Page 24 of Secrets of the Marriage Bed
Why had she again not told him she felt ill in the carriage? He’d been so occupied talking about the place he held close to his heart, he’d failed to notice her growing pallor. The damned bonnet hadn’t helped. It had hidden her face while she slept. And the look of terror on her face when she awoke had taken him aback.
Had she thought he might be angry at her illness? For a moment she’d actually cringed. Anger gripped his gut tight. Her previous husband had a great deal to answer for. Too bad the man was already dead.
He closed his eyes against the memory of how fragile and vulnerable she’d looked leaning against his shoulder for those last few miles. He’d failed her, badly. He struck the table with the side of his clenched fist.
Shocked at the pain, he shook his hand out and stared at it. What the hell was the matter with him? He’d done everything in his power not to care about this woman who was his wife, but it seemed the more he knew her the more he wished things were different.
Enough! Things were as they were. He would not be weakened by this strange protective need. Or the foolish desire to make her happy.
Even Lewis had thought he was being ridiculous for sending him back to London. That he had actually allowed himself to succumb to such nonsense was the source of his anger. Nothing else. He’d let down his guard. He could not afford weakness where a woman was concerned. It stopped now. Today.
Still seething, he got up and strode to the window, looking out on the formal gardens at the back of the house. Everything was as it should be. Hedges trimmed. Roses blooming. Walkways swept. Edges neat. Usually the sight from this window brought him peace. All his memories of this place were good ones.
This house, filled with his earliest memories before Isobel had come into his father’s life, normally felt like home. Not today. The ruination he had made of his life, the mistakes he had made, hung over him like a pall. He inhaled a deep breath. Duty. It was now his watchword if he was to make amends.
He turned at a scratch on the door. ‘Lunch is served in the breakfast room, Your Grace.’
‘And Her Grace?’
‘Robins reports that she will not come down, Your Grace.’
An urge to see her for himself had him moving towards the door. He halted. ‘Did a tray go up to my wife?’ My wife. Not the Duchess. Not Her Grace, butmy wife. He had to stop this sense of possession. She was not his in any way that mattered. And she never could be.
‘At any moment, Your Grace. Tea is all she requested.’
‘I will join her.’
If Grindle was surprised, he didn’t show it. ‘I will make sure the kitchen knows, Your Grace.’
‘Make the tea peppermint. And send sandwiches. For me. Chicken broth for Her Grace.’
Grindle’s eyebrow twitched, but he managed to maintain his bland expression before he bowed. ‘I will let Cook know.’
Alistair blinked. What the devil had happened to his resolution to maintain a sensible distance from his duchess? Nonsense. He was only doing his husbandly duty.
The thought echoed back to a time when he’d thought he was worthy of a dukedom and a wife and family. A time he did not care to think about.
