LITMIR.BIZ

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grinned and pulled ahead, the long-legged gelding stretching into a gallop, only to slow a few moments later.

      She came up beside him. ‘Thank you.’

      He raised a brow in question.

      ‘For not pretending and letting me win. It wouldn’t have been fair to Thor.’

      Indeed, Thor was pawing and prancing, so very proud of himself. Alistair grinned at her. ‘I haven’t raced like that since—’ he shook his head ‘—I can’t remember when.’

      ‘Nor me.’

      He glanced around them. ‘We should—’ A frown crashed down. ‘Damn.’

      She followed the direction of his gaze to where two gentlemen were riding swiftly towards them.

      ‘Someone you know?’ she asked, holding Bella steady.

      ‘Perhaps.’

      A calm, coldly spoken word. The wall was back up. Likely he was annoyed that people had witnessed their display of high spirits. Not that they had done anything too outrageous. Or perhaps it was the thought of introducing his wife to his friends.

      Chilly fingers crawled down her spine. Might they have been at the brothel when she had shamelessly allowed herself to be auctioned?

      She lifted her chin and pinned a teasing smile to her lips. ‘Shall we gallop vente à terre in the other direction?’

      Once more a corner of his mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. ‘Now that really would be rude.’

      Hope bubbled in her veins. Was the distance between them closing, this barrier meant for others and not for her? ‘Do we care? Being of the ducal sort?’

      His eyes flashed amusement. ‘Behave, madam.’

      Thrills chased through her stomach. He’d used that deep seductive growl the night they’d made love. Her insides softened, liquefied. Longing filled her. For him. For his touch. For the way he had made her feel. ‘I will behave if you will,’ she quipped. He had intended to arouse, she was sure of it. The man did nothing without purpose.

      Yet as the men drew close, his expression cooled.

      ‘Duke,’ spoke a handsome fellow on a big grey who looked familiar.

      ‘Beauworth,’ her husband replied, helping Julia to make the connection. ‘You know my wife.’

      Beauworth bowed, which was difficult to do with any elegance when astride a horse, although he made it look easy. ‘Good day, Your Grace.’

      Julia inclined her head and smiled. ‘How do you do. We met at our ball.’

      ‘Kind of you to remember,’ the Marquess said.

      Alistair had been icily cold that evening. She’d been terrified of doing something to put him to shame and had memorised the name of each person she’d met.

      The younger man, clearly leaning towards dandyism with fair hair and plump apple cheeks, doffed his high-crowned hat. This was a man she had not met before, she was sure, yet he regarded her with a puzzled frown.

      ‘My cousin, Your Grace,’ the Duke said, his voice full of ennui. ‘Percy Hepple. He was not at our ball.’

      None of his family had been at their ball.

      The plump fellow, his shirt collar impossibly high and his coat straining at the seams, bent awkwardly in the middle. ‘Good day, Coz.’ He frowned. ‘Though may I say you look vaguely familiar? Must have seen you at somewhere around town.’

      Julia’s blood turned to ice. Her only other public appearance had been on stage at Mrs B.’s auction. Fortunately, the fellow seemed to lose interest in her and almost at once turned back to Alistair.

      ‘Now I am in town again, Your Grace, I’ll look for you at your club. I’ve a mind to challenge you to a game of piquet and recover some of my losses.’

      Her stomach sank. More reason for her husband to leave home and hearth every night. She kept a smile pinned to her lips and hoped her dismay did not show.

      ‘I doubt you can afford the stakes at my table,’ the Duke said, his voice arctic. Was he always so unfriendly?

      An awkward silence fell, during which Beauworth gave each of them a distinctly piercing stare.

      ‘It is a beautiful day for a ride—’ she said.

      ‘I must be getting along—’ Hepple said at the same moment.

      ‘Yes,’ Beauworth said. ‘Run along, Hepple. Thank you for your company.’

      Another awkward bow and Hepple rode off.

      ‘Do you go to Sackfield Hall any time soon?’ Beauworth asked, his gaze still on Hepple, his mouth curled in distaste.

      ‘I had planned to go in a couple of weeks,’ her husband said.

      Julia swallowed a gasp. He had said nothing of this to her. Her glance shot to Alistair and he gave a slight shrug that told her nothing.

      The Marquess smiled rather like a cat that had spotted a dish of cream. ‘You will bring your wife to visit us, Duke, or my Marchioness will want to know why.’

      Julia waited, breath held, half expecting Alistair to say she would not be going with him.

      ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘I will send a note when we are in residence.’

      The Marquess nodded and turned to Julia. ‘We are no more than five miles from you as the crow flies and normally, we would ask permission to call on you, Your Grace, but with young children underfoot...you will forgive us for not venturing forth.’

      ‘Congratulations on your growing family,’ Julia said, a slight pang in her heart, envy for the Marchioness she had not yet met. It was unlikely she would ever conceive when she hadn’t after eight gruelling years of marriage. She ignored the feeling and crushed the tiny tendril of hope that a younger, more virile husband might succeed where an old man had not. The fact that her husband never came to her bed didn’t help, but the doctors had been adamant she was unsuited to conception.

      The recollection of their harsh words made her chest squeeze, but she kept her composure. ‘I shall look forward to making your wife’s acquaintance.’

      ‘She will be thrilled to have someone nearby close to her own age. Up to now she has been surrounded by dowagers and ageing matrons. Now if you will excuse me, I have business requiring my attention before I head home.’ He gave her another elegant bow, nodded to Alistair and rode off.

      Julia knew better than to carp at her husband for not telling her his plans to remove to the country. She knew now, after all.

      ‘About our removal to Sackfield Hall,’ she said. ‘Do you have a specific date in mind?’

      ‘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

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