thought, your surprise, your puzzlement.’
Glad she had her back to him so he could not read her most recent thoughts, she fought for composure as he moved to the adjacent seat. ‘I am glad you find me entertaining.’ And...there it was, sarcasm, her defence against hurt.
He moved around to his chair. ‘You have a saucy mouth.’
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.’
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes warm. ‘Very amenable, Your Grace.’
His blood heated at the implied promise.
Right at this moment, he realised, he was at a crossroads. He could give in to his desires and abandon the last shred of his honour by making her his wife in truth, or they could limp along in friendship, avoiding all temptation.
The choice was simple. Much as he wanted her, his duty, to the dukedom and to his heir, must come first. Otherwise he really was nothing more than a slave to lust.
He escorted her into the sitting room and, having accepted a glass of port from the butler, settled beside her on the sofa, one arm along the back to rest behind her head, his legs stretched out before him. ‘That will be all, thank you, Grindle.’
The butler bowed and left.
Watching the graceful movements of his wife’s hands in the ritual of pouring tea was as sensual as feeling them glide over his skin. An erotic sensation he remembered only too well.
Lush full lips pursed slightly as she tasted the concoction. He recalled how those lips had felt against his own. Soft. Full. Warm. The knowledge that he must not taste them again was pure sensual torture.
Deservedly so.
He sipped at his port, letting the tawny liquid slide over his tongue and down his throat, wrestling his unruly body under control, fighting to put his own needs aside and serve merely as a friend. Even so, he could not prevent a surge of heat at the way her hand shook as she placed her cup in the saucer.
She, too, sensed the tension in the air, the awareness, heavy, like perfume. She sipped at her tea and after a moment or two straightened her shoulders, as if coming to a decision. ‘If we are to set off early again, I should likely retire very soon,’ she said softly.
The breathiness along with the slightest break in her throaty voice would have been all the encouragement he needed, if she was not his wife.
‘I agree,’ he said coolly. ‘After your illness you need your rest.’
A quick glance from beneath lowered lashes was the only signal she gave that she had heard the chill in his voice.
He helped her to her feet and they strolled arm in arm up the stairs. At the door to her chamber, he turned her to face him, cradled her face in his fingertips and bent his head to brush his lips lightly against hers. The feel of her lips so pliant, so welcoming, almost overcame reason.
He reached around her and opened her chamber door. ‘Goodnight, Your Grace.’
The expression of puzzlement on her face, the hurt in her eyes, made him wince. As did her words. ‘Would you care
