For hours into the night, she’d lain awake, waiting to hear him moving about in the next room, but his suite had remained silent.
She’d only managed to sleep after she’d slid from bed, marched to the door, and thrust it open. The cavernous suite beyond had been empty, of course, and she’d stepped inside, marveling at the high ceilings, the leather-grommeted appointments, the copper tub, twice as large as hers, the giant fireplace.
How have I never seen this room?she’d marveled.
The duchess’s suite was perfectly lovely—truly the most luxurious bedroom in which she’d ever had the fortune of passing the night—but this? This room could easily accommodate two. The bed was massive and the fire warm and bright. There was enough room to bring in a table and chairs, to take private meals in front of the hearth. And the tub?
Clearly Lachlan’s proclivity for outside-the-bed lovemaking had influenced her, because her thoughts had drifted immediately to all of the sloshy, soapy fun they might have inside that deep tub.
Drew had spun around slowly, taking it all in, struck by a very bold, very courageous idea.
What if she engineered a night—a magical night—spent in the company of her husband, in the confines of this glorious chamber? Thenextnight, she’d thought, after their triumphant return from Kew Palace. She would warn him in advance so he’d not be taken by surprise. He could plan for it. It would be known and expected.
They would all be exhausted; she’d already informedCook to plan for an informal supper. She would leave the girls to their own devices and she and Lachlan would take the evening meal here. She would have the servants draw a bath. She would . . . she would . . . wear the shift again. Or wear nothing it all. Lovemaking would be guaranteed, of this she had no doubt, but perhaps she could remain here afterward. For the entire night. Perhaps they could talk. Perhaps she could better understand him and his regard for lovemaking—and for after lovemaking.
Only with this plan percolating in her head had Drew drifted back to her own bed and finally fallen asleep.
The next morning, the idea had endured—the first thing on her mind.
In addition to approving hair and hats and pressing everyone to eat a proper breakfast, Drew had gone over detailed instructions with Chappy and Lachlan’s valet Pruitt. They would make certain the bath was drawn and that Cook prepared a private supper to be served in the duke’s bedchamber, with candles, and wine.
If she’d not yet managed to includeLachlanin this plan—to, in essence, invite him to his own room, a destination to which he would surely already go—well, she would do it when the moment was correct.
It was the very great promise of this night that kept Drew from correcting Imogene for her complaining. Drew heard the girl, but she wasn’t paying attention, not really. The royal visit was something to be endured and survived—for all of them. The invitation for Lachlan to spend a special night, theentirenight, in her company, was the real challenge of the day. She would prioritize herself in this. For once. If ever she intended to get a full night’s sleep again, if their marriage was meant to be halfway reasonable and communicative, their current pattern could not go on.
“Aunt Miss Trelayne?” asked Ivy, invoking the very odd but endearing name that the girls now called her. “But howcan you know we won’t accidentally encounter His Majesty King George?”
Drew smiled at her, glad to have her thoughts pulled back to the present. “Well, I don’t know for certain, but honestly, there is very little chance. The prince and princess receive subjects in a far-flung Throne Room—”
“Some might even call it asewingroom,” droned Lachlan.
“—which is not remotely near the family wing,” finished Drew. “Actually, I don’t believe King George and Queen Charlotte are in residence at the moment. They are at Windsor until after Boxing Day, I believe. Regardless, I’ve called on the princess many times and never once encountered any stray royal.”
Ivy nodded, squeezing a wad of her skirts into a tight ball.
Drew tugged on the girl’s gown, hoping to stave off wrinkling. “Never you fear, Ivy. You’ve already met Princess Cynde in your very own garden. She will be no different. And besides, she and the prince mean to checkmyprogress as your stylist more than anything you may do. We’ll make some small chitchat, likely about the weather; they will express condolences on the passing of your father. You will thank them, curtsy a second time, and we’ll reverse from the room. They receive a steady stream of callers on Mondays, and we’ll be one small party among a larger crowd—people from every corner of the country. We will be unremarkable, really, except for our fine manners and cleverness.”
Ivy nodded and eyed her mother. The baroness closed her eyes, and tapped her head with a gloved hand, the gesture of someone with a headache. Why Lady Tribble had elected to join this particular foray, Drew could not say. But Drew was glad of it; the more interest she showed in the girls’ lessons and outings, the better for all of them.
“Behold, the palace gates,” droned Lachlan, tapping on the carriage glass. “Away we go.”
Ten minutes later they were stepping from the carriage, shaking out skirts and stretching their legs. After a longwalk down a series of gilded passageways and stairwells, they were admitted to the small antechamber that held callers before their audience with the prince and princess.
As before, the room held seven or eight milling subjects, dressed in everything from dull country wool to shiny, vibrant silks. In particular, Drew noticed a cadre of stylish young women, similar in age to Imogene and Ivy, preening and chattering by the doorway. Perhaps today had been set aside for the royal couple to receive several debutantes, Drew thought.
Drew shepherded her family to the only empty corner in the small room and gave Imogene and Ivy a reassuring wink. The girls huddled near their mother, their eyes wide, their hands clasped tightly about fans and reticules.
Perhaps this outing would be good for them, Drew thought. It had been precipitous of Cynde, she’d thought, to summon them so soon, but the girls had learned enough to manage it, and this relatively informal palace visit would help the girls comprehend the gravity of eventually being presented to the queen.
“They’ve restored the window, I see,” Lachlan said, leaning down to whisper in her ear. His closeness rolled shivers down her neck and arms. She glanced at the window and smiled. He’d remembered.
She swallowed hard, bracing herself. She smiled up at him. “Lachlan?”
“Hmm?” He was looking at his timepiece.
“Later tonight, when we’ve returned—”
“Imogene is crying.”
