It was Annie at the door. “Good morning, Your Grace.” To Willa listening behind the screen, the maid sounded nervous, as if the sight of the duke’s bare chest was both disconcerting and highly improper. “I’m Annie, Her Grace’s maid.”
“I remember.”
Her voice even more timid, Annie said, “I have your breakfast.”
“Let me take the cart,” Matt said, his grumbly voice sounding as if he was some dreaded beast from the innards of the earth. “You can roll the other one out. And order a bath. Make it the way my wife likes it.”
A bath sounded like heaven. Willa was reluctantly glad he asked for one.
“Yes, Your Grace.” There was the sound of movement and then Annie uttered a small cry.
Willa strained to hear what had happened.
“You can change the sheets on the bed as well,” Matt said. “Take them away. Burn them.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Annie replied, sounding chastened.
Willa believed she would die of the mortification. Especially when Annie dared, “Is Her Grace all right?”
“She isfine.” Matt spoke as if “fine” was a sharp, pointy word.
There was the sound of sheets being wadded up. “Please call me if she needs me, Your Grace,” Annie murmured, and then there was the rattle of dishes and a door closing.
Willa vowed she would never come out from behind this screen. She was going to stay here forever.
But she couldn’t, especially as she caught the smells of fresh bread and even sausages. Her stomach rumbled. She’d barely eaten yesterday.
As she prayed that silence on the other side of the screen meant he’d left the room with Annie, hunger moved her out from behind the screen.
Her prayer had not been answered. Matt sat in a chair at the desk by the window. At the sight of her, he said, “My turn,” like they were children playing a game.
He went behind the screen. Willa could hear him back there, just as he’d probably heard her. It was all too intimate, especially after last night. She sat in the chair he’d vacated, her back to the screen.
Matt came out with the chamber pot and walked to the door. He handed it to a maid who was out in the hall. He faced Willa. “There, that’s done.” He walked over and washed his hands in the basin. “Do you wish some soap?” he said.
She didn’t move. “I don’t like this.”
“What, soap?”
“No.”
“It’s called marriage, Willa. We are married. Do you wish to wash your hands?”
Willa rose and walked over to the basin. She stopped and motioned him out of the way. He did not like that. For a second, there was a war of wills, but then he did step back. She scrubbed her hands well. “Thank you for ordering the bath.”
He had already gone over to the cart and was lifting the covers on the food. “I thought you would like it. Hungry?”
Her stomach rumbled the answer.
He tried to hide a smile and she imagined how pleasant it would be to run over him with the cart. Instead, she admitted, “I’m starved.”
“Cook is a far cry from your father’s excellent chef, but she makes a good breakfast.”
“I could eat raw meat right now,” Willa said. She began filling a plate with sausage, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and a heap of butter. Taking silverware, she went over to the desk before returning for a cup of hot tea.
He had poured it for her.
Matt prepared a plate and joined her. For a good bit, there was only the sound of their eating. Food was a remarkable restorative.
