Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Giovanni held his breath as the innkeeper unlocked the door to their bedroom. Their bedroom. He was going to share a bedroom with Beatrice.
“Here we are,” the innkeeper said, pushing the door open to show them inside. “One of our best, if I do say so myself.”
Giovanni was relieved to see that it was a pleasant room, the kind that wouldn’t be unsuitable for a lady like Beatrice.
It was warm and cozy, furnished with rustic, gleaming oak and dark red and green cushions.
The fire was flickering enticingly, casting a soft light over the room, and two comfortable-looking armchairs sat beside it.
However, the piece of furniture dominating the space was undoubtedly the bed.
It was a traditional four poster with deep burgundy bed curtains.
The green coverlet was embroidered with yellow and gold leaves and flowers—it looked inviting.
Giovanni immediately imagined what Beatrice would look like laid upon it, her fair skin glowing in the firelight as her hair spread across the coverlet in a great wave of raven silk. Stop it.
“Will it suit, sir?” The innkeeper asked.
“Yes,” Giovanni answered gruffly, glancing at Beatrice. She, too, was staring at the bed. He wondered if she was thinking along the same lines as he was. “It is perfectly suitable.”
Perfectly suitable for ravishing her. Perfectly suitable for losing his mind in her scent, her touch, the alluring need he had for her.
Perfectly suitable. Giovanni swallowed hard.
He needed to take hold of himself. When they left Grosvenor Square, he had sworn that he would not betray Silas.
This would take all his strength, but Giovanni had to maintain propriety. He clenched his fists.
“Will you be wanting your dinner brought to the room, sir?” The innkeeper asked.
“No,” Giovanni said quickly. He noticed the slight frown that Beatrice threw his way.
He knew she might not relish the idea of taking her supper in the common dining room with the other patrons, but he didn’t care.
He could think of nothing worse for his self-control right now than to be trapped alone in the room with Beatrice.
“We shall eat in the common dining room.”
“Yes, sir,” the innkeeper nodded. “We have an excellent beef Wellington this evening. Might that interest you?”
“Thank you, yes,” Giovanni said, looking at Beatrice and noticing her shivering. “And we will start with some hot soup if you could be so kind.”
“Yes, sir,” the innkeeper nodded again. “Shall you come to the dining room presently?”
“I must change,” Beatrice said quietly.
Oh God, she has to change.
Giovanni couldn’t help himself. He instinctively looked down to where wet tendrils of her hair were clinging to her neck, where her light-pink dress was soaked through, sticking to her stays underneath. He tore his eyes away.
“We will be along shortly,” Giovanni said to the innkeeper, nodding at him and trying to keep the strain he was feeling out of his voice. “Once my wife has changed her gown.”
He tried not to let his voice stumble on the word “wife.” He could see Beatrice blushing just to hear it. He would have to try to avoid using it if she would react so curiously.
“Yes, sir.” The innkeeper opened the door and smiled over his shoulder. “Let me know if you require anything else.”
He closed the door behind him. Silence filled the room between Giovanni and Beatrice.
It felt like the tension could be snapped like a brittle biscuit, and the air between them was crackling with potential words.
Here they were, exactly where he had hoped they wouldn’t be.
Beatrice shivered and rubbed her damp arms.
“I can wait outside while you change,” Giovanni said quietly. “I’ll be just on the other side of the door to make sure no one else comes in.”
“No.” Beatrice shook her head. “We are supposed to be married. How will it look to someone if you stand outside? And then what shall I do when I am dressed and you need to change your shirt? Will I stand outside, waiting for you? I can hardly go into the common dining room alone.”
“And what shall we do when Silas and Anna discover we shared a room?” Giovanni ran his hand through his wet hair distractedly.
“I’m not going to tell them.” Beatrice looked up at him with her dark eyebrows raised. “Are you?”
Giovanni assessed the situation. As much as he wanted to maintain propriety with Beatrice, he knew protecting her safety was ultimately more important than trying to make things easier on himself.
She would be vulnerable if anyone suspected she was a single woman traveling without a proper chaperone.
It might be that he would wish to keep Beatrice at arm’s length and keep himself away from temptation, but he needed to play the role of her husband convincingly—to protect her.
Beatrice was right. He sighed heavily, looking down at the mat.
“What do you want to do?” He asked.
Beatrice let out a breath of relief.
“I’ll change behind the bed curtains,” she said. “You can change your shirt and waistcoat out here.”
She quickly opened one of the trunks, pulling out a fresh gown and giving it a good shake.
It was berry red, the color of vibrant strawberries, and one of Giovanni’s favorite dresses of hers.
The color brought out the milky quality of her skin and the darkness of her eyes.
It was made of thick, soft velvet that made Giovanni want to stroke it.
He knew she was choosing it for its long sleeves and warm fabric, but Giovanni almost wanted to tell her to put it back and choose something else. It was too enticing.
“Do you need anything else?” Giovanni asked, his throat constricting with desire.
“A towel, perhaps?” Beatrice said, pulling her wet cloak off her shoulders, and draping it over the chair nearest the fire to dry.
Without the cover of her cloak, Giovanni could see how the light fabric of her gown across the top of her back was sheer, showing clearly the outline of her stays underneath.
“I’ll get one for you,” Giovanni stuttered, stumbling to the door, desperate to avert his eyes. “One moment.”
He closed the door behind him before Beatrice could respond and leaned against it, breathing heavily, eyes closed. She didn’t have to do barely anything to turn his legs to jelly. Christ, she will be the death of me.
“Do you need any help, sir? Does your wife need anything?”
He opened his eyes to see a pretty young maid standing nearby, a pitcher of steaming water in one hand and a few towels over her arm.
On a normal day, he would perhaps feel a tremor of desire at seeing such a lovely face looking at him so sweetly from under long eyelashes, but not today.
Today, he could only think of the gentle curve of Beatrice’s neck.
“Just the towels and the hot water, thank you,” Giovanni said, reaching out to take them from the maid. He noticed the slight fall of disappointment in her eyes, as if she had wanted an opportunity to flirt with him, but the prospect did nothing for him.
“Very well, sir.” She ducked her eyes respectfully and moved past him. “I shall turn down the bed when you go for supper.”
“Thank you.” Giovanni watched her disappear down the corridor.
He knew he should go back inside the room.
As Beatrice said, it was odd for a husband to loiter outside his own wife’s room in the cold when he could easily be in the warmth of her company, but he needed a moment to compose himself.
He tried to force himself to think of something else entirely and let his mind drift, but immediately all he thought of was the Duke of Grafton.
He groaned, pressing his head back against the wood, the steam from the pitcher condensing wetly under his chin.
His head swarmed with all the new information he had absorbed in the last twenty-four hours.
It was too much. He wished he could talk to someone about it.
“Get a hold of yourself,” Giovanni muttered sternly.
After taking a few more deep breaths, he returned to the bedroom.
What he saw nearly made him drop everything he was holding.
True to her word, Beatrice had gone behind the bed curtains to change.
However, there was a crack in the curtains and Giovanni could see Beatrice kneeling on the bedspread in her stays and easing the red gown over her head.
Her posture stiffened when she heard the door open, and he watched, holding his breath as she pulled the gown down over her head.
Her face appeared flushed and breathless, her hair undone and wet and slick around her neck.
Giovanni quickly averted his eyes, not wanting to look like he was watching her, even though his heart was thundering.
“You’re back,” she said, reaching a hand around to try and do up her buttons.
“I’ve brought towels,” he set them down on the chair and the pitcher on the small table.
“Thank you.”
He could hear the reservation in her voice, the tightness, and the curiosity. She knew that he had seen her. He watched with bated breath as she slid off the bed, still trying to reach her last button.
“Can you do this up for me?” She asked, turning her back to him as she reached for one of the small towels, twisting her long hair into it. “It’s just the top button.”
Giovanni knew he should refuse, but the single-bone button was irresistible with its small silk hoop. He held his breath, trying not to let his fingers touch her skin, but it was impossible. The skin on her back was still a little chilled from the rain.
“You’re cold,” Giovanni murmured, pressing his warm palm to the cold skin at the back of her neck. He heard her breath catch in her throat and saw her hands still on the towel. “You stay here by the fire. I’ll go behind the bed curtains and change.”