Page 12 of To Marry and to Meddle
“This is not, you understand,how I envisioned this afternoon progressing,” Julian said for at least the third time.
Before him in the saddle, Emily nodded, the motion causing her bonnet to rub uncomfortably at the underside of his chin. It was a rather elaborate straw concoction which was no doubt quite successful at shielding her fair skin from the threat of a freckle, but it did not make for entirely comfortable riding.
“This is really quite pleasant, though,” Emily said, looking around and causing the damned bonnet to do some more uncomfortable chafing. They were riding on horseback through a meadow—a proper, green, flower-filled meadow, with the summer sunshine beating down upon them and the sound of bees buzzing nearby. Just a bridegroom and his golden-haired, ambitiously bonneted bride.
It was all very… wholesome.
Julian found this disturbing.
“It would be significantly more pleasant viewed through the window of a carriage,” he said, lifting his chin to spare it from a straw-chafed fate.
“That was quite bad luck, breaking an axle,” Emily agreed, her head still turned to the side, no doubt in search of a frolicking lamb or anentire family of rabbits or something else similarly horrifying. “I do hope Reeve is able to find someone willing to make the repair.”
Reeve, Julian’s coachman, had ridden ahead as soon as he’d ascertained that Julian and Emily were unharmed—they weren’t far from a small village, according to Reeve’s map, and he was hoping to enlist aid in making the repair. Julian and Emily had followed Reeve more slowly on the other horse, and were just now coming within view of a sign announcing their location to be the village of Butcher’s Green.
“I hope this place is big enough to have some sort of inn,” Julian said, eyeing their surroundings skeptically as they descended at a gentle incline down a tree-lined lane, the road flanked by several cottages in varying states of charming dilapidation. It was with some relief that he noted the presence of a somewhat ramshackle inn as they made their way into the village—it wasn’t quite what he’d had in mind for his wedding night, but at this point, so long as there was a bed and a kitchen serving food, he didn’t think he would complain about much of anything.
Fifteen minutes later, however, standing in the small room on the top floor, having to duck his head so that it didn’t collide with the sloped ceiling, he was revising that assessment. The innkeeper had been most apologetic as he’d shown them upstairs, explaining that there had been another unexpected arrival that afternoon, and this was the only room remaining. The lumpy bed appeared to have been made for a family of elves.
“How… cozy,” Emily said brightly, giving the innkeeper a warm smile. “This will do very nicely, sir, thank you.”
“Of course, my lady,” the innkeeper replied, appearing a bit dumbfounded by the sight of Lady Emily Turner—Lady Julian Belfry, now—in all her beautiful aristocratic glory, looking around as if she’d just beenshown to a suite at a royal palace. “Will you be wanting supper? I can have something sent up, if you’d prefer not to dine downstairs.”
“That would be lovely,” Emily agreed. “And perhaps a bath, too, if it’s not too much bother?”
“Of course,” the innkeeper said eagerly; Julian had the distinct impression that Emily could, by this point, have asked him if he would be so kind as to flatten himself into an axle-like configuration and attach himself to their carriage to hasten their speedy departure, and he’d have happily complied. To be fair to the poor man, it was difficult to resist her when she was directing that dazzling smile of hers in one’s direction, as she was currently doing to the innkeeper.
Within moments—and with a few more simpering compliments—he was gone, and Emily and Julian were alone together. In a bedroom. On their wedding night—or, he supposed, wedding late afternoon. But did he really want to split hairs at the moment?
He decided that he in fact did not.
“So,” he said slowly, turning to his wife—wife!—and reaching out to take her gloved hand in his. “Here we are.”
“Indeed,” she said, giving him her best look of wide-eyed innocence. He wondered idly if she practiced it in the mirror.
“On our wedding night,” he continued.
“Late afternoon, I should think,” she said with a frown.
“Details.” He waved a dismissive hand, and tugged her closer to him. She came quite willingly, and he bent his head to focus on the business of unbuttoning every one of the damned buttons on these gloves. Who in God’s name had come up with this design? Was it intended to deter lecherous seducers—leave them so frustrated by the glove removal attempt that they gave up in disgust before even trying to remove any more interesting articles of clothing?
“What—what are you doing?” she asked, her voice a bit uncertain.
He glanced up. “Taking off your gloves.” He bent his head to the cursed buttons once more.
“For what purpose?”
“Ha!” he said in triumph, having mastered one of the squadrons of buttons, and proceeded to slide the first glove from her hand. “I thought you might like to be a bit more comfortable,” he said, looking up at her as he lifted her hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss there. “After all, if we don’t intend to leave the room again—”
“We don’t?” she asked, her eyes widening.
“We just asked for dinner to be sent up,” he pointed out. “If we’re not going downstairs, I see no reason not to make ourselves at home.”
“But I have to bathe!” she said as he lowered her bare hand and directed his focus to his one remaining glove nemesis.
“I’ll retreat into the hallway for that,” he said chivalrously before adding, with somewhat less chivalry and a lazy grin, “though if you should like some assistance in the endeavor, I’d also be happy to stay.”
“But what about… whenyoubathe?” she asked, her voice hushed, as if the mere discussion of the act of bathing was too scandalous to even consider.
