Chapter Twelve
He had fallen asleep in his study again, but Nathaniel still found himself awake before dawn as he did most mornings.
When he had awoken at his desk, well past midnight, he had tried to settle into his bed, tossing and turning, until the pink rays of light edged their way through the closed curtains and began to taunt him.
There was too much to be done and too few hours of sunlight in which to accomplish it. The only problem was, the rest of London seemed to value their sleep more than productivity, and there was only so much a man could accomplish on his own, even if that man was the Duke of Kenswick.
Nathaniel pulled himself from his bed, passing by the bell pull, and making his way to his dressing room. There was no need to bother his valet when he didn’t need to dress to be presentable—he was not planning on seeing anyone at this hour.
He shed his jacket and waistcoat from the evening before, careful not to wrinkle the fabric even more.
He knew that his early morning outings already created more work for his staff, and he had no desire to force them to spend additional hours pressing out the creases in his clothes because he couldn’t manage to make it to his bed and undress for the day like every other member of civil society.
He changed into a clean pair of pants—the oldest pair he could find—and slipped on a fresh shirt, not bothering to tuck it in or secure ties at his chest.
He slipped silently out the door and down the hall, boots held securely in his hands.
The halls in Kenswick House were layered with thick, luxurious carpet that absorbed even the heaviest footsteps, but he could not risk Charlotte hearing him leave at such an early hour or he would never be able to keep her contained.
He tiptoed silently down the stairs and made his way towards the back of the house to the entrance of the servants’ stairs.
Nathaniel hated to think of this as sneaking out.
Sneaking out was reckless. He was being careful—taking precautions.
One of those precautions was making sure no one who lived on the same row of Grosvenor Square saw him walking out his front door at dawn, half-dressed and sleep-deprived.
There were very few people who knew of his unusual routine. There were, of course, a few select loyal members of his staff, Oliver—whom Nathaniel had yet to successfully keep a secret from—and the owner of the boathouse that Nathaniel paid dearly for his discretion.
The only other person who had any knowledge of his early morning rows, was the woman he pulled from the river two years prior—the woman who was now his wife.
Perhaps it was strange that neither he nor Emilia had brought up the first time they met.
Neither had any inclination of what the other was doing on the Thames at such an early hour, or how she had ended up in the middle of the river without a boat.
Though Nathaniel had plenty of questions, his desire to keep his own secrets currently outweighed his curiosity over Emilia’s.
Rowing was one of the few things that made Nathaniel feel at peace.
The River Thames did not care if he was the Duke of Kenswick—it did not bend to his will or show him favor.
It behaved as it did for any other man, pushing and pulling against every stroke of his oar.
There was something rewarding about earning every successful inch forward as he rowed against the current.
While Nathaniel had worked hard to earn the respect he held among his peers, he knew it was all for his title and not for him.
The river was his achievement and his alone—the burning in his lungs as he built endurance, the ache of his muscles as he grew stronger and faster with each cut through the water.
It began as childish bets during the long days between lessons at Eton—who could reach the opposite bank first? But it quickly became his escape from the pressure of inheriting the title so young.
There was no room for anything else when his body was pushed to the edge of what it could bear. And somehow, the weight of so many livelihoods and futures felt lighter when his shoulders were already accustomed to such vigorous exertion.
There wasn’t anything scandalous about being on a boat in the water, but society had a perfectly contrived image that men of nobility should uphold, and physical labor—no matter how healing it was for the body and soul—was not a part of that.
At Rosemore Hall, he did not need to take precautions as extreme as sneaking around before the sun.
The estate was perfectly located to have access to many smaller run-offs from the River Derwent.
One that held the fastest current was hidden beneath a dense canopy of forest and ran for miles through the rolling hills of the valley.
Nathaniel reached the bottom of the servants’ stairs and inched open the door that led into the kitchen.
The kitchen entrance had proved to be the most hidden and discreet way to exit his townhouse, but he also knew if he didn’t find something small to eat, he would be famished by the time breakfast came around.
He stepped into the nearly dark room and froze when he saw the soft glow of a candle coming from the back corner.
Cook shouldn’t be awake yet, nor should any of the other staff. Charlotte was known to raid the kitchens at all hours of the night, but as he moved closer towards the light, his heart stuttered.
Dark red curls turned to fire in the candlelight and cascaded down Emilia’s back, barely secured by a light blue ribbon loosely tied at the nape of her neck.
She leaned against the kitchen work table, a pink knit blanket wrapped securely around her shoulders as her bare feet peeked out from underneath her long white nightdress.
He approached her, and her head lifted in surprise as she pulled her hand away from her mouth, dropping whatever she had been eating onto the plate in front of her.
“Nathaniel!” She said with a start. Her eyes widened as he stepped closer, a small blush rising in her cheeks. Nathaniel felt his own face heat as her eyes took him in, suddenly regretting his choice of clothing—or lack thereof.
“I did not mean to startle you,” he said, clearing his throat. “What are you doing in the kitchen?”
Emilia straightened. “Am I not allowed to be here?” She took a small step back.
“No, it is perfectly fine.” Nathaniel tried to reassure her. “I am simply concerned about why you are here. If you are going to bed hungry, that is something Cook should know. Was dinner not to your liking? Did you not get enough to eat?”
Nathaniel realized he had no knowledge of what she had eaten for dinner, for he had once again lost track of time and taken a tray in his study.
“Oh no!” She exclaimed quietly. “Everything was delicious as always…it is simply that…” Her eyes dipped to the assortment of dishes on the table. A bowl of freshly poured cream, a jar of honey, and a plate of day-old milk rolls.
“I did not mean any offense,” she whispered, quickly covering the bread with a tea towel. “I am just so unsure what is acceptable and what is not. ”
“Emilia,” Nathaniel said softly, but she still tensed. “I promise, you have offended no one.”
She nodded slightly, and her shoulders relaxed, but she still regarded him with uncertainty.
Nathaniel nodded towards the table. “I would have thought the bread to be stale by now.”
Cook’s milk rolls were nothing short of heavenly at breakfast the morning before, but he could only imagine how the corners must have begun to harden.
Emilia sucked in her bottom lip, swallowing a smile as she nodded, “They are.”
Nathaniel couldn’t help but laugh. “Then why are you eating them?”
Emilia removed the towel from the plate, revealing three more rolls. She picked one up.
“When I was little, I often was not allowed dessert, so one of our kitchen maids secretly hid away small servings for me and would deliver it to my room after everyone was asleep. One night, she did not come, so I snuck down into the kitchen to look for her. I was told that my uncle had found out what she had been doing, accused her of stealing, and dismissed her without recommendation.”
“For giving you dessert?”
Emilia nodded as she tore a piece from the roll. “Our cook took pity on me and showed me this.”
She dipped the bread into the bowl of cream, swirling it around as it soaked the liquid up.
Nathaniel raised his eyebrows. “She showed you how to eat stale bread?”
Emilia laughed, and Nathaniel felt his heart nearly launch out of his chest.
“Yes, the bread is a little stale,” she said. “But when you soak it in the cream, it softens, and the texture is close to bread pudding.” She pulled the bread from the bowl.
“And this…” she drizzled a spoonful of honey over the top. “...is the best part.”
She held out her hand, and Nathniael eyed the sticky, soggy piece of bread. Her eyes were wide with expectation, and he couldn’t find it in his heart to deny her. He took the roll and bit into it, his eyes closing involuntarily, and a low, soft groan of satisfaction escaped his lips.
Emilia laughed again. “See,” she smiled, tearing off another piece. “I know it is silly, but something about it is comforting. I did not have many things that brought me comfort in my uncle’s home, so I suppose I am a bit reluctant to let this one go.”
Nathaniel wiped his hands on his trousers as he settled into the stool across from hers.
“I do not find it silly,” he said. “But may I ask, why were you not allowed dessert? Was it a punishment?”
He couldn’t imagine this sweet, considerate woman ever doing anything requiring reprimand, even as a child, but what other reason would her uncle have for depriving her of such a simple pleasure and dismissing the maid for providing it?
“No,” she shook her head. “Unless the punishment was for inconveniencing him by being orphaned.” Emilia clasped a hand over her mouth. “I am so sorry, I should not have said that.”