It should have been enough.
Itwasenough.
It’s not enough.
The thought, snipey and undermining, echoed in her heart.
I want it all.
Drew’s desire to be a proper wife, to touch, and laugh and be adored by him, nestled into her brain like seed. It grew a little more every day, distracting her from the gratitude she felt for the duke’s proposal and distracted fromthe girls. Worst of all, it interrupted the not-insignificant satisfaction of simply being his, his . . . his helper. With the twins. In the household. With Lady Tribble.
Before Drew had transformed, when she existed in her former role as... well, as Drewsmina Trelayne, Terrible Extraordinaire, Drew’s every move had been powered by I-want-it-all selfishness. This had been the source of shouting at servants and competing with Ana and ridiculing Cynde. All of it in service to her unquenchable desire to have the best, the prettiest, themost. The result was to pummel everyone else in her path but also miss the richness of small things. When you wanted it all, you missed the beauty of a million quieter, seemingly lesser things. Birds, snowy evenings, raspberry glaze, the rising action in a good book.
There was an emptiness that came from wanting it all—not to mention heartbreak.
And oh, the heartbreak that would result in loving the Duke of Lachlan. Every time he hopped out of the way of a passing servant, or stood up to Imogene with compassion and pragmatism, every time he was gracious with his sister, she felt her heart fill with burgeoning love. And the larger her heart swelled, the sooner it would rupture.
Meanwhile, he’d not touched her since that night in the gallery. On the rare occasions they were alone together, he spoke only of legal documents and pin money and the number of tiers to their wedding cake. She had followed his lead—what choice did she have? She could hardly hurl herself at him.
When she thought back to those moments in the gallery, she could barely remember how they’d gotten from standing beside each other, to kissing, to sprawled on the bench. Some endeavors happened step-by-step, like the tying of a Windsor knot or the boiling of an egg. The gallery had been nothing like that; it’d been a sort of...cascade of magic. And Drew knew virtually nothing of magic. Except that she liked it and she wanted more of it.
I want all of it.
Drew exhaled, not certain what to do with that entirely useless, fruitless thought. She watched Chappy, now moving about her new room, straightening linens and arranging vases. She chatted pleasantly as she went, pointing out the window seat, the removable steps to the very tall bed, the vanity crowded with Drew’s hairbrushes and pins. Drew nodded along, murmuring her approval, but her attention drifted, again and again, to the closed door in the far corner.
“And that would be the door to His Grace’s chamber,” Chappy finished. It would be impossible for the woman not to notice Drew studying it.
“His Grace has... has retired for the night?” Drew asked.
“I cannot say, madam. Would you like me to send a girl to seek out his valet?”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary. Thank you. I’ll—We’ll sort it out.” Her face reddened.
Also impossible to hide: the glaring lack of convention in the verydryrapport between the newlyweds. Cynde spoke often of the value of discretion among servants—by all accounts, she and Prince Adolphus lived as nudists inside their suite at Kew Palace—and Drew hoped that Chappy would be an ally in this way.
If nothing else, it felt like a luxury to have the woman help her with the buttons and fasteners on her dress, to unpin her hair, to assist her with her toilette. If Chappy thought it odd that Drew’s only choice of post-wedding night rail was a thick opaque green cotton that reached to her toes, paired with a stiff wool dressing gown, she said nothing.
With a final word of congratulations and good-night, Chappy was gone.
Alone in the expansive room, Drew took a deep breath and slowly spun. She drifted from the stone fireplace, to plush chairs, to the large empty bed with taut linens pulled back on one side. All the while, she listened, carefully,breathlessly, for any sound from next door. Was that a rustle? Did she hear a thump, a cough?
Drew caught her reflection in the mirror above the vanity and frowned. Her long orange hair was down, brushed shiny by Chappy. Her gown was warm and snug. She saw a hopeful young woman, cocooned in green wool, holding her breath for a man.
I know better, she thought, trudging to the vanity.Moreover, I expect better. She narrowed her eyes in the mirror, arranging her expression into a determined sort of pride. Chin high, eyes haughty, like her mother. She frowned again. Whatever she did, she mustn’t look like her mother.
She had just taken up a comb with a small jeweled dragonfly, when she heard footsteps in the main corridor. Her hand froze, midstroke. The doorknob squeaked and the heavy wood of her door swung open, just a crack.
Drew pressed the comb into her hair and then sat perfectly still. Her heart thrashed like a bird in a trap. She was suddenly aware of the weight and scratch of every fiber of her heavy night clothes. Slowly she pivoted to the door.
“I have something that I require.”
It was Imogene. She admitted herself to the room by swinging the door wide.
“Hello, Imogene,” managed Drew, the bird of her heart collapsing into death. “Have we discussed the importance of knocking on doors before we enter private rooms? If not, please take note. It is rude to simply admit yourself to someone’s private bed chamber.”
“I did knock,” said Imogene.
“You did not knock,” said Drew.
