Secrets Of The Marriage Bed. Ann Lethbridge

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