his youthful lessons in manners. His nursemaid, Digger, would be proud of him.

Maybe.

‘Tea?’ she asked.

He preferred to pour his own. ‘Thank you.’

She fixed two cups, added cream and sugar to one and passed it across. He took a sip. Perfect. Exactly how he liked it. How had she known? His temper improved leaps and bounds with each mouthful.

‘I see you plan on riding out?’ Hah! A whole sentence and perfectly polite.

‘I do. Your stable master, Mr Litton, introduced me to Bella earlier in the week and since it is such a fine morning, I thought to put her through her paces.’

He hadn’t known she liked to ride. He should have asked. ‘Hmmph.’

‘My riding out does not meet with your approval?’

Blast the woman, did she have to ask him questions? He took another sip of tea. For some stupid reason the morning seemed altogether brighter than it had when he arose from his bed.

‘I will ride with you. I always ride first thing in the morning.’ As she probably knew quite well. ‘There is no reason why we should ride out separately.’ No reason at all, except his confrères might think he had run mad. For years he’d mocked any man so smitten as to ride with ladies at so early an hour. Too dull by half. Yet he had a duty, did he not? To make sure she could handle Bella, as well as see to her safety? A mere groom would not take nearly enough care.

She raised a brow and looked at him speculatively over the rim of her teacup before taking a sip. She gave a little grimace of distaste.

‘Something wrong with the tea?’

‘Oolong is not a favourite with me.’

‘Tell the kitchen.’

‘I will.’ She put her cup down and glanced down at his untouched food. ‘I will be ready in say...half an hour.’ With him or without him being implied. On that note, she daintily consumed the remaining food on her plate and left the room.

After skimming the political headlines, checking on the arrival of a ship in which he had an interest while he demolished his breakfast, he headed out to the stables. Litton had both horses saddled and was saddling his own. Of Her Grace there was as yet no sign. He was a couple of minutes early and he hoped she would not keep him waiting too long.

He gave Bella’s tack a thorough inspection, before turning his attention to his own horse. Not that he expected his staff to do anything but an excellent job. ‘Her Grace will not be needing you today, Litton.’

The man’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Bella’s not been out under a lady’s saddle for months, Your Grace. She’ll need a close eye.’

A warning if ever Alistair heard one. It seemed Litton had decided to add his wife to the list of people he cared about. Up to now the list had only had one name on it. His own.

‘I’ll take care,’ Alistair said.

Litton’s glance flickered over Alistair’s shoulder, warning him that their topic of conversation had arrived.

Alistair turned to greet her. Her hat was a version of the one he wore, a black beaver, the crown not quite so tall, and adorned with a scrap of net and a peacock-feather cockade. Very stylish. Hopefully it wasn’t only for show and she rode just as well as she looked.

Julia had patted her mount’s neck, checked the girth and adjusted the stirrup with a confident hand before signalling her readiness to mount.

He bent, lacing his fingers together. She adjusted her habit, raising it a fraction, presenting him with a view of a beautifully cut riding boot and a smidgeon of pretty calf. His breath caught in his throat as he recalled the last time he’d had his hands on that calf. How silken her skin had been. How responsive her body to his touch. Once more his body hardened and he bit back a curse at the discomfort. She stepped into his palms and he boosted her into the saddle.

Bella, who up to that moment had been a perfect lady, shifted uneasily.

Alistair’s heart gave a thump. He reached for the bridle, then snatched his hand back as Julia expertly brought the animal under control. She patted Bella’s neck. ‘Easy, girl. You know me. We have had several conversations these past few days.’ The mare settled under her soothing hand and quiet words.

That. He wanted that, her hands on him, soothing, stroking, gentling and perhaps even—He cut the thought off.

Self-disgust at this rare lack of restraint rose in his throat. He forced it down where it belonged—with the shame of his past. He reached for Thor’s reins, while she continued to pat Bella’s neck.

He quelled his body’s unruly response with effort and forced his mind to the task at hand. It seemed his wife was an accomplished horsewoman. What else about her did he not know?

And why would he care?

He swung up on to his horse and they moved off. Outside in the square, Alistair brought Thor up alongside Bella. ‘We’ll go by way of Park Lane. It should be reasonably quiet at this time of the morning. Stay close.’

‘Lay on, MacDuff.’

He’d like to lay on her. The thought crept into his mind unbidden.

Damnation. More adolescent nonsense he could do without. More visions of temptation. He shifted in the saddle.

Chapter Two

While her husband might not have been thrilled at having her along on his morning ride, at least he had accepted her presence with a modicum of graciousness. She’d half expected him to refuse to allow her to go at all. Her first husband had refused her anything that might give her pleasure. In his eyes, she hadn’t deserved it.

The day was perfect for riding. A slight breeze, a few puffy clouds and not too much heat. With years having passed since she’d been on horseback, she intended to make the most of every moment.

‘What do you think of Bella?’ the Duke asked and, to her surprise, he seemed genuinely interested in her answer.

‘Lovely mouth. Beautifully responsive. A perfect lady.’

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like I meant the horse. Surely not? She glanced over at him and his expression remained a blank slate. Unless that really was a fleeting twinkle warming his eyes. Was it possible?

‘I beg your pardon, I did not quite hear what you said.’

His lips twisted. ‘I’m glad. She’s not been getting out much recently.’

Was he glad she hadn’t heard what he said? Or glad that she liked her mount? Not wanting to risk spoiling the accord between them, she decided to let the matter drop.

His horse, Thor, was a huge black gelding with four white feet. A big horse for a big man, whereas Bella was definitely a lady’s mount. For which lady? She tried to ignore the pang to her heart at the thought of the kind of ladies who must have ridden this horse with him in the past, for there was no mistaking that the animal seemed used to riding alongside Thor.

‘Are Bella and Thor always kept in town, or do they go with you to the country?’

‘It depends where I go.’

Hardly forthcoming. She knew he had several country houses scattered around England and visited them once each year in strict rotation, according the housekeeper. Julia had questioned the woman closely the morning after her wedding. At the time, she’d supposed he would want his wife to entertain his friends and arrange his household. It had quickly come to her attention that he did not welcome her meddling in his bachelor arrangements.

Apart from their wedding ball, attended by every member of the ton, not once had he entertained in any formal way and his only forays from the house were to his man of business, his club and his morning ride. The last, the only activity where a wife might be welcome.

They passed through the gate into the park and the noise from the streets faded until one might imagine they were deep in the heart of the countryside. Julia took a deep breath. ‘What a beautiful morning to be sure.’

He frowned and looked around at the trees and the glitter of the Serpentine as if he had never seen it before. ‘Hmmph.’

‘I agree,’ she said.

He raised a brow questioningly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.

‘I agree with your sentiment. While it is a good day, the weather being unusually bright and fine, it is too bad there is nowhere to give the horses a really good run.’ Oh, dear, the widening of his eyes said she had let her tendency for sarcasm run away with her. Something she had learned never to do with her previous husband. A couple of good hard slaps had cured the habit. Apparently, she had started to forget his lessons.

Having planned this morning as a way for her to get to know him better, to try to rekindle some of the liking he had shown her, even if he no longer felt passion, she had probably ruined it all by speaking out of turn.

Men did not appreciate being teased about their foibles, Dunstan’s being a marked lack of conversation. At least it was where she was concerned. Perhaps he was a veritable gabble-monger amongst his friends. She pretended nothing was amiss and fixed her gaze straight ahead down the length of Rotten Row.

Bella tossed her head as if asking for permission to do more than a sedate walk. In the distance a group of riders were cantering.

She clenched her jaw to stop herself from asking if they too could pick up their pace.

‘Let us see how she is at the trot, shall we?’ Alistair said.

When she glanced at him she was sure she saw a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he was trying not to smile. Perhaps he had not been annoyed by her teasing after all.

Quite likely fearsome dukes weren’t accustomed to teasing. It might do him good.

The horses moved easily into the trot and she was aware of her husband watching her with a critical eye. A comforting thought. This was the first time she had ridden Bella. She was glad he wanted to assure himself that she knew what she was doing.

He moved into an easy canter. Bella responded to the request to do likewise and they rode side by side. At the end of the Row, they drew to a halt. He glanced over at her. There was something in his expression she couldn’t quite fathom.

‘You have a good seat.’

A compliment? Her spirits lifted. She arched a brow. ‘You already knew that.’ The naughty innuendo tripped off her tongue before she could catch it.

His eyes widened. And, as sudden as a bolt of lightning, a crack of laughter broke free from him. Delight lit up those grey eyes, turning them a sparkling silver. ‘Race you back.’

Her heart somersaulted in her chest at the sight of the tempting curve to his lips. She remembered the feel of kissing those lips. Then they had wed and he’d thrown up his barricade. For some mad reason she had the urge to kiss him again. Right now. Very shocking. While it certainly wouldn’t do for a married couple to be showing any signs of affection in public, she was absolutely ready to take up his challenge of a race. ‘Why not?’ She turned Bella around.

‘Go!’ she said. Bella responded without hesitation. She let the little mare have her head, aware all the time of the thunder of the larger horse behind them, catching up, and then they were neck and neck.

Julia risked a glance at her husband. There was grim determination on his face, but also a smile of pure pleasure she had only seen once before, in a small candlelit room in the brothel.

As if he sensed her gaze, he looked over, grinned and pulled ahead, the long-legged gelding stretching into a gallop, only to slow a few moments later.

She came up beside him. ‘Thank you.’

He raised a brow in question.

‘For not pretending and letting me win. It wouldn’t have been fair to Thor.’

Indeed, Thor was pawing and prancing, so very proud of himself. Alistair grinned at her. ‘I haven’t raced like that since—’ he shook his head ‘—I can’t remember when.’

‘Nor me.’

He glanced around them. ‘We should—’ A frown crashed down. ‘Damn.’

She followed the direction of his gaze to where two gentlemen were riding swiftly towards them.

‘Someone you know?’ she asked, holding Bella steady.

‘Perhaps.’

A calm, coldly spoken word. The wall was back up. Likely he was annoyed that people had witnessed their display of high spirits. Not that they had done anything too outrageous. Or perhaps it was the thought of introducing his wife to his friends.

Chilly fingers crawled down her spine. Might they have been at the brothel when she had shamelessly allowed herself to be auctioned?

She lifted her chin and pinned a teasing smile to her lips. ‘Shall we gallop vente à terre in the other direction?’

Once more a corner of his mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. ‘Now that really would be rude.’

Hope bubbled in her veins. Was the distance between them closing, this barrier meant for others and not for her? ‘Do we care? Being of the ducal sort?’

His eyes flashed amusement. ‘Behave, madam.’

Thrills chased through her stomach. He’d used that deep seductive growl the night they’d made love. Her insides softened, liquefied. Longing filled her. For him. For his touch. For the way he had made her feel. ‘I will behave if you will,’ she quipped. He had intended to arouse, she was sure of it. The man did nothing without purpose.

Yet as the men drew close, his expression cooled.

‘Duke,’ spoke a handsome fellow on a big grey who looked familiar.

‘Beauworth,’ her husband replied, helping Julia to make the connection. ‘You know my wife.’

Beauworth bowed, which was difficult to do with any elegance when astride a horse, although he made it look easy. ‘Good day, Your Grace.’

Julia inclined her head and smiled. ‘How do you do. We met at our ball.’

‘Kind of you to remember,’ the Marquess said.

Alistair had been icily cold that evening. She’d been terrified of doing something to put him to shame and had memorised the name of each person she’d met.

The younger man, clearly leaning towards dandyism with fair hair and plump apple cheeks, doffed his high-crowned hat. This was a man she had not met before, she was sure, yet he regarded her with a puzzled frown.

‘My cousin, Your Grace,’ the Duke said, his voice full of ennui. ‘Percy Hepple. He was not at our ball.’

None of his family had been at their ball.

The plump fellow, his shirt collar impossibly high and his coat straining at the seams, bent awkwardly in the middle. ‘Good day, Coz.’ He frowned. ‘Though may I say you look vaguely familiar? Must have seen you at somewhere around town.’

Julia’s blood turned to ice. Her only other public appearance had been on stage at Mrs B.’s auction. Fortunately, the fellow seemed to lose interest in her and almost at once turned back to Alistair.

‘Now I am in town again, Your Grace, I’ll look for you at your club. I’ve a mind to challenge you to a game of piquet and recover some of my losses.’

Her stomach sank. More reason for her husband to leave home and hearth every night. She kept a smile pinned to her lips and hoped her dismay did not show.

‘I doubt you can afford the stakes at my table,’ the Duke said, his voice arctic. Was he always so unfriendly?

An awkward silence fell, during which Beauworth gave each of them a distinctly piercing stare.

‘It is a beautiful day for a ride—’ she said.

‘I must be getting along—’ Hepple said at the same moment.

‘Yes,’ Beauworth said. ‘Run along, Hepple. Thank you for your company.’

Another awkward bow and Hepple rode off.

‘Do you go to Sackfield Hall any time soon?’ Beauworth asked, his gaze still on Hepple, his mouth curled in distaste.

‘I had planned to go in a couple of weeks,’ her husband said.

Julia swallowed a gasp. He had said nothing of this to her. Her glance shot to Alistair and he gave a slight shrug that told her nothing.

The Marquess smiled rather like a cat that had spotted a dish of cream. ‘You will bring your wife to visit us, Duke, or my Marchioness will want to know why.’

Julia waited, breath held, half expecting Alistair to say she would not be going with him.

‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘I will send a note when we are in residence.’

The Marquess nodded and turned to Julia. ‘We are no more than five miles from you as the crow flies and normally, we would ask permission to call on you, Your Grace, but with young children underfoot...you will forgive us for not venturing forth.’

‘Congratulations on your growing family,’ Julia said, a slight pang in her heart, envy for the Marchioness she had not yet met. It was unlikely she would ever conceive when she hadn’t after eight gruelling years of marriage. She ignored the feeling and crushed the tiny tendril of hope that a younger, more virile husband might succeed where an old man had not. The fact that her husband never came to her bed didn’t help, but the doctors had been adamant she was unsuited to conception.

The recollection of their harsh words made her chest squeeze, but she kept her composure. ‘I shall look forward to making your wife’s acquaintance.’

‘She will be thrilled to have someone nearby close to her own age. Up to now she has been surrounded by dowagers and ageing matrons. Now if you will excuse me, I have business requiring my attention before I head home.’ He gave her another elegant bow, nodded to Alistair and rode off.

Julia knew better than to carp at her husband for not telling her his plans to remove to the country. She knew now, after all.

‘About our removal to Sackfield Hall,’ she said. ‘Do you have a specific date in mind?’

‘Lewis will give you the details.’

Lewis, his amanuensis. Apparently it was his secretary’s job to inform her of His Grace’s wishes. She bit back a sharp retort. This morning had afforded a ray of hope for improvement in their relationship. It would be foolish to ruin it with words spoken in irritation. This fragile beginning needed careful nurturing. And time. ‘Very well, I will speak to Mr Lewis upon our return.’ She managed to say the words without gritting her teeth and felt proud of her forbearance.

As they turned their horses towards the gate, an unpleasant thought crept into her mind. Perhaps he had not intended that she would go with him and had been driven into a corner by Beauworth’s assumption.

A chill invaded her stomach. Had he planned to take someone else? A mistress, for example? ‘Was it your intention that I remain in town while you visited your estate in Hampshire?’

She regretted the words the moment she spoke them, but it was too late to call them back.

‘Did you want to remain in town?’

The tone of his voice said he didn’t care one way or the other. Dash it all. ‘A visit to the country would be pleasant at this time of year.’

He didn’t react.

They headed home, the silence between them becoming impenetrable. Every time she thought of something to say, she discarded it as being too bold, too weak sounding or just plain ridiculous. While the Duke had not shown himself to be the sort of man to strike his wife for impertinence, she did not want to make him angry.

Bah. Such cowardice. She did not know who she wanted to kick harder, herself or him.

They arrived back at the stables without having said one word.

* * *

Julia went in search of her husband’s secretary. As Duchess, she must have some duties to perform in regards to their removal from town. She also wished to know exactly where Sackfield Hall was located.

‘Ah, Grindle,’ she said, when the butler appeared in answer to her ring. ‘Where will I find Mr Lewis?’

‘In his lordship’s estate office, Your Grace.’

Another room in this monster of a town house she had never heard of. ‘And where will I find the office?’

‘Would you like me to take you there, Your Grace?’ He frowned. ‘His Grace is not at home at the moment.’

She knew that. He had set out on some errand or other; she’d seen him pass the drawing-room window. ‘Lead the way, please.’

Grindle bowed and set off.

Sometimes being a duchess had its advantages. People did not question your requests, never mind your orders, though she had noticed a faint wrinkle of concern in Grindle’s brow as he turned away. Apparently, His Grace not having left instructions to the contrary, he had decided there could not be any harm in showing her into the omnipotent presence of His Grace’s amanuensis.

Stop it, Julia. Sarcasm was unbecoming, even in the recesses of her own mind.

Mr Lewis was an important person in this household. It was to him Alistair referred when asked if he wished to attend this ball or that rout. And it was he who always sent Julia a note of regret, His Grace always, always having made some prior and far more important commitment.

It hadn’t taken Julia long to stop asking and to simply decline every invitation she received. Now she would meet Mr Lewis in person.

The estate office was located at the back of the house. The room was bright and inviting—cosy, despite the large desk on one side of the room facing a bank of French windows overlooking a small walled garden. The glazed double doors were open and a fresh breeze redolent with the scent of roses wafted in.

A young man rose from a smaller desk off to one side. His expression was that of astonishment.

‘Her Grace wished to see you, Mr Lewis.’ The butler swiftly withdrew.

The fair-haired, blue-eyed young man bowed. He was not a tall man, but he was handsome and as he straightened, he gave her a smile of such sweetness she warmed to him instantly.

‘Mr Lewis, I regret that His Grace has not had an opportunity to introduce us and I apologise for interrupting your work, but I understand you are to inform me about our move to the country in the next week or so.’ She decided attack was the best mode of defence.

Lewis came around from behind the desk. ‘I am?’ He gave a little cough. ‘I mean, yes, Your Grace, I am.’

Julia kept her face blank in light of the revelation that her husband had either neglected to inform his secretary in this regard, or had not intended that she be informed at all.

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.’

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.

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.’

‘So it seems,’ he said. His voice sounded rougher than usual. ‘How do you feel?’

She pushed herself upright. Everything stayed where it should. She felt refreshed and her headache was gone. ‘Much better, I must say. The tea helped enormously.’

‘I’m glad.’ For once he sounded relieved, rather than bored.

‘I do beg your pardon. It was not my intention to sleep so long. I wonder that Robins did not wake me.’

‘You aren’t late. Yet.’ He grimaced. ‘I told Robins to let you sleep a while longer, but when I didn’t hear any movement, I thought I should look in on you.’

An unlooked-for courtesy. One that made her heart stutter.

He rose from his seat on the edge of the bed. He had exchanged his riding coat and boots for evening dress, whereas she still wore her carriage gown.

‘I must change.’ She began undoing the buttons. He watched her hands with a peculiar intensity. Her face warmed. ‘Will you ring the bell for Robins, please?’ Oh, now why had that popped out of her mouth? Wasn’t being alone with him exactly what she had wanted?

She pinned what she hoped was a seductive smile on her lips. ‘That is unless you don’t mind doing the honours?’

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 and 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?’

The door opened and Alistair stepped in. He was not avoiding her then, as a little niggling doubt had suggested. Not regretting the new accord that had reigned the previous evening, despite his rejection of her less-than-veiled offer to join her in bed. Afterwards, she had worried he might have thought her too bold for a respectable duchess.

And he’d had the right of it. She had been exhausted, despite her earlier nap. She’d slept so soundly, Robins had been required to shake her awake. Most unusual.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked. Dressed in his outer raiment and holding his gloves in one hand, he looked handsome and noble and thoroughly kissable. She swallowed her surprise at the unruly thought.

Stemming the waywardness, Julia glanced at Robins. ‘Almost.’

‘The coach will be at the door in ten minutes.’

Robins huffed out a breath, but even she did not dare gainsay the Duke.

‘Ten minutes it is,’ Julia said, smiling, feeling as if she had won a minor skirmish and could be ready for anything.

‘Good.’ He glanced at the triangle of toast in her hand and over at the tray on the nightstand. ‘You haven’t eaten much.’

Robins shot her an I-told-you-so look.

‘I will finish the rest when my hair is done.’ What she really wanted to know was if he truly intended to travel with her today, but she didn’t want to risk seeming overanxious.

‘Good.’ He nodded his approbation.

The moment he left, Robins brought the tray from the bedside table to the dressing table. ‘Please, Your Grace, finish your breakfast. It will not take me a minute to help you with your bonnet and pelisse, but who knows when you may have a chance to eat next?’ She sounded almost desperate.

Ashamed of her unkindness when the woman was trying to help, Julia downed the chocolate and finished the rest of her toast, slathered with butter.

Robins immediately sprang into action with bonnet, pelisse, gloves, and finally held out a shawl.

‘Do I really need a shawl?’ Julia questioned. ‘It is June, after all.’

‘There is a cool wind today, Your Grace. If you find you do not require it in the carriage, you may of course put it to one side, but shawls are de rigueur at the moment, you know.’

Julia swallowed a sigh. ‘Very well. It seems I am ready. I will see you at Sackfield Hall.’ Even if Alistair changed his mind about joining her, it seemed she had decided not to invite Robins’s company for the rest of the journey.

The woman dipped a curtsy as she passed out of the door. ‘I will come to you as soon as they have fetched in your trunk, Your Grace.’

On her way downstairs, a surge of dizziness took Julia by surprise. Oh, dear, it seemed Robins had been right about her needing sustenance. Hopefully it would pass in a moment or two, now she had eaten.

The carriage was waiting outside the front door, Thor was tied to the back. Her heart gave a little hop of joy. All at once the prospect of the journey became a whole lot more pleasant.

She glanced around for Alistair. He was in deep conversation with Mr Lewis, beside the coach carrying the luggage and the servants. Mr Lewis glanced her way, a frown on his face, then nodded at something Alistair said to him.

Were they talking about her? Why?

One of the footmen opened the door and let down the steps. ‘Thank you, Matthew,’ she said as he handed her in. ‘Mrs Robins is waiting with my trunk.’

‘I’ll go up right away, Your Grace.’ He touched his forelock and strode around the corner, where the servants’ stairs were located. Such a nice young man. Intelligent, too. He knew exactly what to do.

So Alistair really was going to travel with her in the coach. Desire fluttered low in her belly at the thought of several hours in her husband’s company. She settled herself in one corner and folded her hands in her lap, trying to look as if her heart wasn’t ready to leap from her chest and to keep her smile on the inside. A man as reserved as her husband would not appreciate a wife behaving like a besotted schoolgirl.

While she waited, her trunk arrived carried easily on Matthew’s shoulder accompanied by a stream of instructions from Mrs Robins as if she suspected the young man of either preparing to toss his burden to the ground, or to open it and rifle through its contents.

Julia grinned to herself as she realised Matthew had developed a case of bad hearing and was marching along as if she was no more than an irritating fly.

The coach dipped on it springs as Alistair entered. He removed his hat, set it on the seat in front of her and sat down at her side. ‘What on earth made you hire such a fussy woman?’ he asked once the footman had closed the door. ‘If I was Matthew, she’d be throttled by now.’

Julia pressed her lips together. She had no wish to get Mr. Lewis into trouble with his employer. ‘I will have a word with her when we reach Sackfield.’

He made a non-committal sound. ‘I hope we can make good time today.’

The coach jerked and moved off, its wheels grinding on the cobbles. Her husband put an arm across her front, steadying her, and then they swung out on to the toll road where the ride smoothed out. He stretched his longs legs out as far as he was able and stared out at the passing countryside.

Should she speak? Would he prefer silence? She glanced sideways at him, to discover him doing the same thing. She laughed.

He grinned.

And the awkwardness dissipated.

‘Since I gather you did not bring the promised book, please tell me about Sackfield,’ she said, broaching a topic that had been at the back of her mind for several days. She had hesitated to ask Mr Lewis in case he wondered why she hadn’t sought the information from her husband. ‘What should I expect? A castle? Something huge with hundreds of servants?’

‘Quite the opposite,’ he said. ‘It is small compared to the other properties held by the Duchy. A manor house. It came to the family in recognition of our loyalty to the Stuarts. Though I rather think my ancestors walked a fine line between pragmatics and ideology.’

Her own family had been staunch Protestants in Cromwell’s era, but it was not until later that they had been raised up to nobility for services to the crown. ‘Your family’s gain was another’s loss, I presume?’

‘In some respects. My ancestor was a political being. He married the daughter of the ousted baron to his eldest son, thus eliminating future friction.’

Another arranged marriage. ‘I wonder how they felt about it. The couple, I mean.’

He turned his face to look at her, his grey eyes speculative. ‘You sound sorry for them.’

Did she? Did he see it as a criticism of their circumstances? Certainly out of the two of them, her lot had improved dramatically, while his... She still wasn’t at all sure why he had offered marriage. Out of pity, she assumed, since their marriage was clearly pro forma. She certainly wasn’t going to spoil what seemed to be a growing rapprochement in their relationship by reminding him of his coldness. She might have made some mistakes in her life, but she was not a complete fool.

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