Page 49 of The Duke's Inconvenient Bride
Emma didn’t think much of her phrasing until they’d been taken up a flight of stairs, walked down a corridor, and were handed the keys for two different rooms. Because the duke had booked them two rooms.
Plural.
Was such a thing normal for newly married couples?
For some reason, Emma had assumed that they would share a room. Or at the very least, that they would have connecting quarters. Instead, her bedroom was across the hall from his.
Mrs. Lemmings was clearly waiting for their approval prior to leaving, so Emma thanked her and turned the key in the lock, conscious of the duke standing somewhere behind her. The room was simple, with a bed, a nightstand, and a small table with a mirror over it. It wasn’t fancy, but it was clean.
“It’s perfect,” she said.
Mrs. Lemming beamed. “Supper will be ready soon. I’ll come when it is.”
“Thank you.”
The other woman departed, but the duke didn’t go to his own room yet.
“Does it meet with your satisfaction?” he asked quietly.
“Yes.” Having a bed would be lovely. “I will see you at supper?”
He nodded and turned away.
Emma entered the bedroom and closed the door behind herself, wondering again about the separate chambers. Perhaps Ashford was trying to give her space to prepare herself for her wedding night. He struck her as a thoughtful man even if not an openly kind one.
That must be it.
It only took a few minutes to refresh herself. Emma sprawled on the bed and stretched her limbs. She didn’t mind being seated for long periods of time, but carriages could be so confining.
She closed her eyes, only to be jolted to attention shortly after by a knock at the door. When she answered, Mrs. Lemmings stood on the other side.
“Supper is served,” she said. “The duke is already in the dining room downstairs. I’ll take you to him.”
Emma followed her down the stairs and into a warm space with a crackling fire in the hearth. Another couple were sharing a meal near the window, and the duke was waiting for her at a round table beside the wall.
Emma crossed the faded red carpet. He stood as she approached and pulled her chair out.
“I only ordered a light meal since we ate so much earlier,” he said as she sat. “I hope that suits you.”
“It does.” Honestly, she could have slept without eating anything at all, especially since her insides were tangled with nerves.
Mrs. Lemmings appeared beside the table, carrying a tray, which she set down. She placed a bowl of stew in front of each of them and a plate containing a couple of thick slices of bread in the center of the table.
“Chicken stew,” she said. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Tea, please,” Emma said.
“Nothing for me,” Ashford said.
When Mrs. Lemmings left to get the tea, an awkward hush fell over them. Emma leaned over her stew and inhaled the delicious savory scent of chicken. She waited until the duke raised his spoon before lifting her own.
Chicken and mild spices danced on her tongue. The stew tasted as good as it smelled, and she broke off a piece of bread and happily dunked it in. As she bit into the soaked bread, it occurred to her that her mother wouldn’t be pleased by her manners. She ought to use the spoon to ladle her stew even if it took hours.
An unholy glee filled her at the realization that her mother’s opinion no longer mattered in this regard. She was a duchess. If she wanted to dunk her bread in her stew, who would stop her? Certainly not the duke, who had done the very same thing himself.
Emma ate without speaking. There seemed to be a sense of expectancy between them, and she wasn’t sure if he was waiting for her to fill the void, but given how he’d asked for quiet earlier and claimed his head hurt, she didn’t want to strike up a conversation if it would mean being chastised.
Mrs. Lemmings returned with her tea, and Emma realized she’d forgotten to ask for sugar, but she drank it anyway. She didn’t mind bitter tea—she just preferred it sweet.
