Page 45 of Secrets of the Marriage Bed
Alistair had the sudden urge to get home to his wife. To feel her softness in his arms, to bury himself to the hilt, to feel the wonder of her as she came apart. He could have had that, had he remained in her bed. Instead, he’d galloped off on the flimsiest excuse. His steward could have handled this without any help.
It was this very desire he felt to be with her that had him traipsing around his estate at this ungodly hour. He wanted her too much.
He kept thinking about how ill she had been on their journey. First queasy. Then violently ill. And then...perfectly fine. Hungry.
As if she was... But she could not be. They’d taken every precaution.
Doubt roiled in his belly. She could have been carrying another man’s child before he found her in that accursed bordello. Had that been her plan all along? To find some rich fellow to take responsibility for an unwanted brat.
The idea revolted him. And infuriated him. And surprisingly he was saddened by the thought. He did not want to think ill of his wife. He wanted... More.
He cut the thought off. ‘Where next?’
His steward gave him a considering look. ‘How about we take a look at this year’s crop of lambs? That should take us ’till dinner time. We can stop off at the Wheatsheaf after that if Your Grace wishes.’
Hearing something in his tone, Alistair eyed him askance and saw a knowing curl to the man’s mouth. Had the man heard gossip and thought to help him avoid his duchess? He’d certainly been avoiding her in town and news of that sort travelled fast.
Thackerstone had been in the family’s employ for many years. No doubt he thought it gave him the right to be impertinent. Or helpful.
‘No urgency about seeing the lambs, is there?’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘Jaimie said it would rain this afternoon. Let us leave them for another day.’
‘No urgency, Your Grace.’
‘Then I’m for home.’ And a cup of tea with his wife. And perhaps to assure himself these new suspicions were groundless.
* * *
Julia had set out on a walk with the intention of visiting the orchard and discovered it was at a greater distance on foot than she’d assumed. After half an hour, she’d felt unusually tired and had been caught in a shower on her way back. Not a successful outing at all.
Robins appeared the moment she entered the sitting room beside her bedroom.
‘You are soaked through, Your Grace.’ The woman tutted. ‘Shall I send for a tea tray?’ She relieved Julia of her hat and spencer.
‘What I would really like is a bath,’ Julia said. ‘After the ride yesterday and the chill of the walk this afternoon, I think a soak would do me good.’
Robins pressed her lips together as if she guessed the real reason Julia felt sore. Heat flushed her skin as the woman helped her into her dressing robe. ‘As Your Grace wishes. Shall I bring tea as well?’
Thank goodness she wasn’t offering chocolate. And as always she seemed to be trying to please. ‘Tea would be lovely. Not Oolong though, please.’ She smiled at the woman and received a stiff little grimace in reply.
‘Right away, Your Grace.’
Julia sank on to thechaiseand picked up a book to read while she waited. A few moments later she heard voices in her dressing room, Robins relaying her orders.
Soon the chamber next door was bustling with servants bringing the bath and traipsing the water in. It was such a chore. She wondered if Alistair had ever thought about installing a system of piped-in hot water. It would make it so much easier for the servants. But when one was as rich as a nabob, perhaps he didn’t need to care about his servants’ travails.
‘Would you like your tray in here, Your Grace, or would you care to sip it while you soak?’
Tea in the bath. The idea sounded heavenly. While she had enjoyed every moment of Alistair’s attentions, her body was aching from the unaccustomed activity. ‘While I soak, thank you.’
‘Your bath is ready, then, Your Grace.’
Divested of the rest of her clothes, Julia stepped into the tub perfumed with oil of her favourite jasmine and took the cup and saucer from Mrs Robins. ‘Thank you, Robins. You have been very thoughtful.’
‘My very great pleasure, Your Grace.’
The woman actually sounded as if she meant it. Perhaps she was mellowing. Perhaps she had realised Alistair did not like her and was trying to recover some ground. Whatever it was, it was a whole lot better than her previous officiousness.
Julia sipped at the tea. A little too strong, a great deal too sweet. She sniffed at it—not Oolong, but something familiar. She felt too tired to care.
