Chapter Six

The George Inn

Stretton, Cheshire

That evening

 

The sun had long set by the time they arrived at the inn where they’d planned to spend the first night of their honeymoon. Cornelia had fallen into a deep slumber within a quarter hour of their departure, and Preston almost wished he had accepted William’s offer to spend their wedding night at the Hall. But neither he nor Cornelia had wanted to face their loved ones after a wedding-night-that-wasn’t, especially not having to deal with the unpleasantness of the state of the bed sheets and the gossipy nature of servants. But it had been a very long day, not to mention an emotionally draining one, and he didn’t like to see her so worn down. She had borne the strain with the fortitude of a saint, but even Cornelia had her limits, and she deserved a good night’s rest on the first night of their journey to Brighton.

“Wake up, Cornelia.” He gently shook her shoulder. “We have arrived.”

“Why are you waking me?” she responded sleepily. Then she opened her eyes and blinked rapidly until recognition lit her gaze. “Oh.” She sat up and peered past him at the dimly lit inn yard.

“We’ll need a good night’s sleep if we mean to make an early start tomorrow.” He hopped down from the carriage and offered his hand to his new wife.

Wife! It hardly seemed possible, but he now bore responsibility for a wife. The very idea of being accountable for the happiness of another human being was foreign to him.

She placed her hand in his and he steadied her as she descended the coach. They entered the inn arm-in-arm, and a rotund innkeeper looked up from a ledger he was studying at the counter.

Preston brought Cornelia to a halt at the counter. “Preston Warrington,” he introduced himself, “and this is my wife. We bespoke a suite of rooms for the evening.”

The innkeeper grinned. “Ah, the honeymoon couple. We’ve been expecting ye, Mr. and Mrs. Warrington. My felicitations on yer recent nuptials. My name’s Polk.”

Cornelia’s hand clamped onto Preston’s arm with a death grip. No doubt she was anxious about the wedding night, even though it wasn’t to be a wedding night, at all.

“Er, thank you,” he said. “My wife is quite fatigued. How soon might we take possession of our rooms?”

The innkeeper winked. “That eager, are ye?” He closed the ledger and pushed the register toward Preston. “Would ye like a meal sent up? Me wife makes a beef stew fit for a king…or a bridegroom, as the case may be.”

Cornelia coughed and turned beet-red.

Preston pursed his lips. “Cold meat and cheese will do. And some bread and wine. But hurry, man. Mrs. Warrington is dead on her feet.”

Mr. Polk instantly became business-like, calling a maid to show them to their rooms and tossing out instructions to his wife in the kitchen.

* * *

“I’m not really hungry,” Cornelia whispered to her husband as they ascended the stairs to their rooms.

“Nonsense,” he said. “You ate like a bird at the wedding breakfast, and you will need your strength for the night ahead.”She gasped, and he slapped his hand against his forehead. “Sorry, I didn’t mean— You needn’t fear—” He glanced at the maid, who hurried down the hallway a good ten feet ahead of them, then leaned close to Cornelia and whispered, “Surely you do not think I would violate our agreement. Damn the bloody innkeeper’s implications.”

She laughed. “A cheeky bloke, for certain. Although not more so than your brother. Or even my mother and sister,” she added, envisioning the peach silk nightgown.

He shook his head. “I suppose it is something we must become accustomed to. Many of the people we meet will know we are newlyweds.”

They reached their room and the she flopped into a chair once the maid left. “It’s all so exhausting.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “I never thought it would be so difficult.”

He removed his hat and sat down in the chair opposite her. “Nor I,” he said with a deep sigh.

A knock on the door caused her to snap her eyes open. She straightened from the chair back.

“No need to worry, Cornelia,” Preston soothed.

She sat rigid as he opened the door. The coachman and a groom entered bearing their trunks, one of which was deposited in the adjoining room.

Preston closed the doors as the men left and faced her.  “You know, Cornelia, when we are alone, we need not be on our guard against one another. Let us simply enjoy each other’s company on the journey ahead. I have always been fond of long journeys—there are always new things to see and do, you know—and new experiences are ever so much more amusing in the company of a lovely lady.”

Cornelia let out a huge breath. The tension in her shoulders eased a fraction. “It’s a bargain.” She rose and approached him with her hand held out. “Shall we shake hands on it, Mr. Warrington?”

“By all means, Mrs. Warrington.”

Their gloved hands touched and Cornelia’s pulse raced.

Mischief lit his eyes. “Will you need help removing your clothes?”

She swatted his arm. “Did you not just promise to behave yourself, Mr. Warrington?”

He pulled away from her, feigning a look of horror. “I had nothing more in mind than offering to bespeak a maid for you, Mrs. Warrington. You have married an honorable man, you see. A bargain is a bargain, and I can be counted upon to uphold my end.”

Warmth spread through her body at the thought of him upholding his end as her true husband, but she managed a level voice and said, “My apologies, Mr. Warrington. I shall not underestimate you again.”

He bowed and turned toward the adjoining room.

“Oh, Mr. Warrington?”

“Yes, Wife?”

“I could use the assistance of a maid, if you please, Husband.”

“My pleasure, dear.”

He left the room. Cornelia waited as his footsteps receded down the hall, then she smiled. Perhaps this honeymoon would not be so disagreeable after all—so long as she didn’t wonder what it would be like if Preston were her real husband, soon to return to make her his real wife.

* * *

Preston watched Cornelia gaze at the rolling, sheep-speckled hills in the distance. They sat on a blanket in a meadow of flowers, having finished a picnic lunch of ham, cheese, strawberries, and wine.

“It is so beautiful here,” she mused. “The air is so fresh and clean and the grass softer than any silk.”

Preston took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The usual odors associated with horses and smoke were delightfully absent. He could not remember the last time he’d felt so at peace with the world. Perhaps it was as far back as his childhood at Warrington Hall, where he and William had climbed trees and fished and played games with the tenant farmer’s children.

Since the moment he’d gone off to school, his life had been an endless search for excitement and adventure, the more risk involved, the better. The thought of settling down in one place filled him with repugnance. Since spying for the Home Office was no longer possible, he’d pursue other options. Such as seeking his fortune in India.

But he had to admit that he was finding his ‘honeymoon’ exceedingly pleasant. Following their ‘wedding night,’ Cornelia had taken on a happy, carefree mood that made their journey an adventure in itself. Having agreed to avoid mention of their honeymoon status to anyone they met during the remainder of their trip, they felt free to enjoy each other’s company.

She surprised him with her knowledge of politics, and charmed him with her understanding of literature. She read to him from Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto, which invariably ended with the two of them laughing uncontrollably. To his surprise, she seemed genuinely interested in his travels on the Continent. He was careful to omit the more risqué parts—as well as his duties as a spy.

“Rest assured I shall coax those stories out of you before the journey’s end,” she said with a laugh.

He couldn’t help but laugh with her.

She gave him an odd look and his body tightened. What was she thinking?

“I have a confession to make,” she said.

“Confession?”

Her eyes twinkled. “My father told me about your service to the Crown. He heard it from Sir Stirling.”

Preston checked his surprised. “Ah yes. Sir Stirling James, the Marquess of Roxburgh.”

She nodded. “The matchmaker himself. No need for you to worry. I won’t tell anyone.” She leaned toward him. “I promise.”

He gave her a serious look. “I expect you to keep that promise, Cornelia. There are those who would—” He broke off at the widening of her eyes.

“Those who would harm you?” she asked.

And you, he thought, but said, “Yes.”

Her expression turned serious. “You have my word. Only…”

He waited.

“I beg you, please share at least one of your adventures.”

He started to deny the request, but her earnest expression stopped him. He smiled gently. “There was this one time a Frenchwoman attacked me with an umbrella for looking too long at her daughter.”

“Just for looking? Or were you ogling the poor girl?” Cornelia said with raised eyebrows.

He grinned. “I wasn’t actually looking at her. It was the meat pies she was carrying to market. I was really hungry, and they smelled delicious.”

They laughed, and, leaning over, he picked a few of the colorful flowers poking out from among the tall grass. “A bouquet for a lovely lady.” He smiled as he offered them to her.

“Why, thank you, Preston.” She took a deep breath of their scent. “I love the fragrance of a cornflower. Daisies not so much, although they are pretty. If you like you could bring me a few of those poppies—coquelicots, as Mother says. And some pinks and fairy flax too, if you please.”

He stood and extended a hand. “Shall we fetch some together?”

She smiled up at him and laid a delicate hand in his. Her fingers tightened around his and he couldn’t help but wonder what those fingers would feel like tracing lazy circles on his chest.

Half an hour later, they packed up the remains of their picnic and made their way back to the carriage, where the coachman waited.

“We could reach Brighton in two days if we speed up the pace,” said Preston as he helped Cornelia into the carriage. “How eager are you to reach the seaside?”

Cornelia sat down. “Oh no,” she said. “That is, of course, I shall be delighted to reach Brighton, but there’s no need to rush. Travel with you is not at all tedious, Preston. I haven’t enjoyed anything half so much in a very long time.”

Something in her tone caught his attention. Was she really enjoying herself as much as he?

He vaulted up into the carriage and pulled the door closed behind him, then sat down and looked at her. “Nor I.”

It was true, he realized in surprise. He was not at all eager for the journey—and their uninterrupted proximity to each other—to come to an end. He squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to reorient himself. What was happening to him? Surely, he wasn’t starting to care for her—not this strong, independent woman he had married only because she didn’t want a husband. He wasn’t such a fool as that.

Was he?