Page 122 of A Night of Desire with a Duke
"Your Graces!" Hartwell greeted them cheerfully. "Trust you weathered the storm well?"
"Perfectly," James replied, his hand finding Catherine's waist.
"Breakfast? I've got eggs that are actually eggs this morning, and bacon that might even be real bacon."
"Luxury indeed," Catherine murmured.
They ate in the public room, which was nearly empty. A few stranded travelers nodded respectfully, recognizing quality if not specific identity. Catherine found it refreshing to be anonymous again, just another couple caught by weather.
"What shall we do today?" she asked, spreading jam on surprisingly good bread.
"What would you like to do?"
"Honestly? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sit by the fire, read, talk, be together without agenda or obligation."
"That sounds perfect."
And it was. They spent the day exactly as she'd suggested—reading (though not much actual reading occurred), talking (about everything and nothing), and simply being together. No one needed them, no crisis demanded attention, no small voices interrupted.
"Is this what other people's marriages are like?" Catherine asked that evening, curled against James on the sofa.
"Boring people's marriages, perhaps."
"This isn't boring."
"No?"
"It's peaceful. There's a difference."
"Do you want more peace? We could send the children to boarding school, retire to the country, become recluses."
"Absolutely not. I'd miss them within a day."
"Within an hour."
"Within minutes, honestly."
"But this is nice. A respite."
"A perfect respite."
That night, they made love slowly, savoring each touch, each kiss, each moment. The urgency of the previous night had mellowed into something deeper—a reaffirmation of everything they were to each other.
"I want to come back," Catherine said afterward. "Every year. For our anniversary."
"Even without a storm?"
"Especially without a storm. Though knowing our luck..."
"There will always be storms for us."
"Is that a promise or a warning?"
"Both. Neither. Just truth."
They stayed three more days, until the roads were clear enough for safe travel. Each day was perfectly ordinary, walksaround the inn when the rain stopped, meals of questionable quality, long conversations about nothing important, and perfectly wonderful.
On their last night, they stood at the window watching the sunset paint the wet landscape gold.
