Secrets of the Marriage Bed

by Ann Lethbridge

  He couldn’t help wondering if the fates had finally decided to be kind. If so, he had better beware. In his experience, their generosity never came without a price.

  ‘It will be my pleasure, Your Grace.’

  He was not surprised by the puzzlement on the younger man’s face. What bridegroom wanted a chaperon? One who should never have married in the first place.

  It sounded like the last line of a really bad joke.

  * * *

  Julia almost cried off from dinner, after Alistair’s accusation. He must have thought her the worst sort of woman, if he thought she would pass another man’s child off on him. Even worse than she had thought herself, to tell the truth. But she wasn’t going to hide in her room looking guilty, even if a duchess who could not provide her lord with an heir really was guilty of a crime.

  What man would be content for his brother to be his heir? Perhaps he was one of those men who disliked babies. Or worse, would become jealous of a wife’s attention to her children. If so, she was better off being barren. It would be better for the children. Or it would be, if the thought of never having a child didn’t continue to ache in the centre of her chest.

  Head held high, she descended the stairs to the drawing room.

  One of the footmen opened the door.

  Two men were waiting. Alistair and one with his back to her. He turned.

  Ah, Mr Lewis, back from his mysterious errand. She pasted a cool smile on her lips to encompass both men.

  ‘Your Grace.’ Alistair came forward to welcome her with the air of a perfect gentlemen. Clearly they were going to pretend all was well. ‘Look who has returned to us.’

  She held out her hand. ‘Mr Lewis. How are you? Quite recovered from your journey, I hope.’

  ‘Indeed, Your Grace.’

  ‘Lewis is only with us tonight. He leaves tomorrow.’

  She arched a brow. ‘You have been and will be missed, Mr Lewis.’

  The man looked surprised and pleased, though surely he knew how indispensable he was to the Duke.

  ‘Dinner is served,’ Grindle announced.

  Alistair escorted her to the table in the adjoining room. She sat on his right while Lewis sat to his left. Despite his modest attire and retiring manner, Lewis was a handsome young man with the sort of face that would set the hearts of many a maiden fluttering.

  Not hers, though. There was not even a flicker of interest in her chest. Beside Alistair’s fallen-angel golden looks, he faded into the background. It would have been better if she was not so attracted to her husband. It might have been easier to cope with his obvious distrust.

  The footmen served them a consommé. Hopefully that would sit well with her badly behaving digestion.

  Silence descended. A hostess needed to make her guests comfortable as well as make sure they were included in a conversation no matter how unsettled she felt within herself. ‘I hope your journey to London was successful, Mr Lewis?’

  A strange glance passed between the two men, a frowned warning from Alistair to say nothing. Her heart stumbled. Did Lewis’s return to London have something to do with her?

  ‘It was a most uneventful journey, Your Grace,’ Lewis said.

  ‘It was fortunate the weather has been fine these past few days.’ Heat rushed through her as she recalled one activity the lovely warm weather had allowed. She risked a glance at Alistair, but his expression remained coolly polite. And his voice silent.

  She struggled on. ‘And you return to town tomorrow?’

  Lewis’s expression changed. ‘I go west. My father is ill.’

  Why hadn’t Alistair mentioned this instead of letting her blunder about? But then she hadn’t yet mentioned his stepmother’s visit, either. ‘I am so sorry to hear it. You will give your family our hopes for a speedy recovery?’

  If anything the young man’s face grew darker. ‘Thank you, Your Grace. The prognosis is not good, but we can hope for the best.’ His heavy tone made it clear he did not expect a favourable outcome.

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘I heard from Beauworth this afternoon,’ Alistair said. ‘We are invited to tea the day after tomorrow. If you are well enough, that is.’

  She gritted her teeth at his chilly tone.

  ‘We can decline, if you wish,’ she said.

  ‘I have business with the Marquess. Your presence is not required, but Beauworth did say his Marchioness would be glad to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘May I suggest we ride over?’

  His mouth tightened. ‘Are you sure your health will allow?’

  ‘I will do better on Bella than in the carriage.’

  He looked far from convinced, but shrugged. ‘As you wish. We are invited for afternoon tea and must leave here by two.’

  She turned to their guest. ‘Where in the west does your family reside, Mr Lewis?’

  ‘Near Plymouth, Your Grace.’

  ‘Near the sea. How lovely.’

  A sad expression filled his gaze. ‘Beautifully wild, Your Grace.’

  And so dinner continued. While careful not to appear to be prying, she had the feeling Mr Lewis wanted to talk and she learned a great deal about his family, while Alistair, occupied with his own thoughts, rarely spoke unless addressed directly.

  When it came time to withdraw after dinner, she pleaded tiredness and forwent tea in the drawing room. As she left the gentlemen to their port, the prickles at the back of her neck indicated someone was watching her closely, and she did not think it was Mr Lewis.

  Alistair’s coolness hurt far worse than she could have imagined. Was it possible that he would, despite his assurances to the contrary, send her away now he knew she could not bear his children?

  * * *

  Once he had seen Lewis to bed, Alistair, wearing only his dressing gown, hovered at the adjoining door to his wife’s bedroom. The sorrow in her eyes at dinner was eating at his conscience. Whereas he was relieved, she likely thought herself a failure. It was quite clear in her face that she thought herself less of a wife.

  She was the sort of woman who wore her every thought on her face. And he did not like to see her unhappy.

  He cursed beneath his breath.

  Was his need for his wife to be happy so out of control he was actually prepared to believe she wouldn’t betray him at the first opportunity—if it suited her needs? Would he really risk his son’s pride for the sake of her smiles? If past experience had taught him anything, it was that women had no concept of the meaning of honour.

  Julia was different. Wasn’t she unlike any other woman he had known? Wasn’t that her irresistible allure?

  Or was he once more allowing a naïve longing to have someone care about him override common sense? Bitterness entered his soul as he realised he had found his answer.

  Then he was a fool indeed to stand here dithering outside his wife’s door when her bed was the one place where they were in perfect accord.

  He knocked lightly on the door and walked in.

  She was sitting in bed with a book. She glanced up as he came in and put the book aside. ‘Alistair?’

  ‘Julia.’

  ‘I was expecting Robins with a glass of milk. To help me sleep.’

  ‘Feeling restless, were you?’

  She tilted her head in enquiry. ‘A little.’

  ‘Me, too.’ He locked both doors.

  ‘Oh, but Robins—’

  ‘You prefer milk to me?’ He kept his voice light. Teasing. Shrugged out of his dressing gown and slid into the bed.

  She stared at him open mouthed. He kissed her, long and hard. He felt her melt against him, heard the soft little sounds in the back of her throat and experienced the strangest feeling. A sense of coming home.

  ‘Snuggle down, my dear,
’ he whispered against her mouth. ‘Before you catch cold.’

  * * *

  Being cradled in one’s husband’s arms had to be one of the nicest things in the world.

  His warmth surrounded Julia like the glow from a blazing fire. The scent of his cologne mingled with soap dizzied her senses. Her body tingled with anticipation.

  His arms encircled her, one hand cupping her breast, the other splayed possessively on her belly, while he nuzzled at her nape, sending shivers down her spine.

  Desire shimmered hot through her veins, warming her skin, pulsing low in her belly. She moaned with the pleasure of it and rolled to face him.

  The light from the candle on the bedside table cast shadows over his face, hiding his thoughts, but showing her the gleam of a smile as he stroked the back of his fingers over her cheekbone, along the curve of her ear, across her jaw, to rest the pad of his thumb against her lower lip.

  A shudder of pleasure ran through her. A simple touch and she melted.

  ‘Warmer?’ he asked softly.

  He knew the answer, the wicked tease. She was on fire from the inside out.

  ‘Much,’ she managed to whisper breathlessly against the pressure of his digit.

  In retaliation for teasing, she opened her mouth and licked, tasting the slight flavour of salty skin, then bit down hard enough to cause him to hiss in a breath.

  He flexed his hips and she felt his hardness against her thigh. ‘Do that again and I may have to devise a punishment,’ he murmured, his voice low and deeply erotic.

  Her insides clenched at the prospect of what such delicious punishment might entail. She grazed his thumb with her teeth. ‘You should know better than to dare me, Your Grace.’

  He rose up on his elbow. ‘Always a surprise,’ he said, amusement in that dark velvety voice. His mouth descended upon hers, wooing, gentle, when her primal urge demanded a show of strength.

  She nipped at his lower lip.

  On a sharp indrawn breath, he came over her, pinning her hands beside her head and taking her mouth with the ruthlessness she needed. He slid one thigh between hers, pressing down on the place where her body ached for his touch.

  Their mouths melded. Their tongues duelled, the silken slide sending stabs of pleasure to her core where the pressure he applied only served to drive her need higher.

  Slowly, teasingly, he withdrew his tongue, encouraging her to follow into the hot recess of his mouth. He tasted of toothpowder and promised bliss. She fell into the darkness of heady sensation. Teasing him, leading him to taste her once more. As her tongue retreated, he closed his teeth gently. She stilled, expecting the pain of a bite. He suckled.

  Sparks of sensation shot through her body, pleasure so painful it left her weak. She moaned and writhed beneath his weight, trying to capture the beckoning climax.

  Lingeringly, he raised his head, gazing down into her face, his eyes hot and wild and slumberous. ‘More?’

  She groaned. ‘More.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, smiling. ‘Is it not manners to say please?’

  He was tormenting her on purpose. Her fists clenched, but while his grip was not painful on her wrists, it allowed her no freedom of movement and right at that moment she felt the need to dig her fingernails in those powerful shoulders, or bite the chin just out of reach.

  ‘Please,’ she gasped, grinding her hips against that blissfully hard thigh.

  He avoided the movement and grinned. ‘No cheating.’

  A growl rose in her throat. She bared her teeth, reduced to little more than a feral creature by his teasing. ‘Please,’ she managed to say again.

  He hastened to remove her nightgown. Then he dipped his head and licked up the valley between her breasts, nuzzling his nose against the fullness, circling her nipple with his tongue, first one, then the other, sensations that drove her wild, while she gazed at the beautiful gold of his thick hair, not sure if she wanted to run her fingers through the silken strands or tug them out of his head for teasing her so.

  His mouth closed, hot and wet, over her nipple, his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh, biting...almost but not. Promising pleasurable pain, but not quite...delivering.

  Her inner muscles clenched wildly, gentle ripples of pleasure spreading outwards, teasing tormenting little flutters that were a prelude to the grand finale.

  ‘Alistair,’ she gasped.

  He suckled on her nipple.

  The bond holding her down stretched and tightened. ‘I need you,’ she begged him, restlessly churning beneath him, trying to get his attention with her hips, with her voice. ‘Now. Please, Alistair. I need you inside me.’

  He turned his attention to the other breast, leaving her gasping and melting and wanting.

  Somehow she lifted her head and closed her teeth on his shoulder.

  On a hiss of breath he raised his head, his eyes dancing with fire. The flames of lust.

  ‘Now, Alistair,’ she demanded.

  He shook his head at her. ‘Oh, no, my dear.’

  She swallowed at his sensual tone.

  His lips curved in a smile. Still holding her hands in his large one, he moved off her body, denying her his weight, and kissed his way down her ribs and her stomach, amid the crisp triangle of curls.

  She gasped in shock at the strangeness and the delicious searing pleasure of the feel of his warm breath against her most private place. ‘Alistair, you cannot—’

  He blew out a breath that caused her hips to jerk. He came up on his knees, pushing her thighs apart, his erection hard against the ridged muscles of his lower stomach.

  She smiled at him as he looked at her with raised brow. Now he would enter her. She let her eyes flutter closed in anticipation of that beautiful hot hard length pressing into her.

  He released her hands and, leaning forward, he licked.

  Panting, breathless, she could not move for the shock of it.

  The soft wet slide of his tongue was a sensation like no other. His tongue circled that spot at the source of her pleasure, the rasp of his stubble against her inner thighs a counterpoint to his tongue, circling and licking in swift little passes that caused her hips to buck and her limbs to go boneless. He toyed with her until there was nothing left but that hot sensation of his tongue. And then his lips pressed against her, his tongue stroking with delicious delicate little tastes that racked her body and drove her out of her mind.

  A little pause. She inhaled a breath. He suckled.

  She shattered.

  Hot darkness enveloped her for long, long minutes, her breathing rasping in and out of her lungs, her blood a rapid thump in her ears, her body suffused with heat.

  He held her against his chest with such tenderness wetness pooled at the corners of her eyes.

  Gradually, her brain began to function. Awareness stole into her mind and she realised that not only was he holding her sweetly, he was still aroused, the hot blunt head of his erection pushing at her hip.

  ‘Alistair,’ she said, trying to look over the broad forearm holding her close. ‘You did not...’

  A deep breath filled his lungs, lifting her, and he slowly exhaled. ‘Do not be concerned.’

  ‘But surely—’ She frowned. While he had not moved, the hardness she had felt was no longer there.

  ‘Sleep,’ he said.

  She didn’t want to sleep. She wanted to give him pleasure.

  He stroked her head and down her back. Soft sweeping caresses that sweetly lulled her. This man was beautiful. Loving. Gentle.

  But he was also the dissolute Duke.

  Which was real?

  Sleep pushed at her mind, dragging her down into warm darkness. She opened her mouth to object, but yawned instead.

  ‘Shh...’ was the last sound she heard.

  *
* *

  The tenderness Alistair felt for the woman in his arms was dangerous in the extreme, yet he continued to hold her while her breathing slowed and her body relaxed.

  And still he did not move, needing to ascertain her sleep was real and deep. Finally, her laxness, the evenness of her breathing, told him she truly had succumbed to Morpheus.

  He shifted to ease the ache in his groin.

  He would not take chances with his son’s future, but if he was careful they could have a decent sort of a marriage.

  He breathed through the dull pain, the same way he had breathed through the need to join her in pleasure. The only purpose of their intimate play had been to remove some of her worries. Her bliss was all the satisfaction he required, along with the pressing need to ensure no child resulted from their intimacy.

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  * * *

  Hours later, surprised at the realisation he had slept, he drifted awake to the feel of a slender body snuggled close to his side. He opened his eyes to see the grey light of day peaking in through the open curtains and the awareness that he once more desired her. Badly.

  Times when he spent all night in bed with a woman these days were rare, though Donatella, the Italian courtesan who had hidden him from the French soldiers for months, had always been in favour of waking up to his lovemaking. She’d taught him all she knew about the carnal arts. She’d been a generous lover, an amazing teacher and in some aspects a friend.

  Her final betrayal had hurt at the time, but he should not have been surprised when she was tempted by the price on his head.

  Julia stirred, opened her eyes, blinked. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he replied noncommittally, looking into her lovely eyes as they squinted in puzzlement, unsure what to make of her surprised little syllable.

  She smiled. ‘It is indeed a good morning, Your Grace.’

  All at once things were right with his world. And his body was once more demanding he give in to the seduction of her sumptuous softness.