Secrets Of The Marriage Bed. Ann Lethbridge

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СКАЧАТЬ surely there could be more to this marriage than chilly reserve?

      Judging by his lovemaking that first night, he had found her as physically attractive as she did him. His skill in the bedroom had proved his reputation of legendary lover to be unassailably true. Not that she’d had much experience from which to judge, but she recalled every intimate detail of their one night together and it had been lovely.

      She squirmed on the sofa cushions at the memory. A skitter of pleasure tightened her insides.

      Since their wedding less than two weeks ago, she had done her best to be the kind of wife she assumed he wanted. A duchess, no less! Her stomach pitched as it always did at the terrifying thought. Apparently, however, he was not pleased with her efforts.

      Her heart sank. To be embroiled in yet another unpleasant marriage loomed like a waiting nightmare. She shuddered at memories of her first husband’s vile temper each month or so, when he realised she was not about to produce a son. The constant criticisms. Her physical revulsion. The blows raining down on her when she made a mistake. She pushed the recollections aside.

      The Duke was nowhere near that bad. But since their wedding day, most of his remarks had been biting to the point of rudeness. Could this marriage be heading in the same direction as her first? Something had to be done. She shot to her feet and hurried out into the hall to where Alistair was being helped into his coat by a footman.

      ‘Your Grace?’ Her voice echoed around the grand space of polished oak panelling and marble flooring. The ducal town house was more like a palace than a home. A cold place, full of stiff formality.

      His shoulders tensed as he turned to face her. In this light, the slightly cruel cast of his thin lips gave his golden good looks an aura of decadence. A devil disguised as an angel.

      Yet every time she saw him, his cold beauty made her heart skip a beat.

      One blond eyebrow arched in question, his grey eyes silvery in the light of the huge chandelier above the staircase.

      Her blood heated as the realisation struck her anew. This glorious apparition was her husband.

      The footman retreated to his place beside the door.

      Servants were everywhere and that was part of the reason she had such difficulty approaching him about anything. The lack of privacy drove her to distraction. She was terrified of making a fool of herself in front of his people. Likely they already scorned her for her ignorance with regard to running such a grand household. Thank the heavens they did not know exactly where he had found her or they might refuse to serve her at all.

      ‘I wonder if I might have a word with you, Your Grace?’ She barely managed the words, in the light of his obvious impatience.

      ‘If you must?’ As always his voice sounded icily polite. And bored.

      ‘In private?’ she whispered, with a quick glance at the footman.

      With a huff of breath, he gestured for the man to take his redingote and followed her back into the drawing room. He closed the door.

      She twisted her hands together, her courage deserting her in the face of his wintery gaze. A golden David as cold as the marble from which the statue had been carved.

      His expression changed to one of concern as she hesitated. ‘What has happened?’

      She took a quick breath. ‘If I have offended in some way, I wish you would tell me.’ Oh, she sounded so weak, so tentative, but her first husband had found her very existence offensive. Ultimately she’d been afraid to address him, unless he spoke first, but at least then, she had known why he found her lacking.

      Alistair’s eyes widened for a second, then a bored expression fell over his face like a shield. ‘You mistake, madam. I am not in the least offended.’

      She gritted her teeth at his indifference. ‘Can we not at least be friends?’

      He recoiled. ‘You are my wife.’

      One could not be friends with a wife? And why did he look so grim? She grasped the back of the nearest chair to stop herself from beating her fists on that wide impervious chest in frustration. How did one ask why a husband never came to one’s bed without looking like some sort of strumpet?

      But was that not what she was? After all, he’d bid for her at a bordello while she’d stood on a pedestal practically naked. Her stomach roiled at the recollection. Clearly, there really was no way to keep one’s dignity after such a display. Likely every man he knew had also seen her that night, though as far as she was aware, none had recognised her, since she had taken the precaution of wearing a mask. And little else. She repressed a shudder of shame.

      Still, he had known all this before they’d wed.

      Anger trickled up from her belly. Her chest ached with a slow burn. ‘Why do you never come to my chamber?’ There, she had said it. Announced the desires that haunted her nights.

      His expression shuttered, but not before she saw a flash of what she thought might be anger. ‘I am in no rush to saddle myself with a parcel of brats.’

      Inwardly, she flinched. Should she tell him there was likely no hope of her ever having children, or did she continue to hide behind what little was left of her dignity? And an even smaller shred of hope.

      And besides, what would it hurt to try? It wasn’t as if he could beget an heir with anyone else.

      Perhaps he was now regretting his chivalry. Regretting it so much he disdained to have a child of hers inherit his title? Much as that thought hurt, it also rang true. The Duke was a proud man. Proud of his name and his title. She met his gaze and lifted her chin, unwilling to show how much the possibility hurt.

      When she made no reply his mouth hardened to a cruel line. ‘Was there anything else you required of me?’

      Crushed by his coldness, his deliberate scorn, she looked down and shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Then if you will pardon me, I am late.’ He hesitated for a second, then turned and left.

      Pardon him? If she could have picked him up, she would have thrown him out of a window to be rid of him. She also wanted to cry. Her knuckles whitened, her grip painfully tight on the chair back.

      Finally, she let out a long breath. She needed to think with her head, instead of feeling with her heart. She wasn’t a fool. Something had sparked between them that first night. A very heated something. That was the reason she had dared marry him in the first place. The hope that the attraction they both felt could lead to more.

      She was not going to give up that hope. Not without a fight. She’d had one dreadful marriage, she would not have another. She would not permit this man to destroy what was left of her spirit.

      She wanted a proper husband and, should a miracle occur, a proper family. It wasn’t so much to ask.

      Either they found a way to resolve what was coming between them, or... Well, she must, that was all. There had to be something she could do to rekindle the spark.

      * * *

      The next morning, Alistair stopped short in the doorway of the breakfast room. Never had he seen his wife up and about this early in the morning, СКАЧАТЬ