“When did we stop?”
“Only a couple of minutes ago. I assumed you would join us in due course. Mrs. Holt has already been settled and will take David in a moment for his evening meal.” He grimaced. “Or whatever it is when babies eat before sleeping. Shall we?”
She lifted the hem of her skirts, and they headed inside. The inn was small and warm. The innkeeper appeared at the door with a candle. He appeared to know Julian, for he broke into a smile.
“Goodness, what a pleasure, Your Grace It has been…”
“Less than a week, I know. May I introduce my wife? Lady Clara, Duchess of Lynden. And our son, Master David, Earl of Huxley.”
Earl of… It took her a moment to realize what he was doing. Julian had bestowed one of his lesser titles on the boy, as was customary for a duke’ son. It made things more believable.
The innkeeper, meanwhile, stared at them with some confusion.
“Duchess? Well, what joy. I thought I had misheard your man when he told me you were traveling with your family.”
“Not at all. Now, our rooms?”
The innkeeper showed them to their rooms; they were on the first floor with a small sitting room between them.
Mrs. Holt emerged from the room attached to the sitting room and took David away for his feeding
In the grate, a fire roared. Clara stood and stared at it, unsure what to do now. She hadn’t yet wanted to admit that sleeping would be an odd arrangement. Mrs. Holt had the second room which meant she and Julian would share this bedroom.
And there was but one bed.
She was not tired, she reminded herself. She had just slept and was therefore entirely refreshed. There was absolutely no reason to feel the particular heaviness behind her eyes that she was currently feeling which she chose to attribute to the firelight. In fact, she ought to feel awake enough to stay up all night, so the subject of who might sleep where should not come up.
Julian came in from seeing to the coachman and closed the door.
“Tea?” he said.
“Please,” she said and sat down.
He found the things on the side table and set about making it himself which was not something she had expected. She watched him locate the pot, examine the contents with a brief frown, and apparently decide they were acceptable.
“You look surprised,” he said, without turning around.
“I did not say anything.”
“You have a very expressive face,” he said, “for someone who believes they are being inscrutable.”
“I never imagined,” she said, settling back in her chair, “that the Duke of Lynden would turn out to be capable of surviving scandal, tending to a babe, and making tea on a rickety inn stove.”
“Ah, and I never imagined,” he said, “that Lady Clara Hampshire would survive a year in Scotland without freezing solid or producing several volumes of sentimental poetry about the Highland mists.”
“Poetry? What makes you think I am a scribe of poetry?”
He let out a laugh. “You and Arabella used to write the most ridiculous poems when you were younger. You would leave pages upon pages all over the house when your fancy was diverted to something else.”
Her stomach twisted as she recalled the silly poems they had written back then, all about the longing for love—of which they had understood exactly nothing at that tender age. The thought that he had read those poems made her feel quite ill.
“You did not…”
“The waning moon shall bring you closer to me, oh beloved man in the stars…” he started, and she dropped her head forward into her lap.
“Goodness gracious, do not tell me you read them all.”
He shook his head. “I did not. I read a few and then put them away. It was insightful, however. I do hope Scotland did not rob you of all your romanticism.”
