Secrets of the Marriage Bed
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Ann Lethbridge
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Chapter One
This picture of domestic bliss should have sent Alistair, Duke of Dunstan, haring off for a brandy at his club. Instead, standing in the shadows outside his wife’s withdrawing room, watching her delicately ply her needle, he wanted...more. A painful twisting in his chest for something he could not name, along with the far more easily controlled inconvenience of lust. When he really should not want anything at all.
A bitter smile pulled at his lips. The only woman he’d wanted this badly in years he couldn’t have because she was his wife.
What the devil had he been thinking when he’d offered marriage? A question he’d asked himself more than once these past two weeks. He didn’t need a wife. Hadn’t wanted one. Why be tied to one woman when any number of them, from princess to pauper, were ready to fall into his bed? Marriage was his worst idea ever.
And he’d had more than his share of bad ideas.
If she ever learned the truth, she likely would turn away in disgust.
Of course, he hadn’t been thinking the night he’d met her. At least not with the brain atop his shoulders. Drunk on the aftermath of exquisite passion, the legend of the Dunstan rubies had put words in his mouth he would never have uttered had his mind been in full working order. Pride hadn’t permitted a retraction.
A Dunstan never went back on his word. That was something he should have recalled before he’d opened his mouth, having sworn years ago to put old mistakes right. Mistakes that made marriage out of the question. And yet here he was...married.
He lingered in the dark, out of sight, when he should have walked away.
Her head bent towards the light of the candle, her gaze fixed on her needle, Julia might have been posing for a portrait. From this vantage point, he had a perfect view of her profile. A small straight nose, a high intelligent forehead, a seductively elegant neck rising from a gown of the finest pale blue silk. A gown that covered a body every curve and swell of which he knew intimately.
He would not think about that. An odd longing clutched at his heart. What would it be like, just for once, to bask in a woman’s affection?
Affection. His lip curled at the word. He had never known it and didn’t want it. Men who craved affection were weaklings, led around by the nose, or some other part of their anatomy. He only had to look at his father with Isobel to know better. After Alistair’s own mother’s death, his father had been a pawn to Isobel’s queen. Alistair had had a few happy years with his half-brother, but eventually, to please Isobel, his father sent Alistair away to school for being sullen and difficult with his new mama, while keeping Isobel’s precious son close to home.
At first, in hopes of being allowed to come home, he’d been the perfect student. As time went on, and he realised it wasn’t working, he’d instinctively taken the opposite tack, getting into every sort of scrape available to a wealthy young man away at university. Until finally, the bagwig had sent him down.
He’d been so glad to get home he’d even tried to be nice to his stepmama. It hadn’t done him a bit of good.
Within a month Alistair had found himself with a boring elderly scholar as bear leader and a ticket to France. His father had seen the Treaty of Amiens as the perfect opportunity to send Alistair on his Grand Tour.
Too bad the peace had ended less than six months later, leaving Alistair stranded in Italy and trying to avoid being arrested by Napoleon’s soldiers.
By the time he’d made it home, his father was dead and Alistair’s youthful missteps had caught up to him with a vengeance he would never have foreseen.
Now, to top it all off, like some soft-hearted fool, he’d married Julia. He should have given her the money she’d needed and sent her on her way instead of entering into a hollow shell of a marriage. Had he been any sort of honourable man, he would never have bid on her and bedded her in the first place.
He’d known at first glance she was not usual bordello fare. Known it deep in a part of him he’d thought long dead. A part that was a mere shadow of the decency and honour he’d once taken for granted. A part he’d been ignoring for years, while denying himself nothing except a family. The one thing he certainly neither deserved nor wanted.
Somehow that little corner of his brain, inexplicably overcome by the sight of her lovely body draped with blood-red rubies, had caused words to spill from his lips. Marry me. They rang in his ears even now.
Lunacy.
Devil take it. He couldn’t even use overindulgence as an excuse for replacing the carte blanche he’d first intended with an honourable offer. He’d been nowhere near cup shot.
The only reason he could attribute to that particular piece of madness was his desire to put his stepmother in her proper place for all time. To force her into the role of Dowager instead of allowing her to swan about as the reigning Duchess.
At least marriage had given him the satisfaction of imagining Isobel’s rage and fear at the thought that her darling son Luke would be supplanted as heir by a child of Alistair’s marriage.
Revenge, though, was not as sweet as he’d expected. Julia was too nice, too good, to have been dragged into a cold marriage of convenience. At least, she appeared so, up until now, but as Alistair knew to his cost women were not to be trusted. He’d learnt that the hard way.
In the meantime, it pleased him to torment his stepmother, despite that there would be no resulting children from his marriage. Not when he already had a son.
He let go a breath of impatience. He should not be lingering here.
Julia lifted her head from her work, glancing towards the door. ‘Your Grace?’
He ground his teeth at the sound of his title on her lips. She’d taken to using it since the day after their wedding ball when the ton had turned up to meet his new bride. No doubt every female of that august group had blistered Julia’s ears with stories of his depraved and dissolute past. That, compounded by his coldness towards her, must have brought home to her what a bad bargain she’d struck.
When he made no response, she looked down at the work on her lap with a shake of her head, clearly thinking she’d been mistaken.
This was his opportunity to beat the retreat and head off to his club.
What was he, then? A coward to be outfaced by a woman? His wife no less?
He strode into the room.
She looked up with a hesitant smile. Despite the shadows in her eyes, beauty shone in that smile. A welcome full of hope and promise. Her lips were lovely. Full and soft. Kissable. Sinful temptation, like the rest of her slender body with its graceful curves and its power to make him lose reason. Her skin was as soft as silk, he recalled, her limbs long and elegant, yet softly formed. He bit back a curse.
‘Good evening, Your Grace.’ A calm cool voice with a throaty, inviting quality that, like the rest of her, called to him on a visceral level. He could not hear her voice without recalling the passion of their night together. He half turned so she would not guess at the interest she aroused and propped an elbow on the back of the chair facing her across the hearth.
‘Good evening, my lady.’ He deliberately curled his lip, dropping his gaze to the scrap of cloth covered in coloured shapes and patterns in her lap. ‘What a picture of domesticity you are, my dear. It always astonishes me, the kind of things you ladies like to do with your hands.’ When they could be making so much better use of them.
Hades, could he not get his mind off fornication in her presence?
She must have heard the edge in his voice for she put the work aside. ‘I’m sorry. Does it annoy you?’ Cool civility edged each inflection. With each passing day, she became chillier, a little more reserved, exactly as he’d planned.
So why this irrational sense of disappointment? He’d always revelled in his bachelor life. His freedom to come and go as he pleased. Family obligations kept to a minimum. An unpleasant duty, to be avoided whenever possible. In his experience, when relations weren’t dunning one for money, they were stabbing one in the back. He ought to know, he’d done his share of knife work. His stepmother was still bleeding from the loss of her status.
Her gaze swept his person. ‘You are going out, I see. I wish you an enjoyable evening.’ She reached for her needlework.
His jaw clenched, even though she hadn’t asked a question. She’d quickly realised that he refused to be interrogated. About anything. Yet irrationally, he found her lack of interest cutting. ‘I am going to my club. I have arranged to meet friends.’ Why was he explaining when he had no reason to think she cared?
Her shoulders relaxed. A little.
She no doubt imagined him with an inamorata.
Blast. He’d forgotten to give Lavinia her congé. Yet another detail that seemed to have slipped his mind recently. He’d have Lewis, his secretary, take care of it first thing in the morning. Given that he hadn’t visited his mistress since before his wedding, she must already understand they were finished. He’d been bored by her weeks ago. Likely another reason he’d bid for Julia at the bordello.
‘I will let the staff know you will not be here for dinner,’ she said quietly.
Always quiet. Always controlled. It rubbed him the wrong way. Made him want to incite the passion he knew resided beneath the calm surface. But it was an urge he would never indulge again, given his promise. Distance was his watchword. Security hers. They were all he had to offer. All he wanted.
‘I informed Jackson.’ His valet.
A shadow passed across her face. Her lips tightened a fraction.
He ignored this faint show of annoyance. ‘What will you do while I am off having a jolly time?’
She glanced down at the needlework and back up to meet his gaze, her chin lifting a fraction. Defiance. She was a spirited woman, his wife. His body responded with a pulse of heat.
‘Perhaps I will select a book,’ she said. ‘There are several in the library I have not yet read.’
Hundreds more like. If he had wanted to be a good husband, he would be escorting her to balls and such. Introducing her to the people of his set. Yet he hadn’t been good since his teens. Wickedness for which he now paid the price.
The very thought of failing in his husbandly duty made him want to lash out. Not at her. But at something. Life, perhaps. The cruelty of the Fates. After all, it was not her fault they were married. The fault lay entirely with him. To mitigate the damage, the best he could do was keep her at a distance.
Because when he came close, when he inhaled her delicious scent of jasmine, touched the silk of her skin, basked in the warmth of her welcoming smile, she was far too tempting.
‘I bid you good evening.’ He bowed and left.
* * *
Julia frowned at the sprig of lilac she was embroidering on a handkerchief. Why had Dunstan married her if he held her in such contempt? If their one night together had not been so deliciously sensual, so different from her experiences with her first husband, she might never have agreed to his proposal.
Indeed, having suffered eight years of her husband’s brutality when he realised she was never going to give him the heir he so desperately wanted, she’d thought never to marry again. If not for her desperate straits, she would never have accepted Dunstan’s offer the way a drowning man clutched at a bit of flotsam.
He certainly had not avowed undying love or anything close. She’d perfectly understood theirs was a marriage of convenience, a kindness on his part, but surely there could be more to this marriage than chilly reserve?
Judging by his lovemaking that first night, he had found her as physically attractive as she did him. His skill in the bedroom had proved his reputation of legendary lover to be unassailably true. Not that she’d had much experience from which to judge, but she recalled every intimate detail of their one night together and it had been lovely.
She squirmed on the sofa cushions at the memory. A skitter of pleasure tightened her insides.
Since their wedding less than two weeks ago, she had done her best to be the kind of wife she assumed he wanted. A duchess, no less! Her stomach pitched as it always did at the terrifying thought. Apparently, however, he was not pleased with her efforts.
Her heart sank. To be embroiled in yet another unpleasant marriage loomed like a waiting nightmare. She shuddered at memories of her first husband’s vile temper each month or so, when he realised she was not about to produce a son. The constant criticisms. Her physical revulsion. The blows raining down on her when she made a mistake. She pushed the recollections aside.
The Duke was nowhere near that bad. But since their wedding day, most of his remarks had been biting to the point of rudeness. Could this marriage be heading in the same direction as her first? Something had to be done. She shot to her feet and hurried out into the hall to where Alistair was being helped into his coat by a footman.
‘Your Grace?’ Her voice echoed around the grand space of polished oak panelling and marble flooring. The ducal town house was more like a palace than a home. A cold place, full of stiff formality.
His shoulders tensed as he turned to face her. In this light, the slightly cruel cast of his thin lips gave his golden good looks an aura of decadence. A devil disguised as an angel.
Yet every time she saw him, his cold beauty made her heart skip a beat.
One blond eyebrow arched in question, his grey eyes silvery in the light of the huge chandelier above the staircase.
Her blood heated as the realisation struck her anew. This glorious apparition was her husband.
The footman retreated to his place beside the door.
Servants were everywhere and that was part of the reason she had such difficulty approaching him about anything. The lack of privacy drove her to distraction. She was terrified of making a fool of herself in front of his people. Likely they already scorned her for her ignorance with regard to running such a grand household. Thank the heavens they did not know exactly where he had found her or they might refuse to serve her at all.
‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, Your Grace?’ She barely managed the words, in the light of his obvious impatience.
‘If you must?’ As always his voice sounded icily polite. And bored.
‘In private?’ she whispered, with a quick glance at the footman.
With a huff of breath, he gestured for the man to take his redingote and followed her back into the drawing room. He closed the door.
She twisted her hands together, her courage deserting her in the face of his wintery gaze. A golden David as cold as the marble from which the statue had been carved.
His expression changed to one of concern as she hesitated. ‘What has happened?’
She took a quick breath. ‘If I have offended in some way, I wish you would tell me.’ Oh, she sounded so weak, so tentative, but her first husband had found her very existence offensive. Ultimately she’d been afraid to address him, unless he spoke first, but at least then, she had known why he found her lacking.
Alistair’s eyes widened for a second, then a bored expression fell over his face like a shield. ‘You mistake, madam. I am not in the least offended.’
She gritted her teeth at his indifference. ‘Can we not at least be friends?’
He recoiled. ‘You are my wife.’
One could not be friends with a wife? And why did he look so grim? She grasped the back of the nearest chair to stop herself from beating her fists on that wide impervious chest in frustration. How did one ask why a husband never came to one’s bed without looking like some sort of strumpet?
But was that not what she was? After all, he’d bid for her at a bordello while she’d stood on a pedestal practically naked. Her stomach roiled at the recollection. Clearly, there really was no way to keep one’s dignity after such a display. Likely every man he knew had also seen her that night, though as far as she was aware, none had recognised her, since she had taken the precaution of wearing a mask. And little else. She repressed a shudder of shame.
Still, he had known all this before they’d wed.
Anger trickled up from her belly. Her chest ached with a slow burn. ‘Why do you never come to my chamber?’ There, she had said it. Announced the desires that haunted her nights.
His expression shuttered, but not before she saw a flash of what she thought might be anger. ‘I am in no rush to saddle myself with a parcel of brats.’
Inwardly, she flinched. Should she tell him there was likely no hope of her ever having children, or did she continue to hide behind what little was left of her dignity? And an even smaller shred of hope.
And besides, what would it hurt to try? It wasn’t as if he could beget an heir with anyone else.
Perhaps he was now regretting his chivalry. Regretting it so much he disdained to have a child of hers inherit his title? Much as that thought hurt, it also rang true. The Duke was a proud man. Proud of his name and his title. She met his gaze and lifted her chin, unwilling to show how much the possibility hurt.
When she made no reply his mouth hardened to a cruel line. ‘Was there anything else you required of me?’
Crushed by his coldness, his deliberate scorn, she looked down and shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘Then if you will pardon me, I am late.’ He hesitated for a second, then turned and left.
Pardon him? If she could have picked him up, she would have thrown him out of a window to be rid of him. She also wanted to cry. Her knuckles whitened, her grip painfully tight on the chair back.
Finally, she let out a long breath. She needed to think with her head, instead of feeling with her heart. She wasn’t a fool. Something had sparked between them that first night. A very heated something. That was the reason she had dared marry him in the first place. The hope that the attraction they both felt could lead to more.
She was not going to give up that hope. Not without a fight. She’d had one dreadful marriage, she would not have another. She would not permit this man to destroy what was left of her spirit.
She wanted a proper husband and, should a miracle occur, a proper family. It wasn’t so much to ask.
Either they found a way to resolve what was coming between them, or... Well, she must, that was all. There had to be something she could do to rekindle the spark.
* * *
The next morning, Alistair stopped short in the doorway of the breakfast room. Never had he seen his wife up and about this early in the morning, nor had he seen her looking more delectable. Dressed in a riding habit of royal blue with black frogging closing the front, she perused the sideboard. The high ruffled shirt rising from the collar framed her beautiful face. A mischievous smile played about her lips and sparkled in her eyes as she glanced his way.
‘Good morning, Your Grace.’ She added a scoop of scrambled eggs to her plate.
Devil take it, he hated conversation before he’d had his first cup of tea. Why couldn’t she take a tray in her room like any other self-respecting noblewoman? Although come to think of it, none of the women he’d been around in the morning were at all self-respecting, or he would not have been there.
‘Good morning.’ At least that was what he intended to say. It came out sounding more like a grunt.
She took her place at the table adjacent to his normal seat. He marched across to the sideboard, loaded up his usual poached eggs and steak and set his plate down. He glanced at the newspaper which had been carefully ironed, folded and set beside his fork so he could glance at the headlines.
He gritted his teeth. Not today. One did not read at the table when one had female company. Even he remembered that from his youthful lessons in manners. His nursemaid, Digger, would be proud of him.
Maybe.
‘Tea?’ she asked.
He preferred to pour his own. ‘Thank you.’
She fixed two cups, added cream and sugar to one and passed it across. He took a sip. Perfect. Exactly how he liked it. How had she known? His temper improved leaps and bounds with each mouthful.
‘I see you plan on riding out?’ Hah! A whole sentence and perfectly polite.
‘I do. Your stable master, Mr Litton, introduced me to Bella earlier in the week and since it is such a fine morning, I thought to put her through her paces.’
He hadn’t known she liked to ride. He should have asked. ‘Hmmph.’
‘My riding out does not meet with your approval?’
Blast the woman, did she have to ask him questions? He took another sip of tea. For some stupid reason the morning seemed altogether brighter than it had when he arose from his bed.
‘I will ride with you. I always ride first thing in the morning.’ As she probably knew quite well. ‘There is no reason why we should ride out separately.’ No reason at all, except his confrères might think he had run mad. For years he’d mocked any man so smitten as to ride with ladies at so early an hour. Too dull by half. Yet he had a duty, did he not? To make sure she could handle Bella, as well as see to her safety? A mere groom would not take nearly enough care.
She raised a brow and looked at him speculatively over the rim of her teacup before taking a sip. She gave a little grimace of distaste.
‘Something wrong with the tea?’
‘Oolong is not a favourite with me.’
‘Tell the kitchen.’
‘I will.’ She put her cup down and glanced down at his untouched food. ‘I will be ready in say...half an hour.’ With him or without him being implied. On that note, she daintily consumed the remaining food on her plate and left the room.
After skimming the political headlines, checking on the arrival of a ship in which he had an interest while he demolished his breakfast, he headed out to the stables. Litton had both horses saddled and was saddling his own. Of Her Grace there was as yet no sign. He was a couple of minutes early and he hoped she would not keep him waiting too long.
He gave Bella’s tack a thorough inspection, before turning his attention to his own horse. Not that he expected his staff to do anything but an excellent job. ‘Her Grace will not be needing you today, Litton.’
The man’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Bella’s not been out under a lady’s saddle for months, Your Grace. She’ll need a close eye.’
A warning if ever Alistair heard one. It seemed Litton had decided to add his wife to the list of people he cared about. Up to now the list had only had one name on it. His own.
‘I’ll take care,’ Alistair said.
Litton’s glance flickered over Alistair’s shoulder, warning him that their topic of conversation had arrived.
Alistair turned to greet her. Her hat was a version of the one he wore, a black beaver, the crown not quite so tall, and adorned with a scrap of net and a peacock-feather cockade. Very stylish. Hopefully it wasn’t only for show and she rode just as well as she looked.
Julia had patted her mount’s neck, checked the girth and adjusted the stirrup with a confident hand before signalling her readiness to mount.
He bent, lacing his fingers together. She adjusted her habit, raising it a fraction, presenting him with a view of a beautifully cut riding boot and a smidgeon of pretty calf. His breath caught in his throat as he recalled the last time he’d had his hands on that calf. How silken her skin had been. How responsive her body to his touch. Once more his body hardened and he bit back a curse at the discomfort. She stepped into his palms and he boosted her into the saddle.
Bella, who up to that moment had been a perfect lady, shifted uneasily.
Alistair’s heart gave a thump. He reached for the bridle, then snatched his hand back as Julia expertly brought the animal under control. She patted Bella’s neck. ‘Easy, girl. You know me. We have had several conversations these past few days.’ The mare settled under her soothing hand and quiet words.
That. He wanted that, her hands on him, soothing, stroking, gentling and perhaps even—He cut the thought off.
Self-disgust at this rare lack of restraint rose in his throat. He forced it down where it belonged—with the shame of his past. He reached for Thor’s reins, while she continued to pat Bella’s neck.
He quelled his body’s unruly response with effort and forced his mind to the task at hand. It seemed his wife was an accomplished horsewoman. What else about her did he not know?
And why would he care?
He swung up on to his horse and they moved off. Outside in the square, Alistair brought Thor up alongside Bella. ‘We’ll go by way of Park Lane. It should be reasonably quiet at this time of the morning. Stay close.’
‘Lay on, MacDuff.’
He’d like to lay on her. The thought crept into his mind unbidden.
Damnation. More adolescent nonsense he could do without. More visions of temptation. He shifted in the saddle.
