Chapter 12 #3
Beatrice knew there was no point in arguing.
Besides, he was probably right. They had been on the road for four hours already, two of them ploughing through London.
There was no telling what the rain would have done to the road behind them, and no sense in trying to find out.
They would not make it back to Grosvenor Square before the middle of the night, and who knows how the roads would be the following day?
Beatrice folded her arms and huddled down inside her cape, trying to stay warm.
“At least at an inn, we’ll be out of the rain,” she muttered, glancing at Giovanni, who stared out the window as if she hadn’t spoken.
She rolled her eyes at him resentfully. He had been perfectly beastly for their entire journey, not speaking a word.
Any time she had tried to initiate conversation he simply huffed and stared off into the distance, rudely refusing to engage.
It was like travelling with a sulky child, and Beatrice had endured quite enough of it.
She would no longer force Giovanni to take part in her company.
He should not have to suffer if he found it so distasteful.
“Childish,” she commented quietly.
“One to talk,” Giovanni muttered back.
Beatrice did not have the energy to respond to his insults.
She stared out at the passing darkness, the shapes of trees and fields blending into an inky mass of rain.
She did not understand men. Or at least, she did not understand this one.
How could a person kiss someone so passionately, so intently, and then act as if it meant nothing?
The thought enraged her, but she didn’t have enough energy to fuel it.
She pressed her head against the cold, damp glass and sighed.
All she wanted was a warm bed and to be away from Giovanni.
“This is it,” Giovanni said as the carriage slowed to a halt outside a warmly lit inn. “Come on.”
He took a deep breath and opened the door, holding it open for her as she stepped cautiously out into the muck and puddles.
Instantly, Beatrice knew there was no point in being ladylike about it.
The rain was so heavy it was easily soaking through her velvet hood, and her soft, satin slippers were filled with dirty water.
“Run!” She shouted to Giovanni, hitching up her skirts and making a desperate dash for the door of the inn, feeling cold mud splatter up her stockings as she did so.
She could hear Giovanni cursing beside her and knew he had followed her lead. He easily passed her with a few long strides and reached the entrance. Holding a hand above his head to shield his eyes from the rain, he opened the heavy door and called out, “Hurry up!”
“I am!” She scowled, ducking under his arm and into the warmth.
“God save us from English weather!” Giovanni stepped in beside him, boots squelching on the wet mat and shaking his hair like a dog. Beatrice couldn’t help giggling at him.
“What?” He glared at her from under sodden black curls that clung like seaweed to his forehead.
“You look like a drowned spaniel,” she sputtered, laughing and brushing his wet curls out of his eyes with a flick of her finger. He grinned and looked her up and down, laughing too.
“Well, you’re not much better,” he exclaimed, lifting up the soaking hood that had now stuck to her forehead. “You look like a drowned rat under there.”
“How dare you?” Beatrice admonished playfully, slapping him on the arm. He laughed and rubbed it, grinning down at her fondly. For a moment, everything felt normal. This was how they usually were. Beatrice hadn’t realized how much she had missed this easy repartee she had cherished for nine years.
“Can I help you, sir? Madam?” A voice said, interrupting their jovial intercourse. Giovanni turned to look at the innkeeper, who stood behind the bar rubbing his hand on a dish towel and watching them with interest. “Got caught in it, did you?”
“We did indeed,” Giovanni removed his wet gloves with a huff. “Might you have some rooms for the night, my friend?”
“Aye,” the innkeeper nodded. “I’ve got one.”
“Only one?” Giovanni looked at him with raised eyebrows and glanced at Beatrice. “We will be needing more than one.”
“I’ve only the one.” The innkeeper shook his head. “But your servants can bunk down here in the common room by the fire for the night. They’ll be warm enough. You and your wife can make use of our last room if that suits you.”
Giovanni’s mouth fell open at the word wife, but he closed it rapidly. He glanced quickly at Beatrice, and she knew what he was thinking. Better a room than back out in the rain. Better the man thought she was married to Giovanni than an unmarried woman alone at a strange inn. Beatrice nodded.
“Very well,” he said, and the innkeeper nodded, turning to pull out the guestbook.
“What name is it, sir?” He asked.
“Amante,” Giovanni said, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. Beatrice felt a flicker of excitement that she tried to repress. “Signore and Signora Amante.”