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.
‘Simply curious.’
‘You are interested in history?’
‘In the history of your family, certainly, for it is now my family, too.’
‘So it is.’ There was a note of wonder in his voice, as if he hadn’t yet adjusted to the idea of a wife. ‘Sackfield is likely one of the places where you will learn a great deal about us, for it is the oldest of the Dunstan holdings.’
‘I am looking forward to seeing it.’ She leaned back against the squabs and watched the countryside drift by. She yawned.
‘Tired?’ She heard a frown in his voice and turned her head. He was watching her intently.
‘Your carriage is wonderfully sprung. The rocking...’ She lost the thread of her thought. ‘Soothing.’ She yawned again. What on earth was wrong with her? She never slept during the day.
‘What crops do you grow at Sackfield?’ Always ask a man about what concerns him most. With her first husband it had been his bargaining at the wool exchange. He had lectured her for hours on end about his dealings. And about her shortcomings.
‘Wheat,’ he said. ‘Barley. We rotate...’ His deep voice was sensual no matter what he was talking about...
‘You will end up on the floor if you are not careful,’ a voice muttered in her ear. A strong arm went around her shoulders. ‘Lean on me, if you must sleep.’
He did not sound pleased. Well, he wouldn’t. She was supposed to be keeping him company. She tried to force her eyelids open. But the harder she tried to stay awake, the heavier her eyelids felt. Along with a strange feeling that something was not quite right...
She felt something hard beneath her cheek. Her body rocking oddly. Oh, dear heaven, that was a heartbeat. She jerked away. Her heart racing. Her gaze trying to focus on the face of...
Alistair. Frowning. Deeply.
Not Algernon. Of course not. He had died. And he would never have permitted her to sleep on his shoulder. He’d have poked her awake with a bony finger. Or slapped her.
She pressed a hand to her rapidly beating heart. ‘I beg your pardon. I must have dozed off.’
He was eyeing her warily. ‘You did.’
She slowed her breathing, tried to still the panic she had felt on awakening. ‘I am sure I do not know what came over me.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Have I slept long?’
‘Two hours, or so.’
So long. How could that be? She groaned. ‘I apologise for being such poor company.’
‘And here I was thinking it was my treatise on crops and yields and mangel-wurzel that had you snoring.’
‘Snoring?’ Horror filled her. She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon.’
He frowned. ‘Julia, I am jesting.’
‘It is hard to tell when your expression is so stern.’ She winced at the words she had meant to keep to herself.
He half turned to face her. ‘You are my wife, Julia. Am I not entitled to undertake a little teasing?’
She stared at him wide-eyed, aware of the small curl at one corner of his mouth signifying amusement, but the shadows in his grey eyes showed concern. ‘You must forgive me, I was not quite awake,’ she said, miserably aware she was apologising yet again.
‘Someone hurt you.’
She stared at him blankly.
‘You flinch, Julia. When your speech is unguarded. You startle when I move too quickly. When you awoke a moment ago, you seemed nigh on terrified.’
There was an accusation in his tone, yet it did not seem directed at her.
‘Who, Julia?’
It was the first time he’d used her first name for an age. She shook her head, the memories of her husband’s cruelties too raw, too filled with unhappiness because of her own failures as a wife. She shook her head. ‘It is all in the past.’
He reached out slowly, the way one might reach out to a skittish horse, and took her gloved hand. His steady gaze rested on her face. ‘I will make you a promise. Never will I raise a hand to you or physically cause you harm.’ He spoke as if he was taking a vow. ‘Do you believe this?’
His gaze was so intent upon her face, she felt as if every thought, every memory was bared to him. Yet she did not want him to know how cowed she had been by her husband. Or how she’d failed him.
Naturally, Alistair was irritated by signs she did not trust him. It likely impinged on his honour as a gentleman. And truly he had never given her cause to think he might raise his hand to her, even if his words at times sliced at her feelings.
She nodded her agreement and promised herself she would do better.
He brought her fingers to his mouth and kissed her knuckles.
Her stomach tumbled over and her inner muscles tightened. The hot restless feeling low in her abdomen increased tenfold. She swallowed a gasp of shock.
The twinkle in his gaze said he knew exactly the reaction he had provoked. He kept her hand in his, resting on his thigh. Her heart gave an odd little thump. She tried to ignore the heat of his hand permeating through her cotton gloves and the strength of his muscled thigh against the back of her hand.
He glanced out of the window. ‘Not long now.’
She leaned forward to look out of the window. Her head spun. Her stomach rebelled. She slapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, no,’ she whispered through her fingers.
His expression hardened, but he didn’t waste a second. He hammered on the roof. ‘Pull over.’
He held her around the shoulders as the carriage came to a halt.
Her stomach heaved.
She lurched for the door.
‘Steady. Let me help you.’ He held her while he opened the door with the other hand.
She wasn’t going to make it. ‘Please.’ She swallowed.
And then he was swinging her down to the ground and holding her by the shoulders as she emptied the contents of her stomach.
Oh, how she wished she had not drunk that chocolate. He guided her a little way away and she hung limply on his arm, bent over, fearing to raise her head in case the dizziness should begin again.
Patient and strong, he stood beside her until at last she felt she dared stand upright. A blur of vision, a feeling of spinning. She held still a moment longer.
‘All right now?’ he asked in a voice rather devoid of warmth. A clean handkerchief, neatly folded, appeared before her face.
Shuddering with distaste, she wiped her lips. ‘Better.’ How horrible a way to end what had been mostly a lovely morning. ‘I beg your pardon. I cannot understand what is going on.’ She pushed away from him and leaned against the coach.
When he came closer, she waved him off. ‘I will be better in a moment.’ She hoped. Her head was still floating above her shoulders. Her stomach roiled at the thought of any movement.
‘Perhaps if you sat in the carriage—’
‘It must be the carriage that does this to me.’
‘Likely so.’ He sounded almost bored.
Feeling steadier, she risked a glance at his face. His eyes were hard, his lips thin.
His face softened as he looked at her, became concerned. He dived inside the carriage and returned with a flask. ‘Perhaps some brandy will help?’
Despite his obvious distaste, he clearly was trying to be kind, but instinctively, she knew brandy was the last thing she needed. ‘No, thank you.’
He blew out a breath and glanced around. ‘I wish I had thought to bring along a flask of water.’
She closed her eyes and opened them again. No senses swimming. She walked a step or two. No heaving stomach.
‘How much longer before we reach our destination, do you think?’
He frowned. ‘An hour at most.’
‘Then we should continue. I think I shall manage.’
An odd look passed across his expression. She could not tell quite what it meant. She didn’t know him well enough. It could be anger. After all, he was not the sort of man who would relish taking care of anyone else. Or it might have been sympathy.
‘As you wish,’ he said. He took her elbow, supporting her again. As if she was some sort of fragile invalid.
He helped her back into the carriage without a word. When she was settled in one corner, he took the other, stretching out his long legs, and when the carriage started, he stared grimly out of his window, their earlier accord nowhere in evidence.
This was not how she had wanted to spend the day with him. She had wanted to show him she was not such a bad choice for a wife.
Moisture welled behind her eyes. Now she was weepy. This was not like her. She blinked them back. ‘I really am sorry,’ she whispered.
He turned his head to look at her, his eyes as cold as a grey winter sea. ‘What can’t be cured...’
Must be endured, she finished in her mind. She’d ruined everything. She shivered.
He reached across the carriage, picked up her shawl and wrapped it around her, his gentleness surprising. He narrowed his eyes. ‘Let us get rid of this...’ he pulled at the ribbons of her bonnet ‘...and make you more comfortable.’
Startled, she could only stare at him as he skilfully divested her of the hatpin and then lifted the bonnet clear of her hair. She let go a sigh of relief. ‘Thank you.’
‘Rest. We’ll be there soon.’
She nodded and clutched at the shawl, knowing she must look a fright, with her hair in disarray, her gown rumpled. She leaned her head back against the squabs and closed her eyes.
The carriage jolted and turned.
Julia opened her eyes. Oh, no. She must have fallen asleep. Again? This was so unlike her. And once more she was leaning against her husband’s broad chest and he had one arm around her shoulders, keeping her steady. She struggled to sit up and he released her instantly.
A glance out of the window revealed a beautiful house of yellow sandstone. Not a huge house, but still one of impressive proportions. The house of a gentleman of means, with neatly trimmed ivy climbing the walls and a columned portico where... She swung around to face Alistair, the movement too rapid. Her vision blurred for a second.
‘The servants—’
‘Expect to meet my duchess,’ he said calmly.
She put a hand to her hair, glanced down at her creased gown and the limp shawl. She wanted to disappear under the seat. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’
If anything his expression became more remote.
He was going to insist. She dived for her bonnet.
‘Leave it.’ His tone brooked no argument.
How could he expect her to meet those people looking as if she had been pulled through a hedge backwards? Of course the servants would be waiting to greet their new mistress. They had gone through all that at the town house and it was perfectly normal, and if she had been feeling more herself she might have thought of it. ‘But—’
‘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.