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 t
hem 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.
Secrets of the Marriage Bed Page 3