Secrets Of The Marriage Bed. Ann Lethbridge
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scratch at the door had her swinging around. A maid of about fifteen, with rosy cheeks and wheat-blonde hair, entered with a tray.
Robins frowned. ‘I did not order a tray.’
Julia swallowed another surge of nausea. ‘His Grace did. Peppermint tea.’ She managed a weak smile. ‘Please put it on the night stand, if you would.’
The girl bobbed a curtsy. ‘Will there be anything else, Your Grace?’ she said carefully, her country accent soft.
‘I will let you know if Her Grace requires ought else,’ Robins pronounced, glaring so hard that the young woman turned tail and fled.
Did Robins fear to be thought lacking, because someone else had seen to her welfare? Servants could be jealous, though they usually kept it amongst themselves. It was best to ignore it. She rose from the dressing table. ‘I think I will lie down for a while.’ And sip at the tea. It might help settle her digestion.
Robins rushed to plump the pillows. ‘Your Grace, please, be careful. Your hair—’
‘Stop!’ Julia closed her eyes at her sudden loss of patience. ‘I beg your pardon, Robins, but I really do feel unwell. Please, pull the curtains against the light and I will close my eyes for an hour or so.’
Robins did as asked, stiffly inclined her head and left.
The woman was becoming insufferably possessive. Yet suffer Julia must, for when she had hinted to Mr Lewis that she might like someone a little less toplofty, he had been most concerned she had found his judgement at fault.
And besides, Alistair had made it clear he did not want her changing anything in his household. Or hanging on his sleeve. She could always try to assert herself, as she had at the beginning of her first marriage. The pain and humiliation of having her husband take a birch switch to her palms to remind her to keep her hands out of his affairs had been a bitter lesson.
She did not think Alistair would beat her, he was too much the gentleman, but his coldness was in some ways worse. She never knew quite where she stood with him. Did she offend, or merely bore him? Doubtless it was the general regret of marrying a woman so far beneath him.
Her blood ran cold. Did he, too, fear someone might recognise her from the night of the auction?
She crawled up on to the bed and leaned back against the cushions Robins had arranged so that her hair would not touch either the pillows or the headboard. She poured herself a cup of tea and inhaled the soothing fragrance of mint. A sip told her it had been perfectly prepared.
Slowly her head seemed less inclined to spin. Her eyelids felt weighted. Sleep beckoned.
* * *
Something deliciously cool pressed against her forehead. ‘Julia.’ A male voice. ‘Julia, wake up.’ A demand.
She forced her eyelids open. A face wavered in and out of focus. ‘Alistair?’
He muttered something under his breath that sounded a little like a prayer. Or not. He looked irritated rather than prayerful. She glanced around. Why was it so dark? And where—? Oh, yes, the inn. Robins had closed the curtains.
She stretched. For long seconds her husband gazed at her chest, his hard thin mouth softening sensually. There was no mistaking his interest in that unguarded moment. Was this then the way through his armour?
His gaze rose to her face, full of concern. She offered a smile of apology. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’
‘So it seems,’ he said. His voice sounded rougher than usual. ‘How do you feel?’
She pushed herself upright. Everything stayed where it should. She felt refreshed and her headache was gone. ‘Much better, I must say. The tea helped enormously.’
‘I’m glad.’ For once he sounded relieved, rather than bored.
‘I do beg your pardon. It was not my intention to sleep so long. I wonder that Robins did not wake me.’
‘You aren’t late. Yet.’ He grimaced. ‘I told Robins to let you sleep a while longer, but when I didn’t hear any movement, I thought I should look in on you.’
An unlooked-for courtesy. One that made her heart stutter.
He rose from his seat on the edge of the bed. He had exchanged his riding coat and boots for evening dress, whereas she still wore her carriage gown.
‘I must change.’ She began undoing the buttons. He watched her hands with a peculiar intensity. Her face warmed. ‘Will you ring the bell for Robins, please?’ Oh, now why had that popped out of her mouth? Wasn’t being alone with him exactly what she had wanted?
She pinned what she hoped was a seductive smile on her lips. ‘That is unless you don’t mind doing the honours?’
Surprise warred with another expression she could not read.
She held her breath. What would he choose?
‘I will ring for your dresser.’ He strode to the bell.
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