Page 23 of Secrets of the Marriage Bed
A glance out of the window revealed a beautiful house of yellow sandstone. Not a huge house, but still one of impressive proportions. The house of a gentleman of means, with neatly trimmed ivy climbing the walls and a columned portico where... She swung around to face Alistair, the movement too rapid. Her vision blurred for a second.
‘The servants—’
‘Expect to meet my duchess,’ he said calmly.
She put a hand to her hair, glanced down at her creased gown and the limp shawl. She wanted to disappear under the seat. ‘I couldn’t possibly.’
If anything his expression became more remote.
He was going to insist. She dived for her bonnet.
‘Leave it.’ His tone brooked no argument.
How could he expect her to meet those people looking as if she had been pulled through a hedge backwards? Of course the servants would be waiting to greet their new mistress. They had gone through all that at the town house and it was perfectly normal, and if she had been feeling more herself she might have thought of it. ‘But—’
‘You can meet them later.’
But they were all standing there... In a line.
The carriage halted at the front door. A footman hurried forward to open the door and let down the steps.
‘Wait here,’ Alistair said and jumped down.
She hunched forward, not feeling ill so much as feeling hopelessly inadequate. It seemed no matter how she tried, she was destined to be useless as a wife.
A moment later her husband returned.
She forced herself to her feet, but before she could step down, he gathered her in his arms. Once out of the carriage she could see all the servants were gone. She braced herself for him to set her on her feet. Instead, he carried her a few short steps across the drive, up the steps and into the house.
Across the threshold, like a bride. Something he had not done on their wedding day. He continued up a beautiful marble staircase that seemed to float in the great hall and up another flight and into a chamber all cream and gold and beautiful. It was a sitting room, she realised.
He set her down on achaise longueand ran a hand through his hair as he looked about him. He strode across the room and rang the bell. He frowned. ‘Would you like tea? Something else?’
‘Tea would be wonderful.’ She was never drinking chocolate ever again. She shuddered.
A knock came at the door. He went to it, opening it only a fraction, and she heard the murmur of voices before he closed it again. ‘Tea will arrive shortly.’ He put her bonnet and pelisse on the chair. ‘I have told them to send Robins to you the moment she arrives.’
‘Thank you. You don’t need to stay. I am sure you have other things...’
His gaze narrowed a fraction and he bowed. ‘Try to rest. Take some sustenance from the tray and if you are well enough I will see you at dinner.’
More orders. Sensible ones given the way the room seemed to pitch and yaw around her. He’d been very patient. And kind. She inclined her head. ‘Your Grace?’
Already at the door, he stopped and turned back with a look of enquiry on his face.
‘Thank you.’
He bowed elegantly and walked out, obviously displeased.
She sighed. And she had hoped this visit to the country might be a new start.
* * *
The next morning, Alistair sat in his study, staring at his empty desk. All his paperwork was in the third carriage, a lumbering affair carrying the last of their trunks which had not yet arrived. Burying himself in the work had always served to take his mind off problems of a personal nature. A suitable distraction. But never had he felt quite so anxious as he did now. About his wife.
Well, she was his duty, too.
Cook had reported that the Duchess had eaten nothing of the meal taken up to her on a tray last night, while he had dined in solitary splendour in the dining room. She’d drunk only peppermint tea for breakfast, sending everything else back untouched.
