Alistair pounded his fist into the wall and welcomed the pain in his hand even as he winced and shook it out. He needed to get a grip of his feelings where his wife was concerned.
Seeing her in the tub, her skin white, her lips tinged with blue, for one awful moment he’d thought she was in extremis. Devil take it, he could barely speak the words in his head, let alone out loud and in English.
How could anyone sleep in water so frigid? Likely only a woman exhausted first by riding all around the countryside and then his carnal needs overcoming good sense even though he knew she’d been ill. But she wasn’t expecting a child. A tremendous relief flooded his veins. Something he’d tried not to show, as he could see it made her unhappy.
Barren. What a surprise. If it was true. What reason would she have to lie? Had she guessed he did not want children and sought to trick him? It hardly seemed likely. And the sadness in her eyes when she told him did not lie. She wanted a child.
A throat cleared behind him. ‘Your Grace.’ The voice was male and tentative.
The study wall looked no worse for wear, but his knuckles were bruised. He turned to meet the worried gaze of his amanuensis. ‘Lewis.’ He clasped his hands behind his back, ignoring the flush of heat in his cheeks. A duke did not explain himself to anyone. ‘You found one?’
‘No, Your Grace. I took the liberty of ordering one from the jeweller.’
‘Thank you.’ He wasn’t sure he’d give her the gift. It smacked of a kind of sentimentality any man of sense should find distasteful. He glanced at the mess on his desk. At last now with Lewis’s help he’d be able to catch up.
Lewis’s face took on a strained expression. ‘I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but I must hand in my notice effective immediately.’
‘What the devil?’ He reined in his temper and looked closely at his secretary. He had never seen Lewis looking so dejected. ‘Something has happened.’
‘My father is ill. I must go.’
‘You hie from somewhere in the west, do you not?’
‘Devonshire, Your Grace.’
‘You should have sent me a note and gone straight there.’
‘Sackfield is not far out of my way and I wished to tell you in person. Also...’ he lowered his voice ‘...I gather the Dowager Duchess has left town for the summer. Visiting family, I understand.’
The only family who would invite her to visit was Luke, who had already imparted the news as a warning, or a threat.
‘It is good of you to take the time to let me know, Lewis. I appreciate it. You will stay here tonight and be on your way first thing in the morning, refreshed.’
‘Thank you, Your Grace.’
‘Since you are here, I wonder if I might impose on you for an hour or two. There are matters among my correspondence that would benefit from your assistance.’ Not to mention that the man looked as if he needed the distraction. As did Alistair. Or he’d be dwelling on what this latest development with his wife might mean for their future. All sorts of possibilities fired his imagination and his blood. ‘If you don’t mind?’
‘I would be glad to help, Your Grace. I cannot tell you how badly I feel at deserting the ship.’
‘We are not sinking yet, Lewis. You will join the Duchess and me for dinner, I hope?’
Usually, when he was in the country, he and Lewis dined together. Lewis was, after all, the grandson of an earl and a gentleman. He was also good company. Just because Alistair had a wife, there was no reason to change things. He grimaced at his cowardice. Using Lewis to keep him from lusting after a wife who apparently was the perfect choice for a man in his situation, once she recovered from her illness.
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.
The only other time he recalled falling asleep with a woman after Donatella was with Julia on their first night together. Was that what had led him into this morass of a marriage? This needing to belong to someone? To have someone need him?
If so, he was hiding from the truth. Julia, like all the women in his life, needed his wealth and position for protection—not him. Given how badly he’d failed his son, he was lucky to have that much. Wanting more was a recipe for disappointment.
Inwardly he cursed. He could not allow himself to give in to this weakness. This marriage would only work if he maintained his detachment.
He rolled away from her and reached for his dressing gown, shoving his arms into it and wrapping it around himself. He stalked to the window, looking out, fighting to get himself under control and decent enough to face her. ‘I should get back to my room before your woman arrives with your tray.’
The sounds of her leaving the bed were almost more than he could resist. A moment more for her to be suitably swathed in that frilly thing she’d worn the night before and he turned around.
Relief and disappointment in equal measure battered at his mind. She was indeed well covered. Frilly though it might be, it was also demure, covering her from her throat to her ankles.
The scent of her invaded every pore of his body and left him wanting to hold her, kiss her one more time.
In his mind, he opened the door between their chambers, moved through it. Shut her out. In reality, he reached out for her, brought her hard against him and took her mouth in a kiss so wild, so all encompassing, her gasp of shock filled his mouth. Then she leaned into him and kissed him back with equal fervour.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard.
‘Join me at breakfast?’ he managed.
Eyes slumberous, lips full and rosy from his kiss, disappointment filled her expression, but she nodded her agreement.
Somehow, he managed to close the door between them.
* * *
The day was gloomy and rainy and after breakfast Julia was confined to the drawing room and her needlework. She kept thinking about the visit from the Dowager Duchess and the fact that she had not mentioned it to Alistair last night. She’d had so many chances it was now a mountain instead of a molehill. Would not Grindle have told him? Coward.
As if conjured by her thoughts the butler bowed his way in. ‘Shall I bring tea, Your Grace?’
‘Yes, please. Grindle, did you mention the Dowager Duchess’s visit to His Grace?’
His brow wrinkled. ‘I did not, Your Grace. Should I have?’
‘No. I wondered, that was all. Would you send word to the Duke to see if he would care to join me for tea?’
After Grindle left she walked to the window and looked out, plucking up her courage to admit her lie by omission. Beyond the glass, little could be seen of the magnificent vista this morning, the rain obscuring all but the closest objects.
She straightened her shoulders. There really was nothing to fear, but given his suspicions, his talk of cuckoos, would he think this was another attempt to deceive him?
Thank goodness he hadn’t changed his mind about visiting Beauworth. She felt the need to get out of doors, to see other people. Hopefully this rain would be over by tomorrow. If not, they would be forced to go by carriage—or postpone the outing. She glanced up at the sky. Naturally it looked as if it might rain for days.
She sighed and prepared herself to spend a few days drinking tea and plying her needle. Perhaps she’d work on a set of cushions for this room. Something bright and cheery.
The tray arrived with a message that His Grace would take his tea in his office, though the kitchen had included a second cup on the tray. Disappointed, she tucked her embroidery away and poured herself a cup. The steam brought with it the distinctive scent of Oolong and something else. Dash it all. Had they added a small amount to the pot for flavour or had they brought her the wrong tray? She poured herself a cup and added milk and sugar. When she lifted the brew to her nose and breathed in the scent her stomach rebelled. Oolong, certainly, but it was that other underlying sickly smell that turned her stomach. She sniffed again. Deeply. And the smell hit the back of her throat in a way that was familiar.
Laudanum.
Of course. It was what she had been tasting and smelling all along.
In her tea? Why? In disgust she poured what was in her cup back in the pot and put the lid on, to keep the smell enclosed.
Her chest constricted. This was the reason for her illness these past many days. Certainly not what Alistair had accused her of. What she had barely dared hope. Laudanum must have been what she had been tasting in her morning chocolate, too. She shuddered. A dose of the poppy had made her violently ill as a child and the doctor had told her parents she should never take it again.
Why would anyone do such a thing? Who would?
No one else knew of her intolerance. There had been no reason to discuss it. She simply never used it, not for a headache or her monthly pains. So if it was not being given to make her ill...
She pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to reason it out. As far as she knew, laudanum made people sleepy. Took away pain. Some people also gained a penchant for daily usage. Cold fingers crawled down her spine. Could that be it?
But why?
Trembling, she covered her mouth with a hand, trying to stem her rapid breathing, the panic. Should she say something to Alistair?
This was his house, his servants, his everything. He could arrange for such a thing. Could he have done so? To what end? To make her compliant to his every wish?
Or because he regretted marrying her and wanted rid of her one way or another? And now he knew she couldn’t give him children would it make him all the more determined to see her gone? Her conversation with his stepmother had revealed a man who was ruthless in obtaining his own ends. A man who seemed to care for no one but himself.
If he discovered the laudanum did not work, what next should she expect?
Blinded by dread, she wrapped her arms around her waist.