| |
The next day passed swiftly, undisturbed by the duke and his men. Rupert allowed himself to hope they’d evaded them. Perhaps taking smaller roads had been sufficient hindrance. Perhaps they were safe.
This part of Staffordshire was less inhabited. There were fewer cottages and fewer public houses.
The sky turned tangerine, then pink, then vanished entirely into darkness.
“I hope we find something soon,” he said.
“Yes,” Aria agreed.
Thankfully, she didn’t list all the things that could go disastrously. There was no mention of potholes, no mention of unseen fallen branches, no mention of highwaymen.
They hadn’t escaped the duke only to be murdered by someone else.
Finally, lights appeared.
“Look!” Aria pointed at a half-timbered building, illuminated by candlelight that danced in the windows. A happy melody drifted through the air. Carts and carriages were parked outside. A groom led horses to a stable, and a few people chatted outside, holding large tankards.
“I think we’ll be able to sleep somewhere,” Rupert said.
“Indeed.” Aria clapped her hands.
Rupert smiled and pulled the carriage over. A groom came to unhook the horses and led them away.
Rupert and Aria entered the tavern. Someone was playing the piano, and most of the public house had evidently volunteered to sing, practically shouting a bawdy song with glee.
Rupert glanced at Aria carefully, but she only smiled.
They approached a round-faced woman in a flowered dress who was pouring tankards of ale.
“Are you the publican, by any chance?” Rupert asked.
The woman set a frothy tankard aside and smiled. “Mrs. Honoria Butterby. My husband and I run this place.”
“We would like two rooms for the night,” Rupert said.
Mrs. Butterby sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, love.”
Rupert’s heart sank. “Why not?”
Mrs. Butterby gestured at the guests. “We’re full.”
“So you have no space? Is there another public house?”
“The closest public house is ten miles away,” the publican continued. “In Littlehampton.”
“That’s where we came from,” Rupert said.
“I’m sorry, love. Ever since they built the road to London here, there’s been more traffic than we can handle.”
“I see.” Rupert nodded solemnly, remembering the princess’s displeasure yesterday.
“But we do have one room,” the publican said brightly.
“Oh?”
Mrs. Butterby nodded happily. “It’s our finest room.” She cast a worried look. “And the most expensive.”
She scrutinized Rupert and the princess, evidently flummoxed by the muddy state of their otherwise nice attire.
“We’ll manage,” Rupert said.
She sighed skeptically. “I don’t want you to spend all your money on it.”
“We’re saving money by sharing,” the princess assured her.
Rupert paid for the room. Even though his mother’s cottage was heavily mortgaged and he owed money to the duke for all the years in which he’d assisted, he wasn’t entirely destitute. After the publican had checked the coin with a detailed scrutiny Rupert suspected she did not use for every exchange of money, she pointed to the staircase.
“The room is on the top floor,” Mrs. Butterby said.
“Thank you.” Rupert scrunched his lip together. “Is it perhaps possible to get some extra bedding for the room?”
The publican frowned. “There is sufficient bedding in each room.”
“Of course,” Rupert said, “but—er—”
“My husband suffers from extreme coldness,” the princess blurted.
Mrs. Butterby eyed him. “Then perhaps he should start wearing coats.”
“Right,” Rupert said, conscious he hadn’t grabbed a coat when he’d left his cottage hurriedly.
“Coats are very useful,” the publican continued. “I’m always telling my children to wear them. I tell Billy, ‘wear a coat.’ Then I tell Rose, ‘wear a coat.’”
“Very wise of you,” Rupert said quickly, lest the publican recite all the occasions she’d ever told people to wear coats.
He led the princess up the stairs. “I’m sorry about the room situation.”
“I think my reputation is already destroyed,” Aria said lightly.
“I’m sorry,” Rupert said miserably.
“It’s the duke’s fault,” Aria said, and her eyes glimmered.
He smiled. It was just like her to see the best in everything.
“I would much rather be alive,” she said.
“I prefer you that way, too.” Rupert tried not to imagine her the other way.
There was only one door on the top floor, and Rupert braced himself for a narrow room, perhaps recently converted from storage. He imagined a tiny window and a creaking, sloping floor that would remind the princess that she was not in anything resembling the palaces to which she was accustomed. He imagined peeling paint and a small narrow bed that would make them both uncomfortable.
He opened the door. A large four-poster bed lay in the center of the room. Floral wallpaper was pasted on the walls, and the room contained more candelabras than could possibly be necessary.
“I see why the room was expensive,” the princess said, eying the wax that had dripped from the candles onto the floor.
“Er—yes.” He blinked, then turned to the princess. “It’s—er—”
“Rather romantic,” the princess said, but then for some reason, her cheeks pinkened.
He despised that any mention of romance in front of him made her uncomfortable. “I’ll order some dinner and fetch Lady Octavia and Galileo.”
“Thank you,” the princess said with a strained smile. She settled awkwardly onto a velvet armchair.
He left the room hurriedly. He refused to think about how the princess might look laying on the bed. He refrained from picturing her removing her dress, and he certainly refrained from imagining her in her shift, no longer constrained by her stays. He wasn’t going to imagine what her long, dark locks would look like when they were no longer in an updo.
Rupert scampered down the steps, as if the speed of his legs could make him lose images of Aria from his mind. Naturally, the effort was in vain.
*
ARIA PRETENDED IT WAS perfectly normal to be in a room alone with a man. It was easier to pretend when not looking at the bed, so she examined the room’s artwork. Various watercolors lined the walls, and she gazed at the images.
A knock sounded on the door, then it opened.
Pitter-patters sounded on the floor, and she turned to find Galileo running toward her, evidently relieved to no longer be in a swaying carriage. Lady Octavia sauntered in with rather more elegance, managing to resist any temptation to stick her tongue out.
Finally, Rupert entered, and her heart trembled. The man’s cheeks were flushed, perhaps from the brisk night air, and she had the odd sense it might be nice to run her fingers across them. His jaw was sturdy, dependable.
She sighed and averted her eyes. If only the duke had been as kind as Rupert. The man was in danger of being murdered by the duke, but he was still assisting her. If only the man who’d written those letters had actually existed.
“I want an annulment,” she said.
“I’m afraid I don’t know the rules for that.”
“Threatening to murder someone should count.” She raised her chin. “Besides, Henry VIII’s wife managed to get an annulment, and they had been married for twenty-four years. I wasn’t even married to the duke for twenty-four hours.”
“That is certainly a good point,” Rupert said, spreading some food over the small table. The scent of meat wafted about her. He turned to her and smiled. “You know your history.”
“English history was always the most interesting.”
“I’m sorry you’ll have to leave England. I’m sorry about everything.”
She turned to him. “It’s not your fault. I should have been more careful.”
“We will make inquiries about an annulment in London.”
She nodded and focused on her food. Finally, after Aria had eaten all the food, and Rupert had taken Galileo out for a small excursion while Aria quickly removed her dress and scrambled into bed, Rupert appeared.
“I’ll sleep on the floor,” he said.
“Very well,” she squeaked.
Even the floor seemed too near him. She would be thinking of him, even if they were separated by more than two feet.
“But it is important that you sleep well,” she said.
He furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”
“Only that the bed is large enough for both of us. And I wouldn’t want you to be tired on our journey tomorrow.”
“You needn’t worry,” he said staunchly. “Sleep is unnecessary.”
She giggled despite herself, and he turned to her.
“Would it make you feel better?”
Her throat tightened, but she nodded.
“Very well.” In the next moment, he rose. “I’ll sleep over the covers.”
“Then it’s entirely proper,” she said, even though she was certain it wasn’t.
*
RUPERT’S heartbeat quickened. He was lying next to Aria. And even though, in theory, he’d been even closer to her on the driver’s seat, everything was different. Worse, neither of them slept.
“What did the publican last night mean?” Aria asked, turning over on the bed.
Heavens. She shouldn’t turn. It made her lovely dark hair spill over. Her luscious locks gleamed under the candlelight, and he forced himself not to examine the way her dress stretched and tightened over her bosom.
He was so close to her.
He could touch her.
He could pull her toward him and kiss her.
He could...
Rupert halted his train of thought. Nothing good would come of musing over all the possibilities of their time together. It didn’t matter how much he pondered what she might taste like, what her soft skin might feel like when it was freed of her dress and shift.
“Only that newly married couples are often known to have much bedtime enjoyment,” Rupert said reluctantly. “It—er—wasn’t terribly interesting.”
She frowned, and he had the odd impression that perhaps she did find it of interest. His throat dried.
Aria scrunched her lips together as if she were on the verge of saying something but suspected it lacked propriety. Then she sighed. “What exactly happens on wedding nights?”
“E-excuse me?”
“I mean. I know the husband visits his wife. And I know the wife has to do what the husband asks and that the request seems strange, but it is worth doing because it will lead to babies.”
He blinked.
“You see, I’m not completely lacking knowledge,” she said.
He smiled, and his chest warmed at her earnestness. “No, you’re not.”
“So, will you tell me?”
He grinned. “Is that a royal request?”
“If it needs to be.” Her eyes shimmered. “I just... I was going to learn last night. Or at least, I thought I would learn last night. And my mother isn’t alive, so I could hardly ask her. And though I’m certain my father knows, it’s not a question one likes to ask him.”
“I see,” Rupert said.
“But you can tell me. Because I won’t experience it.”
His heart thudded.
She was married. She could hardly marry again. Bigamy wasn’t tolerated, even when committed by beautiful princesses.
“You know it’s true,” she said.
He nodded, and his chest hurt. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let this happen.”
“We needn’t dwell on the situation.”
He nodded. If Aria wanted to be distracted, he could distract her, no matter if it was terribly awkward.
“I expect,” he said, “that if you had been married to someone good, he would have been very excited to see you on your wedding night.”
“Oh?” she asked.
“Yes,” Rupert said confidently. “Of that, I’m certain.” He sank his head into his pillow. “He would have enjoyed your letters, his heart would have raced and have been filled with happiness when he learned you had accepted his proposal. Then when he saw you for the first time, he would have immediately declared you the most beautiful woman in the world.”
His heart twisted. He wished he could have signed his name to those letters. He wished when she arrived in Staffordshire, it had been to wed him. And he wished they were married now.
He would have adored her.
I adore her now.
His throat tightened. His duty was to take care of her and not dream of the impossible. She was a princess, and he was a man with a small, heavily mortgaged cottage.
“Because he would have been charming,” Aria said.
“Because it would have been true.”
Aria’s eyes widened.
“I mean,” Rupert added hastily, “because he would have thought so.”
Aria scrutinized him, and Rupert wondered if he’d refrained from saying too much after all.
“He would have looked at your dark luscious locks, your full lips, your large eyes, and eyelashes, and he would have loved you. He would have loved everything about you.”
“Oh?” she asked more softly.
“Most certainly,” Rupert declared. “He would have been nervous and excited on your wedding night.”
She smiled.
“He would have been beyond himself with joy that he’d married you.”
“You’re sweet,” she said.
“I’m honest.”
“And then what would have happened?” she breathed.
“Then he would have kissed you,” he said, and his voice shook, contemplating that sensation. “He would have held you tightly in his arms, as if you might disappear. His heartbeat would have quickened, and he would have focused entirely on you.”
“And then?” her voice quivered.
“Then he would have kissed you all over.”
“Perhaps you could demonstrate.”
He stared at her.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“N-no,” he said, his voice hoarse.
She twiddled her fingers. “I was simply curious how it—”
Rupert rolled toward her and narrowed the distance between them. He stared at her for a moment, taking in her widening eyes, her luscious plump lips, and the curves of her face.
Then he kissed her.