The Marrying Season by Candace Camp Page A

room here?”
    Genevieve’s stomach danced. “I—is that what you prefer?”
    “It is not where I hoped we would stop. There are nicer inns on the road home, but unfortunately the rain held us up. And you are cold and tired and wet.”
    “I will be fine,” she assured him quickly.
    “I know.” The corner of his mouth quirked up. “You are a Stafford and forged from iron. But I fear I am not made of such stern stuff. It will doubtless prove a grave disappointment to you.”
    “Don’t be nonsensical.” She sighed. “Very well. I suppose it does not matter.” His eyebrows rose slightly, and she realized belatedly that her lack of enthusiasm was less than tactful. “I mean, well, you know.” She began to blush.
    “Yes, I know.” He saved her from continuing to flounder by rising and pulling on his jacket. “Why don’t you sit here by the fire? I shall speak to the innkeeper.”
    Genevieve was glad to leave her plate and huddle on a footstoolin front of the fire, but its heat could not take away the chill inside her. Tonight was her wedding night. Her hands tightened on her knees as she thought about her grandmother’s words, and it occurred to her that she had been foolish to agree to this marriage without thinking it through.
    Myles returned, candle in hand, and led her up the stairs and down a narrow, dark hall, into a room that was equally dark and cramped. Genevieve’s heart dropped even lower as she glanced about, taking in the single rickety chair and the small washstand that were the only other objects in the room besides the bed. Someone, the innkeeper she presumed, had brought up their bags and lit an oil lamp, but the small glow did little to alleviate the gloom of the chamber.
    “I am sorry,” Myles told her, surveying the unprepossessing place. “I fear this is all they had. The rain has driven several people to stop here.”
    “I am sure it will be fine.” Genevieve managed to keep her voice even. “It looks, um, clean.” Her eyes skittered over the bed. It was hard to look anyplace else in so small a room.
    “I’ll step out for a moment. Give you a chance to, um . . .” Myles, too, glanced around vaguely, and Genevieve realized that he must feel awkward as well.
    Somehow this thought bolstered her courage, and she was able to smile at him almost normally. “Thank you.”
    As soon as he left, she dug out a nightgown from her bag and hurriedly undressed. Her fingers, clumsy with cold, fumbled at the buttons of her dress, and shedreaded the thought of being caught half-dressed when Myles returned. Once she was in her nightgown, her clothes neatly folded and stuck back into her traveling bag, she hesitated, unsure what to do. It was awkward to just stand about, and it made her blush to think of Myles seeing her in her nightgown. It was no more revealing than a number of evening dresses she had seen, but that she wore nothing beneath it—and that Myles would know that—made it seem indecent.
    Finally, she crawled into bed. It might be forward of her, she supposed, but she was chilled and quite worn-out from a combination of nerves and misery. She curled up on her side, pulling the covers up over her shoulders, and waited for Myles to come. She thought of closing her eyes and pretending to be asleep, but that was a coward’s way out.
    Her heart beat faster at the thought of Myles’s disrobing and getting into bed with her. What would he expect her to do? To say? She could not help but think she would displease him. She had never known how to attract men. Some had told her she was beautiful, but that, she suspected, had more to do with who she was and how large a dowry she possessed than with herself. Indeed, she was apt to turn men away with her sharp tongue.
    Certainly Myles was not attracted to her. In all the years she had known him, he had never made any attempt to court her. Oh, he had flirted with her, but Myles would have flirted with a statue if that was all that was around.