“Yes, you are. What are you thinking?”
He shrugged. “That you look quite content in that enormous bed. Is it because of me?”
She rolled her eyes. “The inn contents me. It’s warm and inviting and I’m being well cared for. You, on the other hand, confuse me. What did you say to the innkeeper and his staff? I’m being treated like a princess.”
“And not a fallen angel?” He ran a hand once more through his hair. “You ought to be treated with utmost deference, for you and Abner are in my care. I would expect no less from them. I needn’t say a word. I’m a duke. Dukes do not explain themselves to anyone but the royal family.”
“Most odd. Well, make yourself comfortable and tell me what you found.”
He brought a chair to her bedside and settled his large frame onto it. “The carriage is destroyed,” he said with a shake of his head. “The frame is twisted and bent. The seat cushions are not only soaked, but muddied and torn. The roof is cracked. So are two of the wheels.”
“Oh, dear. Father won’t be pleased, though I suppose it’ll be the least of his concerns once he finds out how I’ve spent these past two days.”
“You needn’t dwell on your father’s response. A wedding band on your finger will cure all ills.” He studied her, appearing to steel himself against her protest.
She made none. “You’re right. Were you able to save any of my gowns?”
“I’m right?” He made no effort to mask his surprise, and seemed pleased by her decision. She supposed it was better than seeing a look of resignation on his face.
“You are,” she admitted, casting him a soft smile. “However, I refuse to be called Duchess Daffy. Merely being addressed as duchess will be disconcerting enough.”
He shook his head and laughed. “I’ll add it as a condition to the betrothal contract. I suppose I’ll have to add a clause about your clothing allowance. You’re going to need a new wardrobe, since the contents of your trunk were mostly washed down the river. What remains is ruined rags.”
“Madame de Bressard will be pleased,” she said, referring to London’s most sought after modiste, who had designed most of her gowns.
Ian arched an eyebrow, his expression devilishly appealing. “Until then, you’re stuck with my shirt... or nothing. I prefer you with nothing. In that bed. Right where you are now. Wearing nothing at all.”
He shifted his gaze and suddenly rose. “Ah, Mrs. Gwynne. Let me help you with that tray. The cakes look marvelous, particularly the gingerbread. It’s Miss Farthingale’s favorite. How thoughtful of you.”
Dillie wanted to shrink under the covers. Had the woman heard their conversation?
“We aim to please, Yer Grace,” she said, her manner remaining polite and respectful as she bustled into the room and set the tray on the table beside the shuttered windows. The room was darker than usual because the shutters were once again closed, but Dillie didn’t mind at all. There was ample light from the hearth fire, the flames casting a delightful amber glow about the room. Indeed, everything felt warm and cozy now that Ian was beside her. “Tug on the bellpull should ye need anything.”
“We will, Mrs. Gwynne,” Ian said and winked at the woman.
Mrs. Gwynne hastily made her way toward the door, and then turned and winked back at Ian.
He quietly shut the door and latched it.
Hot, buttered crumpets! She and Ian were alone again. She’d caught the wink between him and Mrs. Gwynne. What was the meaning of that exchange? “You did tell them something.”
He cast her an innocent glance. “Would you care for a gingerbread cake?”
She supposed it wasn’t important. Whatever he’d said had turned the innkeeper and his entire staff into his private little band of conspirators, their fiendish plot to make her as comfortable and well cared for as possible.
She watched Ian, the mastermind behind that plot, cross to the table and set a slice of that gingerbread cake on a plate. “This one’s for you. Would you care for some tea?”
“No, thank you.” He returned to her side and handed her the plate. “Ian, how do you know that this is my favorite cake?”
He’d already walked back to the table to pour himself a cup of tea. He looked quite ruggedly handsome by firelight—broad shoulders, trim waist, and long, muscled legs. His gold hair was damp and curling at the nape of his neck. “You and I have been to many of the same society affairs. Parties. Teas. It’s the first thing you ever reach for.”
She laughed. “You noticed?”
“I noticed you. Always.”