Page 15 of Secrets of the Marriage Bed

Chapter Four

Julia watched her husband leave with a sense of frustration. And sadness. Whatever passion he had felt for her that night at the brothel had gone as if it never existed. That was a disappointment she did not want to examine too closely, because it hurt too much.

Her stomach rumbled. Oh, goodness, she really was hungry. Whatever had ailed her earlier was clearly over and done.

Robins strode in and gave a heavy sigh. ‘Your Grace, your hair! We must start again.’

Julia wanted to cut the whole lot off. She forced a pleasant smile. ‘No, Robins. You will find a way to repair the damage. After all, we are in the country and diningen famille.I am sure His Grace will not care if my hair is a little less formal.’ He might, however, care if she kept him waiting for his dinner.

Robins made an odd little noise.

Julia frowned. ‘Did you sniff at me, Robins?’

The woman started. ‘Naturally not, Your Grace,’ she said and her mouth softened and, yes, almost smiled. Perhaps there was a human being behind the façade of dresser after all.

‘Very well,’ Julia said. ‘Do your best to salvage what you can, but for heaven’s sake do not fuss for too long. I do not want to keep His Grace waiting.’ A man hungry for his dinner was likely to lose his temper. And that was not something she wanted to witness.

* * *

As instructed, Robins had swiftly made her look respectable and with half the usual number of pins, and she was on her way to dinner in less than half an hour.

A swarm of butterflies flapped around in her belly. Did butterflies swarm? Perhaps they flocked. Or buttered. Grinning at her foolishness, she entered the dining room set aside for their private use.

Alistair, rose. He arched a brow. ‘What has you smiling so mischievously?’

Oh, dear. What would he think of thoughts brought on by a bad case of nerves? ‘I was trying to recall what one would call a group of butterflies? A flock? A swarm?’

His eyes widened. She winced inwardly. Now he would think her perfectly stupid.

‘I would call it a flutter, I think,’ he said perfectly gravely and yet there was a twinkle in those intense grey eyes.

Her heart warmed to see it. ‘The best I could come up with was a butter. I like flutter much better.’ She laughed at how wonderfully foolish the words sounded coming out of her mouth.

‘A butter of flutterbys.’ He grinned. ‘I mean butterflies, though they certainly do flutter by, I suppose.’

They exploded with laughter.

The transformation was almost magical. In that moment, he seemed younger, almost boyish. And sweet. An odd little pang pulled at her heart.

‘May I offer you a sherry before dinner?’ he asked, the laughter still in his voice, giving it a warmth she had never heard before.

‘No, thank you.’

He sent her an enquiring glance. ‘You do not object if I pour one for myself?’

‘Not at all.’

After pouring himself a drink, he seated her on the sofa and sat at the other end, half turned towards her. He raised his glass in a toast. ‘To my lovely and exceedingly speedy wife.’

She inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. It seemed that her illness today had brought out the compassionate side of her husband.

‘Butterflies remind me of stained-glass windows,’ Alistair said musingly after sipping from his glass.

‘They do, don’t they?’

‘If I remember correctly, they are called a swarm.’

‘How dull for such...an explosion of colour. One only has to think of the peacock butterfly, or the red admiral, to see it does not fit.’