‘You can meet them later.’
But they were all standing there... In a line.
The carriage halted at the front door. A footman hurried forward to open the door and let down the steps.
‘Wait here,’ Alistair said and jumped down.
She hunched forward, not feeling ill so much as feeling hopelessly inadequate. It seemed no matter how she tried, she was destined to be useless as a wife.
A moment later her husband returned.
She forced herself to her feet, but before she could step down, he gathered her in his arms. Once out of the carriage she could see all the servants were gone. She braced herself for him to set her on her feet. Instead, he carried her a few short steps across the drive, up the steps and into the house.
Across the threshold, like a bride. Something he had not done on their wedding day. He continued up a beautiful marble staircase that seemed to float in the great hall and up another flight and into a chamber all cream and gold and beautiful. It was a sitting room, she realised.
He set her down on a chaise longue and ran a hand through his hair as he looked about him. He strode across the room and rang the bell. He frowned. ‘Would you like tea? Something else?’
‘Tea would be wonderful.’ She was never drinking chocolate ever again. She shuddered.
A knock came at the door. He went to it, opening it only a fraction, and she heard the murmur of voices before he closed it again. ‘Tea will arrive shortly.’ He put her bonnet and pelisse on the chair. ‘I have told them to send Robins to you the moment she arrives.’
‘Thank you. You don’t need to stay. I am sure you have other things...’
His gaze narrowed a fraction and he bowed. ‘Try to rest. Take some sustenance from the tray and if you are well enough I will see you at dinner.’
More orders. Sensible ones given the way the room seemed to pitch and yaw around her. He’d been very patient. And kind. She inclined her head. ‘Your Grace?’
Already at the door, he stopped and turned back with a look of enquiry on his face.
‘Thank you.’
He bowed elegantly and walked out, obviously displeased.
She sighed. And she had hoped this visit to the country might be a new start.
* * *
The next morning, Alistair sat in his study, staring at his empty desk. All his paperwork was in the third carriage, a lumbering affair carrying the last of their trunks which had not yet arrived. Burying himself in the work had always served to take his mind off problems of a personal nature. A suitable distraction. But never had he felt quite so anxious as he did now. About his wife.
Well, she was his duty, too.
Cook had reported that the Duchess had eaten nothing of the meal taken up to her on a tray last night, while he had dined in solitary splendour in the dining room. She’d drunk only peppermint tea for breakfast, sending everything else back untouched.
Why had she again not told him she felt ill in the carriage? He’d been so occupied talking about the place he held close to his heart, he’d failed to notice her growing pallor. The damned bonnet hadn’t helped. It had hidden her face while she slept. And the look of terror on her face when she awoke had taken him aback.
Had she thought he might be angry at her illness? For a moment she’d actually cringed. Anger gripped his gut tight. Her previous husband had a great deal to answer for. Too bad the man was already dead.
He closed his eyes against the memory of how fragile and vulnerable she’d looked leaning against his shoulder for those last few miles. He’d failed her, badly. He struck the table with the side of his clenched fist.
Shocked at the pain, he shook his hand out and stared at it. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d done everything in his power not to care about this woman who was his wife, but it seemed the more he knew her the more he wished things were different.
Enough! Things were as they were. He would not be weakened by this strange protective need. Or the foolish desire to make her happy.
Even Lewis had thought he was being ridiculous for sending him back to London. That he had actually allowed himself to succumb to such nonsense was the source of his anger. Nothing else. He’d let down his guard. He could not afford weakness where a woman was concerned. It stopped now. Today.
Still seething, he got up and strode to the window, looking out on the formal gardens at the back of the house. Everything was as it should be. Hedges trimmed. Roses blooming. Walkways swept. Edges neat. Usually the sight from this window brought him peace. All his memories of this place were good ones.
This house, filled with his earliest memories before Isobel had come into his father’s life, normally felt like home. Not today. The ruination he had made of his life, the mistakes he had made, hung over him like a pall. He inhaled a deep breath. Duty. It was now his watchword if he was to make amends.
He turned at a scratch on the door. ‘Lunch is served in the breakfast room, Your Grace.’
‘And Her Grace?’
‘Robins reports that she will not come down, Your Grace.’
An urge to see her for himself had him moving towards the door. He halted. ‘Did a tray go up to my wife?’ My wife. Not the Duchess. Not Her Grace, but my wife. He had to stop this sense of possession. She was not his in any way that mattered. And she never could be.
‘At any moment, Your Grace. Tea is all she requested.’
‘I will join her.’
If Grindle was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘I will make sure the kitchen knows, Your Grace.’
‘Make the tea peppermint. And send sandwiches. For me. Chicken broth for Her Grace.’
Grindle’s eyebrow twitched, but he managed to maintain his bland expression before he bowed. ‘I will let Cook know.’
Alistair blinked. What the devil had happened to his resolution to maintain a sensible distance from his duchess? Nonsense. He was only doing his husbandly duty.
The thought echoed back to a time when he’d thought he was worthy of a dukedom and a wife and family. A time he did not care to think about.
Chapter Five
Julia closed her eyes and lay back against the chaise in the sitting room adjoining her bedroom. Surely she should feel better by now. If only Robins would stop bustling about in the other room, she might actually be able to rest.
There was something about the way she felt that reminded her of being ill as a child.
If her courses had started, she might have ascribed her general weakness to that occurrence. They were always frightfully painful and terribly irregular. And they were due in a week or so, though they were often late. A sign, the doctors had said, of an inability to have children. But these sensations were quite different. The nausea. The dizziness.
Could she have contracted some sort of illness? Should she ask for a doctor?
A door opened and the rattle of cups alerted her to the arrival of the tea tray.
‘Is that the girl with the tea, Your Grace?’ Robins called from the other room. ‘Shall I pour?’
Julia forced her eyes open as Robins scurried in from the bedroom. The woman stopped short, her mouth agape.
‘I will pour for Her Grace.’
Alistair?
Julia went to swing her legs down and sit up.
‘Stay where you are, madam,’ he said. He glowered at Robins. ‘Have you finished unpacking?’
‘No, Your Grace.’
‘Come back later.’
With a gasp, the woman curtsied and disappeared from whence she came, no doubt leaving by way of the dressing room off Julia’s bedchamber.
Alistair frowned. ‘Did she sniff at me?’
Julia couldn’t help chuckling even if it did sound a little weak. ‘I think she may have. Do not feel special, she s
niffs at me, too.’
‘Good Lord. How very odd. Perhaps you should get someone new.’
And hurt Mr Lewis’s feelings? ‘She hasn’t done anything that requires such drastic measures. And she is really very kind though her manner can be a little presumptuous.’
‘You are braver than I. The woman leaves me quaking in my boots.’ He brought the small table holding the tea tray and set it beside her. He pulled up a chair. ‘I had them make peppermint tea. I hope that is all right? It seemed to help yesterday.’
‘It did. Thank you.’ How kind. And after such a horrid display of illness yesterday. Tears welled. She blinked them back, shocked by the sudden surge of emotion. This was not like her at all. Perhaps her courses really would be early for a change.
In truth, only the last part of the journey had been awful. The earlier part had been nice, even if she had fallen asleep. She recalled his promise to never cause her harm with a feeling of tenderness. The man had a kind streak. Of course, she had already known that or he would not have offered marriage. But his coming to see how she was faring was an unexpected thoughtfulness.
Perhaps he was missing his mistress. She ignored the pang in her chest. If he was, perhaps she could find a way to replace her in his affections. A trickle of heat ran through her veins at the naughty thought. Heaven help her, she really was becoming wanton. If so, it was all his fault, him and his fallen angel looks and the heat flaring in his eyes. She lowered her gaze in case he saw the direction of her thoughts. The man saw too much.
Alistair handed her a cup and saucer and she took a sip. He watched her intently. Oh, dear, did he think she was going to be ill again and was preparing to leap clear? Or worse yet, make a dash to fetch the chamber pot?
‘I am feeling a good deal better, today,’ she said as much for herself as for him. ‘It is strange how I am ill one moment and then an hour later I feel fine.’ She hesitated. ‘I felt a great deal worse yesterday than the day before.’
He straightened. ‘Worse?’ His frown deepened.
Oh, she had not meant to cause him further worry. ‘Perhaps. I am not sure.’
‘You have been refusing your food, madam. It is no wonder you are weak. Once you have drunk your tea you are going to eat something.’
‘I am not sure I could.’ Or that she should.
‘I insist. The kitchen is bringing up broth for you and sandwiches for me, and we will see how you do.’ His expression became grim. ‘If you are not better by morning, I am sending for the doctor.’
Relief filled her. She had wondered how she might raise that very issue. Doctors were expensive and she was not sure he would appreciate spending the coin. But then he was nothing like her first husband, begrudging every penny. She had to remember that. She lifted her brows at him over her cup. ‘You are very dictatorial, husband.’
‘Someone needs to take you in hand,’ he said, his voice strangely gruff as if he found the words uncomfortable. ‘It might as well be me.’
And if not him, who else would? The loneliness she had tried to ignore since leaving her home eight years ago threatened to overwhelm her. If she had not been barren, she would have had a child by now. Children. In that event, she would not have had to worry about loneliness.
A knock on the door heralded the appearance of another tray. While one footman whisked the tea tray away, the second replaced it with the other, bearing a plate of sandwiches and little cakes and a steaming bowl of clear soup. They left as soundlessly as they had arrived.
Julia put a hand on her stomach. ‘To tell the truth, I do feel a little peckish.’
‘But you did not send down for food.’
‘I did not think of it until now.’ Oh, dear, she was sounding defensive. Argumentative. ‘I thank you for your thoughtfulness.’
His grey eyes warmed, as if her thanks pleased him. ‘Good.’ He removed the plate of sandwiches, balanced the tray with the soup on her lap and handed her the spoon. ‘Now eat.’
A smile tugged at her lips. Clearly her husband, while his bedside manner left much to be desired, was trying his best to be sympathetic in the practical way of a man solving problems. ‘Thank you, Your Grace,’ she said meekly.
A twinkle appeared in his eyes. Was there really amusement there? ‘I see what you are about, madam. Do not think I will be fooled by your cozening ways.’ He picked up a sandwich and took a bite.
He had lovely white teeth and his face, though very masculine, was also quite beautiful when that little smile curved his lips. It made him look devastatingly handsome. Her insides fluttered as she recalled their one night of lovemaking. He had smiled then, too.
Apparently, given the direction of her thoughts, she was indeed feeling better. She sipped at her broth. Delicious. Seasoned to perfection. She finished it in short order. ‘My compliments to your chef.’
‘Cook. And she was quite perturbed at your lack of appetite.’
Or was it he who was perturbed? The idea that he cared was a warm sensation around her heart.
He inspected the three remaining sandwiches on the plate resting on the arm of his chair, held there by one large, but elegant hand. ‘Do you think you could manage one of these? There is ham, roast beef, or breast of chicken.’ He gave her the most bashfully boyish smile she had ever seen.
He looked so young, almost hopeful.
It seemed he had saved her one of each kind so she would have a choice, rather than leaving what he least preferred. ‘Chicken, please.’
Looking thoroughly pleased, he passed it over and watched while she ate, as if to make sure she did not tuck it into the chair cushion when he wasn’t looking, like a recalcitrant child.
Protective.
If he had children, that is how he would be with them, too. Longing stole into her heart to be swiftly followed by the ache of regret. The expectation she might give him children was practically nil. When he realised this was the case, would he also hate her, the way her first husband had? What of his promises then? His disappointment?
The warm glow dissipated. She finished the sandwich.
‘Another,’ he asked.
‘No, thank you.’ Thinking of children had stolen the rest of her appetite.
He regarded her intently. ‘I will not have you fading away to nothing.’
‘No, Your Grace.’
‘Humph.’ He paused, looking at her almost expectantly. When she didn’t respond, a crease appeared in his forehead. ‘I told Grindle you would greet the staff when you feel better. I was going to suggest you take to your bed for the rest of the afternoon, but then I wondered if you wouldn’t prefer to take a walk. Get some fresh air. Put some colour in your cheeks.’
Instantly, her spirits lifted. ‘I would love to go for a walk.’
His face brightened. ‘Excellent. Let us send for that dresser of yours.’
‘I think I can manage to wrap myself in a shawl and put on a bonnet,’ she said, not liking the idea of Robins’s fussing.
‘I am sure you can. With my help.’
* * *
They walked down the hill to the stables set away from the house. This was closer to what Julia had expected would be her lot in life as a girl. A handsome husband whose large gloved hand held hers against the crook of his elbow. A home in the country, similar to the one she had lived in growing up—before Father died and her brother took over the estate and her life.
Not that she’d ever imagined reaching as high as a duke. Her family had lost much of their land and influence after generations of lackadaisical earls who had preferred the spending of wealth to accumulation. And yet her breeding was as good and as old as his, so it wasn’t a complete mésalliance, even if they had met in unusual and potentially scandalous circumstances.
The stables were a long low red-brick affair reached by way of a path across the lawns,
or by way of a turn off the drive further down the hill. They passed through a red-brick arch and into a quadrangle laid with cobblestones in diagonal patterns that sloped into a runnel. In the centre was a large stone horse trough fed from a wrought-iron pump. The stables, red brick with a thatched roof, had sufficient room for a great many animals.
‘My goodness, how many horses do you keep here?’
‘The east end—’ he pointed ‘—holds various equipages. The rest are stalls. At the moment we have ten animals, most of whom are out to pasture. Several of the mares are in foal. Would you like to meet those in residence?’
‘I would love to.’
He strolled on. ‘When my father was alive, he kept a great many more horses, mostly for hunting. Now we have become more discerning and turned our attention to the racecourse.’
He guided her inside and along a corridor along a wall set with large windows at regular intervals and three sets of double doors, one at each end and one in the middle. On the other side was a row of stalls and loose boxes with windows under the eaves. The whole thing had a bright airy feel, though of course it was thick with the usual aromas of manure, horse and hay. A couple of the residents poked their heads over the top of the half-doors to see who had come to visit.
‘Your horses must count themselves fortunate to live in such modern accommodations,’ she said, recalling the details of her girlhood home for the first time in a long time. The stable where her father and now her brother kept his horses had no windows at all at ground level, the ceilings were low and the stalls on each side of the central aisle were dark and dingy. One needed a lamp to see much at all, even in the middle of a sunny day.
‘A happy horse is a healthy horse. Isn’t that right, Thor?’ His horse whiffled a greeting and nudged his owner with his nose. Alistair dug in the pocket of his jacket and produced a carrot.
Leaving the horse munching happily, they strolled down a row of mostly empty stalls.
‘Ah, here is the lady I was looking for.’ Julia, standing next to him, once again realised how tall he was as he leaned one arm on the top of the stall door on a level with her chin. Inside the larger loose box was a beautiful grey and her leggy coal-black foal.
Secrets of the Marriage Bed Page 7