Page 113 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"Completely!" he agreed, grinning like a madman.
"We could die!"
"What a way to go!"
"You're impossible!"
"You love it!"
And Heaven help her, she did. This was the James she'd fallen in love with; not the proper Duke who sat through tedious parliamentary sessions and hosted stifling formal dinners, but the wild, passionate man who'd seduced her during a storm.
When the lights of the Black Swan finally appeared through the rain, Catherine felt the same relief she'd experienced five years ago. Sanctuary.
The inn courtyard was chaos, full of stranded travelers and struggling horses. But when their coach pulled up, the door flew open immediately.
"Your Grace!" Mr. Hartwell himself appeared, looking older and rounder but with the same knowing smile. "We've been expecting you. Got your letter last week. The corner chamber is ready and waiting."
"Hartwell, you magnificent man," James said, helping Catherine down. "I don't suppose you remember..."
"Remember? Your Grace, that night five years ago is legend at the Black Swan. Miss Mayfer and Mr. Wrentham, caught in the storm." He winked. "We've been telling the story to guests ever since. Of course, we keep it proper-like. Just say two souls found each other in the tempest."
"How poetic," Catherine murmured, pulling her cloak tighter against the rain.
"This way, Your Graces. Mind the puddle; that one's been there since 1802, I swear it."
The inn was exactly as Catherine remembered—low-beamed ceilings, smoke-stained walls, the smell of wet wool and ale and something cooking that might charitably be called food. But it was also completely different because now she was walking through it as the Duchess of Ravensfield, married to the man beside her, mother to his children.
"The corner chambers," Hartwell announced, opening the familiar door with a flourish. "Had it cleaned especially for you."
The chamber was just as Catherine remembered as well—two bedrooms connected by a sitting room, faded blue hangings that might be green in certain lights, furniture that had been fashionable sometime during the last century. But there were improvements: fresh flowers in vases, new linens on the beds, and a fire already crackling in each fireplace.
"It's perfect," James said, pressing coins into Hartwell's hand.
"Dinner?"
"Send it up in an hour. And then..."
"Don't disturb you unless the inn's on fire. Understood, Your Grace." Hartwell winked again and departed.
They stood in the sitting room, suddenly feeling awkward. Five years of marriage, three children, countless nights of passion, and somehow being back here made Catherine feel like that desperate, innocent girl again.
"It's strange, isn't it?" she said. "Being back."
"Strange and perfect." James moved to the window, looking out at the storm. "Do you remember standing here, arguing about who deserved the room?"
"You tried to bribe Hartwell."
"You tried to intimidate him with your noble bearing."
"I did not have noble bearing. I was dripping wet and furious."
"You were magnificent." He turned to her. "You're still magnificent."
"I'm five years older, my figure's never recovered from the twins, and I found a grey hair last week."
"Where?" He was suddenly in front of her, fingers going to her hair. "Show me this offending hair."
"I pulled it out."
