Secrets Of The Marriage Bed. Ann Lethbridge
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