Secrets Of The Marriage Bed. Ann Lethbridge
Читать онлайн книгу.
clearly unhappily aware of her dismissal. ‘I will ask Grindle to collect the tray, if you have finished?’
Alistair, having risen with her, glanced down at the biscuit in his hand. He hadn’t even realised he had taken another. ‘I have. My compliments to the chef. The shortbread is delicious.’
‘I will let him know.’ A small smile curved her luscious lips and he wondered if the orange had been her idea. The idea that his compliment had pleased her gave him a feeling of warmth in the pit of his stomach.
When nothing about her should warm any part of him.
He sat down at the desk, finished off the letter of dismissal and handed it to Lewis. ‘Send it round with a footman, would you, please. Lavinia will be well satisfied.’ He’d been more than ready to let Lavinia go for some time. Even if he had not, he would have done so. While he did not tolerate jealousy in a mistress, his wife deserved what little respect he could give her. He certainly wasn’t going to flaunt other women in her face.
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Now, let us take a look at the documents from the solicitor.’ He wanted to be sure they had followed his instructions to the letter. There must be not the slightest opening for Luke or his mother to contest the new provisions he had made for his wife and there had been too many accidents in his life to leave her welfare to chance.
Alistair’s staff needed no guidance from Julia. All questions were directed to Mr Lewis on the Duke’s orders. Julia hadn’t packed so much as a handkerchief. She unclenched her hands. There was no sense in complaining. If she wanted to make herself indispensable to her husband, she would have to work a great deal harder to find her niche in his well-ordered life.
‘The carriage is at the door, Your Grace,’ her dresser, Robins, announced.
In truth, she reminded Julia of a robin. Her movements were quick and deft and her nose, while small, came to a sharp point. She was exceedingly officious and exacting when it came to Julia’s wardrobe. She clearly felt her skills as dresser to a duchess were very much on display and she had a reputation to uphold.
Julia sat down at her dressing table so the poor woman did not have to stand on tiptoe to perch her hat on the elaborate coiffure that had taken what felt like hours to accomplish. Why a duchess could not manage the simplest of tasks for herself, Julia wasn’t sure, but any rebellion in this regard, like putting on one’s dressing gown without aid, or the removal of a shawl, sent Robins into a twitter.
The dresser tied the cherry-coloured ribbon under Julia’s left ear, tweaked at the curls framing her face and stepped back. Julia rose and held out her hands to be encased in York tan gloves.
Robins ran a critical gaze from her head to her heels.
‘Will I do?’ Julia could not help asking.
‘Your Grace does me great credit.’ Robins’s smile seemed oddly forced, her eyes remaining dull.
Julia repressed the urge to question this extravagant expression of approbation from the toplofty dresser when her expression belied her words. ‘Thank you.’
‘You are welcome, Your Grace.’ The woman frowned mightily and Julia quailed. ‘I notice that you ate little from your breakfast tray.’
Julia glanced at the remains of her breakfast on the night stand, the toast and preserves. The pot of chocolate. ‘I am not hungry.’
The woman twisted her fingers, a sign of obvious distress. ‘You will need something to sustain you on the journey, Your Grace.’
The kitchen had made the chocolate a little sweeter than she liked. Almost sickly. Or perhaps the niggardliness exhibited by her previous husband when it came to sugar—well, everything really—had ruined her taste for sweet things. She didn’t want to make a fuss and cause a stir in the kitchen. Not for so small a thing. French chefs were renowned for their temperamental ways.
‘I will likely travel better if I do not eat too much.’
‘A piece of toast, Your Grace, and a sip of chocolate. We don’t want you fainting along the way.’
Heaven forefend.
To please the woman, who while autocratic was clearly trying to be helpful, Julia nibbled on a point of toast with orange marmalade. A sip of chocolate had her repressing a shudder. A knock came at the door, giving her an excuse to set the cup aside while Robins bustled to the door.
It was a footman coming for the last of Julia’s bandboxes. ‘Be careful, Samuel,’ Robins scolded as he hefted a hatbox under his arm. ‘Those are easily crushed.’ She turned back to Julia. ‘Your Grace, please be so good as to await my arrival at the inn before you attempt to remove your outer raiment. The hat, if removed improperly, is likely to disturb what I must say is the perfect arrangement of your hair.’
Julia sighed inwardly. Robins despaired of her long straight hair and insisted that no proper duchess could set foot out of her room without the appropriate length of time spent with curling papers and pomade. Apparently a duchess required more curls than any lesser mortal.
As the sister of an impoverished earl, for Julia, curling and primping had been abandoned in favour of marriage to a very old, very rich and very unpleasant man.
Naturally, a duchess could tell her dresser to desist fussing and ignore the resultant sulks. But that would be unkind, when the woman was trying so hard on her behalf. Instead, Julia suffered silently. ‘Thank you. I will keep your warning in mind.’ The last thing she wanted was another hour in front in the mirror.
Being perfectly turned out might seem less of a task if one’s Duke took an interest in one’s appearance instead of seeming to wish her to Jericho. Despite her best efforts, she had never again managed to ambush him at the breakfast table and thereby force him to escort her on his morning ride. A new plan of attack was required. Hopefully, such strategies as ambuscade and flanking would work better in the country. Surely there, they would be required to ride out to visit neighbours and tenants.
Indeed, they already had one invitation from Lord Beauworth. The thought cheered her. As did the prospect of riding in the carriage with Alistair for the next few hours. The opportunities for a wife to connect with her husband in such close quarters were endless.
In a far more cheerful frame of mind, she walked out of the town house. Only to have her hopes dashed.
The travelling carriage, pure luxury on wheels in shiny black and silver, certainly awaited, but clearly her husband intended to avoid her company yet again. A groom was holding Thor saddled and ready for Alistair to mount.
Said Duke was inspecting the second coach loaded with their luggage and giving last-minute directions to Mr Lewis. Once again she was startled to note how tall her husband looked beside other men. How commandingly powerful and masculine. Her insides fluttered pleasurably, while sadness crept into her throat and formed a hard lump. What a waste. The lovely man who could have been cosily ensconced with her in the privacy of a well-sprung carriage preferred to exhaust himself hacking across a good chunk of England.
If that wasn’t a travesty, she didn’t know of one. Only if she could discover why he had taken her in dislike could she find a solution.
As she approached the elegant equipage in which she was to ride, a footman sprang forward to open the door and let down the steps.
‘Thank you.’
His Grace turned at the sound of her voice. ‘Finally,’ he said, in the tone of the aggravated male of the species.
A clock within the house struck ten.
She raised a brow. ‘You did say ten o’clock.’
‘Hmmph.’
‘Apology accepted.’ She climbed into the carriage and, once her skirts were settled,