Page 65 of Her Tiger of a Duke
“My apologies. I am rather excited about this.”
“Given how highly you have spoken of it all, so am I.”
He wanted her to like the village. It was a small, simple thing to care about, and yet he did. It was the one place that he could go where people did not fall at his feet. They knew him, and they respected him enough to treat him like a person, rather than a duke. It was how they had treated him since he was a boy, when he would go there to escape. It was some welcome respite.
The wheels of the carriage struck a patch of loose stones, jolting them both. Owen reached out instinctively as she fell forward slightly, and she accepted his help with a polite word of thanks, her fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
The contact sent a small, unwelcome rush through him. It was ridiculous how easily he could be undone by a simple touch. They had not been married long, and though they were more at ease with one another he still found himself unsettled by her presence. She made him want something that he had never thought to want before, and he did not know what to do with that.
“Do they know we are coming?” she asked. “I would hate for there to be no room.”
“Fear not, Mrs. Pendle at the inn will find something for us.”
“You sound very certain.”
“Mrs. Pendle has run that inn longer than I’ve been Duke. She always plans for guests, whether they tell her they are going to arrive or not.”
The village came into view at last, and the inn stood in the center of the square. The sign swung in the breeze, and Owen watched it as they came to a stop. He stepped down first and turned to offer his hand. Beatrice then placed her gloved fingers in his, and he helped her down.
“Welcome to the best part of the village, Duchess,” he said, half-teasing.
She looked around with a small, genuine smile. It was only an inn, but Owen could only look upon it fondly.
“It is prettier than I expected,” she said softly.
Inside, the inn was exactly as he remembered from his youth; warm, low-ceilinged, with thick beams that stretched across. It was the meeting place for most of the village, and that day was no exception.
“Your Grace,” one of them said.
Owen nodded in return, Beatrice on his arm as they made their way to them.
“Good day, Harris. Is the harvest treating you well?”
“Well enough, sir,” the man said, smiling, before the others murmured greetings.
Mrs. Pendle emerged from behind the counter a moment later, wiping her hands on her apron frantically. It was clear that they had arrived as she was preparing for that night’s dinner, not that he cared about how she looked.
“Your Grace! And Her Grace, welcome. We are honored indeed to make your acquaintance.”
She curtseyed, and Beatrice returned the greeting kindly.
“It is so good to see you again, Mrs. Pendle,” Owen said. “I thought we might trouble you for lunch.”
“Trouble?” she echoed. “You could never be any trouble to me. I’ve a beef pie just out of the oven. Will you take the small parlor, sir? It’s quiet and near the fire.”
“That would do nicely,” he said.
As she led them through the doorway into a snug side room, Owen caught the faint murmur of voices behind them. Villagers were watching them, and they would inevitably also want to meet Beatrice, but he knew that she would not mind that.
The parlor was simple: a small fire already burning which drew his wife in the moment she saw it. The window looked out onto the green, where children were playing. Beatrice removed her gloves and set them neatly beside her plate.
“It is charming, here,” she said.
“I thought you might like it. It is quieter than the main room.”
“It is, though I would like to meet everyone too. Have you had the pie here?”
“Indeed, I have, and it is the best that you will ever try.”
