“I told you not to become a problem,” he whispered. “Yet, I fear you are disobeying.”
She mumbled in her sleep, something about “scoundrels” and “tricking me into saying things.” What those things might have been and who the scoundrels in question were, Albion did not know and could not ask.
“Come on, wife of mine,” he said, gently easing her head off his lap.
He stood up, stretched out his stiff limbs, and scooped his arms underneath Matilda. She was heavier than he had anticipated, without the assistance of the sea to lift her, but it was nothing he could not handle with ease. In truth, he rather liked how she felt in his arms as he navigated opening the carriage door and carried her down to the pavement and up the steps to the townhouse.
The door opened before he could attempt to struggle with it.
“Your Grace.” An unfamiliar man bowed to him.
Albion frowned up at the townhouse. “Am I in the right place?”
“Pardon?” The man seemed to understand. “Oh… yes, of course this is your townhouse. Apologies, Your Grace. I arrived a few hours ago, and the butler instructed me to wait for your return. I think he was eager to retire with the hour getting so late.”
Albion eyed the fellow. “And who might you be?”
The man was tall, wiry, and relatively young, perhaps a few years younger than him, with well-oiled, combed blond hair and half-moon spectacles perched upon a bird-like nose, magnifying his blue eyes. Not a military man, not a soldier he had forgotten who had come to pay respects, but someone born and bred to the servant class. It was clear in the way he held himself, his posture rod straight, his demeanor inobtrusive, well-versed in not drawing attention to himself until called upon.
“Your new valet, Your Grace.” The man bowed again, confirming Albion’s suspicions. “Ibelieveyou sent for me, but if there has been some misunderstanding…”
Albion relaxed. “Of course. Goodness, I’d forgotten.”
After Ben’s departure, his mother had insisted that he needed to employ the services of a proper valet for himself, even though the prospect was foreign to him. He had always dressed himself, tended to himself, and been quite happy to do so, but if he thought of a valet as a second-in-command, it made the idea easier to fathom. The man before him was the one he had chosen, after sifting through countless recommendations from peers whodidknow what to look for in a valet.
“What is your name again?” Albion stepped past him into the entrance hall, adjusting Matilda in his arms.
“Mr. Laurence Algernon, Your Grace,” the man replied.
Albion smiled. “Well, Mr. Algernon, might you fetch some water for my wife? You can leave it outside her bedchamber. I’ll tend to the rest.” He headed for the stairs. “You do know where the Duchess’ chambers are, don’t you?”
“If I’m uncertain, I will ask one of the maids who are still awake,” Laurence said.
Albion nodded and continued on up the stairs, wielding his wife all the way to her bed.
Laying her down upon the coverlets, he paused and rubbed his chin, wondering what on earth to do next. He did not know if it was wise to let her sleep in her evening attire, but nor did he think she would appreciate it if he undressed her. They were already in sensitive territory, and he did not want to undo the progress they had made by… well, undoing her gown.
He took blankets off the side table and tucked her in, deciding that if she could sleep at all kinds of uncomfortable angles, she could spend one night sleeping in her gown and whatever she had on beneath.
“Goodnight, Matilda,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
Her skin was warm and scented with woodsmoke from the bonfires that had blazed all across the vast ball.
He was about to leave, to fetch that water and place it at her bedside, when her hand curled around his sleeve, gripping tighter than any sleeping person had a right to grip.
“No,” she murmured. “Do not let me… see your back again.”
He froze, searching her face. As far as he could tell, she was still fast asleep.
“You want me to stay?” he asked, tentatively sitting down on the edge of the bed.
Her hand continued to grasp his sleeve, a smile playing upon her lips. “It is a nice back. Obscenely wide shoulders, though. And why must he be so tall? He is a human tree.”
He stifled a laugh so as not to wake her. In truth, he suspected he should leave, for sitting there with her felt rather like eavesdropping upon a conversation he was not meant to hear.
When she releases me, I will go,he told himself.
From outside the door, he heard the clink of a tray being set down and the stealthy departure of footsteps. Albion did not know if things would work out with the valet, if he would have any need of one, but he would at least see how the fellow fared while they were in London.
