Page 45 of Married to a Frozen Duke
"Oh, Heavens" Alexander caught her before she fell, pulling her against him to steady her. She was trembling, from cold or exhaustion or both.
"I'm sorry," she said, attempting to retrieve her shoe. "I'm slowing you down."
"Yes, you are," he agreed, because lying seemed pointless. "But leaving you here would probably violate some clause in the marriage vows."
She made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I don't recall 'rescue from mud' being mentioned."
"It was probably in the Latin. Everything inconvenient usually is."
She got her shoe back on, though it was now more mud than slipper, and they continued. Alexander kept his hand on her elbow, steadying her with every step. It was awkward and slow and thoroughly miserable for both of them.
"There," Ophelia suddenly said, pointing through the rain. "Lights."
The inn was exactly what Alexander feared—an awful property, timber-framed building that looked like it had been drunk when it was built and had been slowly sobering up ever since, listing slightly to one side. Smoke poured from multiple chimneys, and even through the rain, he could hear the sound of voices and laughter from within.
Common voices. Common laughter. The sort of establishment he'd never set foot in if he had any choice whatsoever.
"Your ancestors are probably furious," Ophelia said quietly.
"Yours are probably celebrating," he shot back.
"Probably. They always did enjoy watching the mighty fall."
"I haven't fallen. I've been temporarily... inconvenienced."
"You're standing outside a coaching inn, soaked to the skin, covered in mud, with a Coleridge wife. If that's not falling, what is?"
He looked down at her; she'd lost her bonnet somewhere, and her hair was plastered to her head.
"It's Thursday," he said.
They pushed through the door into warmth and noise and the smell of wet wool, tobacco, and what might charitably be called cooking. The common room was packed with travelers, all apparently stranded by the storm. Conversation stopped as they entered, every eye turning to stare at the bedraggled newcomers.
Alexander straightened, summoning every ounce of ducal authority despite his appearance. "Innkeeper," he commanded in a voice that had made Parliament quake.
A round man with impressive whiskers appeared, took one look at them, and clearly decided they were drowned gentlefolk at best. "Help you, sir?"
Sir. Not 'Your Grace' or even 'my lord.' Just 'sir.'
"My wife and I require a room," Alexander said, ignoring the demotion. "Our carriage has broken down."
The innkeeper looked skeptical, as if broken carriages were a likely story from people who looked like they'd been swimming in mud. "It's a busy night, sir. Storm's brought everyone in."
"Surely you have something."
"Well..." The man scratched his whiskers. "There's one room left. Not much, mind you. And it'll be two shillings."
Two shillings. Alexander probably had that much in his pocket, though he rarely carried money. What was the point when everything was simply sent to his man of business?
Ophelia stepped forward, and to his amazement, she smiled at the innkeeper. Not her polite society smile, but something warmer, more genuine. "Please, we're terribly sorry to impose, but we're quite desperate. Our luggage was ruined in themud when the carriage broke, and we're both soaked through. Whatever room you have would be wonderful."
The innkeeper's expression softened marginally. "Well, it's not fancy, mind. And you'll have to eat in the common room with everyone else."
"That's perfectly fine," Ophelia assured him before Alexander could object. "We're grateful for anything."
The man nodded. "My wife might have something dry you could wear, ma'am. You're about our Mary's size."
"That would be so kind, thank you."
