‘Lewis will give you the details.’
Lewis, his amanuensis. Apparently it was his secretary’s job to inform her of His Grace’s wishes. She bit back a sharp retort. This morning had afforded a ray of hope for improvement in their relationship. It would be foolish to ruin it with words spoken in irritation. This fragile beginning needed careful nurturing. And time. ‘Very well, I will speak to Mr Lewis upon our return.’ She managed to say the words without gritting her teeth and felt proud of her forbearance.
As they turned their horses towards the gate, an unpleasant thought crept into her mind. Perhaps he had not intended that she would go with him and had been driven into a corner by Beauworth’s assumption.
A chill invaded her stomach. Had he planned to take someone else? A mistress, for example? ‘Was it your intention that I remain in town while you visited your estate in Hampshire?’
She regretted the words the moment she spoke them, but it was too late to call them back.
‘Did you want to remain in town?’
The tone of his voice said he didn’t care one way or the other. Dash it all. ‘A visit to the country would be pleasant at this time of year.’
He didn’t react.
They headed home, the silence between them becoming impenetrable. Every time she thought of something to say, she discarded it as being too bold, too weak sounding or just plain ridiculous. While the Duke had not shown himself to be the sort of man to strike his wife for impertinence, she did not want to make him angry.
Bah. Such cowardice. She did not know who she wanted to kick harder, herself or him.
They arrived back at the stables without having said one word.
* * *
Julia went in search of her husband’s secretary. As Duchess, she must have some duties to perform in regards to their removal from town. She also wished to know exactly where Sackfield Hall was located.
‘Ah, Grindle,’ she said, when the butler appeared in answer to her ring. ‘Where will I find Mr Lewis?’
‘In his lordship’s estate office, Your Grace.’
Another room in this monster of a town house she had never heard of. ‘And where will I find the office?’
‘Would you like me to take you there, Your Grace?’ He frowned. ‘His Grace is not at home at the moment.’
She knew that. He had set out on some errand or other; she’d seen him pass the drawing-room window. ‘Lead the way, please.’
Grindle bowed and set off.
Sometimes being a duchess had its advantages. People did not question your requests, never mind your orders, though she had noticed a faint wrinkle of concern in Grindle’s brow as he turned away. Apparently, His Grace not having left instructions to the contrary, he had decided there could not be any harm in showing her into the omnipotent presence of His Grace’s amanuensis.
Stop it, Julia. Sarcasm was unbecoming, even in the recesses of her own mind.
Mr Lewis was an important person in this household. It was to him Alistair referred when asked if he wished to attend this ball or that rout. And it was he who always sent Julia a note of regret, His Grace always, always having made some prior and far more important commitment.
It hadn’t taken Julia long to stop asking and to simply decline every invitation she received. Now she would meet Mr Lewis in person.
The estate office was located at the back of the house. The room was bright and inviting—cosy, despite the large desk on one side of the room facing a bank of French windows overlooking a small walled garden. The glazed double doors were open and a fresh breeze redolent with the scent of roses wafted in.
A young man rose from a smaller desk off to one side. His expression was that of astonishment.
‘Her Grace wished to see you, Mr Lewis.’ The butler swiftly withdrew.
The fair-haired, blue-eyed young man bowed. He was not a tall man, but he was handsome and as he straightened, he gave her a smile of such sweetness she warmed to him instantly.
‘Mr Lewis, I regret that His Grace has not had an opportunity to introduce us and I apologise for interrupting your work, but I understand you are to inform me about our move to the country in the next week or so.’ She decided attack was the best mode of defence.
Lewis came around from behind the desk. ‘I am?’ He gave a little cough. ‘I mean, yes, Your Grace, I am.’
Julia kept her face blank in light of the revelation that her husband had either neglected to inform his secretary in this regard, or had not intended that she be informed at all.
Her stomach dipped. She wandered over to the grand polished oak writing table where an ornate writing set of silver and cut glass occupied pride of place. A red leather-covered box with gold trim sat on one corner. The leather was beautifully tooled and engraved. Spanish, she thought. A work of art. A gift?
Julia dropped her gaze. She had no wish to pry, yet there was a little pang in her heart. The box was obviously something one would give to a woman. Surely Mr Lewis would not have looked quite so distraught if the gift had been one intended for her. There was no reason for Alistair to be giving her gifts. The bridal gift had been deposited on the night table beside her bed on the morning of her marriage, a set of sparkling diamonds, and her birthday was not until August.
‘What a lovely view,’ she said, turning towards the window.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Mr Lewis said. ‘This was the room His Grace’s mother used as a private parlour.’
And His Grace spent many hours here during the day, before he went out in the evening in search of entertainment. She had met him during one of those quests, had she not?
‘I had no idea the garden existed,’ she said pondering this hint of sentimentality in His Grace’s soul. Even if it was directed at his mother. Another lady whom he had never once mentioned.
‘His Grace says the light in here is the best in the house for doing paperwork,’ Mr Lewis continued.
Clearly looking for sentiment in her husband was wishful thinking.
‘About our move to the country,’ she said, metaphorically grasping the nettle. ‘Where is it exactly we are going?’ She smiled and sat on the sofa near the open French door. ‘Ring for tea, would you, and you can inform me of the plans.’
Mr Lewis’s shy smile returned in full force.
* * *
Walking into his office and finding his wife taking tea with his secretary ought to have added to the misery of Alistair’s day. In fact, the sight of her sitting on the sofa listening intently to Lewis lifted his spirits to the point of ridiculousness.
She looked up at his entry into the room with a smile so welcoming it plucked at a painful chord deep within him. An alien need to belong.
‘I’m glad to find you having such a rollicking good time with my Duchess, Lewis,’ he said and wanted to kick himself for the instant wariness on both their faces. He had no reason to feel jealous. None at all.
His wife, goddamn it, his wife, lifted her chin. ‘Mr Lewis was regaling me with stories of organising your processions around the countryside. Will you join us for tea? I took the liberty of ordering an extra cup should you return in time.’
She’d thought of him? When was the last time anyone at all had thought about him in his absence and so kindly as to hope for his arrival? Surprised, he took a seat beside her on the sofa.
She set a cup of tea in front of him, then offered him the plate of shortbread. As he lifted the delicacy to his mouth he inhaled a faint scent of orange. A taste confirmed he was not wrong.