Page 17 of Secrets of the Marriage Bed
She froze, terrified that she had ruined the evening. ‘I beg your pardon. I did not mean to be rude.’ Or shrewish.
He frowned.
She held her breath. Would he send her from the room in disgrace as her husband had done on more than one occasion? She clenched her hands on her lap. Or would he find more subtle means of punishment?
He gestured to the table. ‘I hope you do not mind the informality. There are only the two of us dining and we can be more comfortable serving ourselves.’
Confused by the sudden change of subject, she nodded her assent.
* * *
Alistair couldn’t remember when he had enjoyed a dinner more. He’d thought he’d become immune to the need for companionship. Then Julia had come along and was giving life to feelings he’d frozen out of existence.
A tide of longing rushed along his veins and stole his breath. Longings that belonged to a time when he’d been young and naive. Before he’d understood how badly a man could be led astray by his primitive urges. Before he learned first-hand how easily women pretended they cared for a man to suit their own ends. Never again would he be taken in. Especially not by the woman who was now his wife.
Bleakness filled him. The idyllic boy he’d once been didn’t want to be always alone.
Alone was better than giving in to a weakness that could be used against him. He’d had enough of being used to last a lifetime.
Civility, common courtesy between them, had to be enough to see them 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.’
