"Lord help us," muttered Edmund as he followed Mrs Mills up the marble stairs to their room, while Noni was taken to the nursery.
They had a problem.
The room faced south, and the windows overlooked the park. It was an exquisite room, hung with silky blue wallpaper and taupe curtains. Plush carpets covered the floor, and a massive gilded mirror hung over the fireplace.
Ellen had never seen a more beautiful room. It was perfect.
Almost.
The problem was the huge rosewood four-poster bed with its light-blue-and-gold silk damask drapery and matching bedspread, which was clearly the masterpiece of the room. To the left and right were oval bedside tables, each with a candelabra placed on a lace doily. At the foot of the bed was a pretty little sofa bench upholstered in taupe velvet. It was a dream of a bed, fit for a king.
She looked around and found, to her relief, a door to the right. A dressing room. Simple, plain, functional, with a wardrobe, a washstand and two chairs. Frowning, she returned to the bedroom. There. A tapestry door. Ellen stepped up to it, relieved. Surely this must be the second room with another bed. She pushed it open.
But it was another dressing room, slightly larger than the first. There were gilded mirrors on the walls, a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, and a screen with chairs. A tin tub stood by the window.
"That's it?" She turned to Tewkbury, who was watching her with hooded eyes. "Where will you sleep?"
He gestured to the bed. "It appears—here."
"But—but—but that won't work!" Ellen hissed.
"Hush."
A footman had entered the room, carrying her valise. It seemed that the dressing room on the right was hers, and the one on the left was his.
Both were staring at the bed. After the footmen had gone, he pressed down with one hand to test the mattress. "I say. Don't see what the problem is? Seems big enough for both of us? Married couples are supposed to share a bed, you know."
He gave her a look so full of devilry that it left her speechless.
"You forget, we just have to pretend to be married in public. No need to keep it up in private."
"Indeed. Didn't count on Dobberham. He no doubt thought he was doing us a favour." Tewkbury frowned. For it was customary, even for married couples, to have separate bedrooms. "If we insist on separate bedrooms, there will be talk," he reasoned. "Remember, we are supposed to be madly in love with each other."
It was a complication she hadn't thought of.
"Does that mean we have to, er, you know? Share it?" She rubbed her forehead.
Just then, his valet entered, carrying his trunks.
Tewkbury looked at her warmly. "Yes, my darling, it does indeed."
The valet disappeared into the dressing room.
He lowered his head to murmur in her ear, "May I remind you I am paying you half a fortune for this? So do your best to play the part. What do you say, my love?" He raised his voice again, making sure it carried into the dressing room.
“I—I suppose I must agree." She looked at him doubtfully. "My l-love."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "If it makes you feel better, it's yours from midnight to six in the morning. Then till noon it's mine," he said in a lowered voice. "No need to worry. We won't even meet."
Ellen pondered on this bed-sharing plan. Could that work? She would have to get up even earlier, to get dressed. And she would have to make sure she went to bed on time, so she didn't oversleep. And he could have the bed to himself all morning if he wanted. It could work. Maybe.
"Unless you can think of something else? It is the only sensible solution," he said.
Ellen agreed. "Very well. Let us do so, in the absence of a better idea." She'd wondered what he would do all night, but that was hardly her problem.
"My lord, may I suggest the hunter's green for this afternoon?" The valet, Lionel, stood before them and lifted his coat.
Tewkbury raised his quizzing glass and waved it away. "No. 'Twon't do. Why are you always insisting on the hunter's green, by Jove?"
