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Brook Clevenger—the 6th Duke of Denton—frowned as he made his way through the common room that grew more crowded with every passing moment. The woman he’d escorted into the posting inn was the same woman he had been scheduled to meet yesterday at a different inn, the woman he’d been tasked in escorting into Yorkshire as his aunt’s companion.
The fact she hadn’t lingered in an effort to wait for him at the meeting place both amused and disconcerted him. When he’d received a letter from his aunt earlier in the month asking him to retrieve and then escort the new companion, it wasn’t that out of the ordinary, for the dowager had gone through at least eight unfortunate souls in that position during the past two years. What he had objected to was leaving his comfortable chair in front of his cheerful fire in his London townhouse, for the Christmastide season didn’t lend itself well to his wish to remain alone and shrouded with memories.
Yet, he would never hear the end of it if he’d declined, so here he was. No doubt ten minutes away from being stranded at a godforsaken inn in the middle of nowhere due to a snowstorm no one had anticipated being this bad.
With a glance at Miss Atwater—who had removed her gloves and had stretched her hands out toward the fire in the hearth—he sighed. He had no doubts his aunt would completely run that young woman off in less than three months. Usually, the women who applied for the position of her companions were made of sterner stuff and spinsters well on the shelf—dour if he were truthful—all things Miss Atwater was not.
Though now the question of how she’d come to be in this position at all bedeviled him.
“May I help you?”
The sound of a man’s voice wrenched Brook from his thoughts. With another frown, he rested his gaze on the clerk behind the polished counter. The Brown Hare Inn might be a touch cozy and out of the way, but it was clean and tidy, and someone had polished the brass fixtures in the room with care.
“I would like to request two private rooms, if you please.”
“Unfortunately, we only have one private room left, or you are welcome to share a bed in one of our other rooms. So far there are only two occupants of each bed. Plenty of room.”
“Ah.” With another glance at Miss Atwater, he gave the full of his attention to the clerk. The young woman was much too delicate—and clean—to be forced into sharing a room as well as a bed with God only knew who else. And why the devil didn’t she have a maid accompanying her? She had been much too well spoken not to be part of the ton, and she hinted as much when she’d said she’d seen him in society. He hadn’t a blessed clue who she was and couldn’t place the name. “Then I shall gladly pay for your last private room.”
“For just you?”
This decision would affect both his future and Miss Atwater’s if word were to get back to London, but surely there was no reason for that to happen. Reminding himself he was doing this to protect her from worse things—though he had absolutely no reason for it—he shook his head. “No. My wife is with me.” Perhaps this was his way of apologizing for the shrew his aunt would be, and the life Miss Atwater would face as the woman’s companion.
“I see.” Though there was nothing in the other man’s face to indicate Brook lied, muscles still knotted in his belly. It had been a bit over two years since he’d used that moniker, and should never have, for his own wife had died quite horrifically; he didn’t wish to be reminded of that, but there was nothing for it. “What is your name?”
What, indeed? He couldn’t very well give his real name or title. That would be folly and near societal suicide. “Mr. Gerard and my wife, Hope. We are, uh, newlyweds.” That would explain any awkwardness between them seeing as how they were strangers. Remarkably, his voice remained calm and even. It was his middle name, and hardly anyone knew it. Though he’d not made it a habit of dissembling, the lie tripped easily off his tongue. “We are, uh, traveling to see family for the Christmastide season.” That was a half-truth also. He and Miss Atwater were traveling to family, but there would be no celebrations involved.
“Very good, Mr. Gerard.” The clerk printed the name into a larger ledger book resting on the countertop. “How many days will you need the room?”
“I had hoped just for tonight.” But a glance outside showed nothing but the heavy, swirling snow. More of the same blew into the common room when the door opened to admit two men in greatcoats as well as a portly gentleman. “Though, I’ll wager this storm won’t clear out any time soon. Why don’t I keep it through Christmas and then we can reevaluate the likelihood of extending a stay?”
“Of course, Mr. Gerard.” The sound of the quill scratching over the ledger paper reached Brook’s ears. “The Brown Hare charges three shillings a night for a private room. Dinner is not included and must be paid for separately.”
Brook’s eyebrows rose. “That is quite a steep price. One can rent a room in London for seven shillings a week.” The expense was staggering, so it was good he would enter into this charade, for Miss Atwater probably didn’t have enough coin in her possession to pay for any sort of lodging.
“It’s the cost of demand, Mr. Gerard. The winter is sometimes lean, but we can counter our potential losses when storms hit.” The clerk shrugged. “If you turn down the room, there are others who will gladly snap it up. You and your wife can then share a room and bed, or you can stay in the stables.”
It would seem one didn’t need to be on the road to be a victim of highway robbery, but business was indeed business. “Fine.” He dug into a pocket of his greatcoat and withdrew a small leather pouch. From there, he took out the required coins plus an additional guinea, which he plunked upon the counter. “I will let the room for five nights, with the caveat you will offer it back to me at the end of the term before letting it to someone else. The extra is to see to our meals as well as house my coach, look after my horse, and my driver.”
“Very good, Mr. Gerard.” The coins disappeared into a strongbox beneath the counter. Then he dropped a brass key into Brook’s palm. “Room seven. Second floor left side. End of the corridor. It overlooks the woods and will provide enough privacy for you.”
“Thank you.” He tucked the key into his waistcoat pocket. “Is there a private dining room available for dinner tonight? If so, I would like to reserve one.” Obviously too late for tea, the next chance to put anything worthwhile in his belly was the evening meal. Thank goodness country hours were earlier than what he usually kept in London.
“Of course, Mr. Gerard.” The clerk flipped to another page and drew a long finger down a column of numbers. “There is one left during our six o’clock hour. In future, might I suggest reserving earlier? We only have four in circulation, and the inn is quite full.”
Brook clenched his teeth. “Since I only just arrived and didn’t know of the inn’s existence until now, I couldn’t have made a reservation earlier, could I?” Remaining polite only went so far when there was a lack of commonsense at play.
“Now you know for future reference.” A slight curl flashed on the man’s upper lip.
“Yes, so I do.” It would give him great pleasure to reveal his true identity to this man who thought himself superior. “Then perhaps this will also serve as notice that I need the same private dining room for each night of my stay.” If Miss Atwater didn’t go along with his insane plan, he would need some place to retreat to in order to escape her wrath.
“I will mark you down, Mr. Gerard.” Again, the pen nub scratched along the paper.
“Thank you.”
“You, there, chap,” said the overweight man who now stood directly behind Brook. The fellow even dared to tap him on the shoulder. “If you’ve concluded your business, move aside. We all need rooms.”
“So you do.” And good luck to whomever had to bed down with that rotund bit of rudeness. “Pardon me.” He stepped around the man with a nod to the other two men. From the way their outer things were snow covered, he assumed this trio had ridden in the post chaise with Miss Atwater. None of them gave him the respect due a duke, but then, no one aside from his driver and Miss Atwater knew that truth.
Before he revealed his plans to the young lady, he took a tour about the room. Much of a duke’s influence was making connections and allies, and that required a man to either be congenial or intimidating. There was no harm in finding out who he would share the inn with over the foreseeable future. In less than twenty minutes, he’d met a magistrate traveling home to his empty cottage, a vicar who was trying to reach his sister before she gave birth, a prize fighter returning to London after having won a sizable purse at a bout, a German princess going to a friend’s holdings in the north to spend the holiday season, a merchant and his wife who wished to spend their anniversary in London as a treat, a young widow with a small daughter who was traveling to Hertsfordshire to live with her deceased husband’s parents, two brothers who were both in their twenties apparently fleeing London with scandal on their heels, and a young couple hoping to elope to Gretna Green.
That was by no means the entirety of the inn’s clientele, but it was enough to put him at ease. He’d of course introduced himself as Mr. Gerard enroute to a holiday with his new bride. There was no threat from any of these folks, and it was enough of a mix that conversation during forced proximity would prove interesting and enlightening. Perhaps a game of cards would be in the offing at some point.
By the time he joined his wife of convenience by the fire, he’d shed his outer things and laid them on a small, round table at his elbow. “I have managed to secure lodging for the next handful of nights.”
“Oh?” She glanced at him, and there was so much relief and gratitude in her doe brown eyes that he couldn’t look away. His wife had had brown eyes, but while Deborah’s had been a rich brandy hue, Miss Atwater’s were a deeper brown. A jagged spear of grief went through his chest. Even after two years and four months, that grief still caught him at the most unexpected times. “How much do I owe you?” When she took her reticule into her lap and began rooting through it, he held up a hand.
“Nothing. I have absorbed the cost, but for the sake of both our reputations and ease of said lodging, there are a couple of things you’ll need to know.” What sort of woman was she? Would she fall into hysterics once he told her what would happen? Would she demand that he cancel the room?
“What do you mean?” She clutched her fingers tightly in her lap.
Brook rubbed a hand along the side of his face. With a sigh, he held her gaze. “There were no regular rooms available unless you wished to share a bed with two other people. More so now, I’ll wager. So, I inquired about private rooms.”
“And?”
“I went ahead and took the room.” Then he lowered his voice and leaned toward her, for the common room was becoming more crowded than it was before. “However, we must pretend we are a couple newly wed.” When her pink-hued lips parted and shock flitted through her eyes, he nodded. “Out of necessity, I have told the clerk of this inn that you are my wife and that we are Mr. and Mrs. Gerrard.”
“Why would you lie and not tell them you are a duke?” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Instead of answering immediately, he moved his chair a bit closer to her. “Take a glance about the room, Miss Atwater,” he said in an equally low tone. “Did you want to risk sharing a room—and a bed—with some of these people?” Though there were perfectly lovely travelers in the room, there were also some unsavory types. It would be wise for everyone to lock their doors in the night.
When her gaze landed on the portly man who had obviously just been given the news he’d have to bed down with others, she shuddered. “I sat next to that man for a day on my journey.”
“Then you agree to participate in my bit of fiction?” One of his eyebrows rose in question. “No one here besides me knows of your real identity.”
“Are you certain you aren’t doing this to protect your own reputation?” Annoyance caused her voice to rise, but she quickly modulated her tone. “Why would you do this for a woman so beneath your station? I am nothing to you.”
Well, at least she had spirit. That would ensure their stay wouldn’t be dull. “Of course I’m protecting my reputation. Any man in my position would, but I am also protecting yours. As to why?” That he couldn’t explain. Perhaps he’d been away from society for too long and out of the company of a woman for the same, or perhaps he’d merely wanted to play the hero. “You are too much a lady to mingle with the clientele in such an intimate fashion.”
She snorted. “Lady is rather pushing my pedigree.”
“Why would you say that?” Perhaps she would give him a bit of her history.
“My father was a baronet. Therefore, I am not a lady, and neither was he a peer. My grip on the ton at large is tenuous at best.” Miss Atwater narrowed her eyes on him. “Most likely you and I would never have met while in London. We don’t move in the same social circles, and I in none of them since my father died.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. So am I, even more so during this time of year.” She lapsed into silence and then tugged on the maroon ribbon beneath her chin. Once she removed her bonnet and set it in her lap, she sighed. “Life hasn’t been quite the same since my parents died.”
“I empathize with you on that.” Maudlin feelings welled into his chest. His own journey through life had been marked by more deaths than he cared to remember. “Grief doesn’t go away or fade as time goes on like people often say when offering counsel.”
“No.” She shook head. In the firelight, strands of caramel glimmered in her brown hair, and he suddenly wished those tresses weren’t held back in a tight, neat bun. “Grief is a funny thing. It becomes part of you, and you make room for it. The heart might heal but grief will always be a part of everything you are.”
“Indeed.” As Brook studied his companion of the moment, it struck him that she was a delicate slip of a young woman. The pelisse hid her body and made her as generic as any other female in the common room, but her fingers were slim and feminine. With a heart-shaped face and features that could only be described as pixyish, she had the look of always either knowing a secret or getting ready to do mischief. “There are other times when I fully believe the person suffering through grief doesn’t wish that pain to fade, for fear that it might take the memories with it.”
He’d certainly felt that way over the years. Though some memories were still as poignant as the day they were made, others had faded with time. No longer could he see a person’s face or features clearly in his mind. Though he could still hear scraps of laughter or feel the touch of a hand, other aspects slipped further away as the years went on.
That was his biggest fear since losing his wife. He didn’t want to forget, yet each remembrance left him with the same pain he’d had since losing her so suddenly.
“Agreed.” Miss Atwater nodded. “Then there are other memories that make a person mourn for things never realized, even when the people involved are still very much alive.” A trace of bitterness went through her voice. Shadows reflected in her eyes. Then she shrugged. “Time is either a balm or a curse, I suppose. It merely depends on one’s mood.”
What the devil had she seen over the course of her young life to give her such sage advice? Curiosity reigned, but he wouldn’t ask her here where they ran the risk of being overheard. Before he could say anything else, the loud rumble of her stomach broke the silence brewing between them.
Her gaze flew to his. A blush infused her cheeks, and the added color gave life to her pale face. “Do pardon me. It has been some time since I’ve last eaten.”
“Then you are fortunate. I have reserved a private dining room for our dinner at six o’clock.” Hoping to cajole a smile from her, Brook flashed a grin. “We won’t need to wait much longer before we’re able to tuck into a meal.”
“That sounds lovely. I hope the inn employs a decent cook.” She laid a hand on his arm. Immediately warmth tingled up to his elbow. It had been a long time since he’d had such close interaction with a woman to whom he wasn’t related. “And thank you again for looking after me even though there wasn’t a need.” The soulful gratitude shining in those eyes was all the thanks he required, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d fall right into those pools. “It has been ages since anyone has cared enough to do that.”
“I am happy to do it.” His wife had been the one to remind him that he had a responsibility to look after anyone down on their luck he came across. Privilege meant helping others, and so he had done so with aplomb since he’d lost her, but there was something about Miss Atwater that had excitement buzzing at the base of his spine, and that troubled him.
Perhaps it had been a nodcock idea to share a room. She is not for you, Denton. Haven’t you already promised yourself you would never again get close to a woman? Indeed, he had, and that reasoning had worked until his horse had nearly trampled this one and he’d plucked her out of the snow.
But he was certain their stay at The Brown Hare Inn would pass without incident. The mild temptation she represented would pass, and his interest would fade. It’s what had happened since he’d come out of mourning. After everything, he was a gentleman, and his only task was in delivering her to his aunt.
So why, then, hadn’t he mentioned that little tidbit to her when he’d had the chance?
