BY THE TIME THEY reached the inn, both were utterly drenched. Rain poured down from the heavens in relentless sheets, and though Adrian had tried his best to shield Evelina with his own body, it did little good. Her gown clung to her like a second skin, and the chill had turned her lips pale.
He was the first to dismount, his boots splashing into the puddled earth. Then, without hesitation, he extended his hands to her.
"Come," he said softly, his voice carrying above the patter of rain.
Her fingers, cold and trembling, found his. He steadied her as she slid from the saddle, one hand firm at her waist. For a moment, she wavered on the slick cobblestones, her footing unsure, but his arm caught her before she could stumble.
"Easy," he murmured, the word nearly lost to the rain.
Evelina's breath came unsteady, and she looked up at him with gratitude that glimmered faintly through her fatigue. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice as soft as the rain itself.
He gave a faint nod, his gaze lingering on her pale face. The sight of her shivering stirred something uneasy in him. He could feel her cold even through the brief touch of her hand. But he, too, was soaked to the bone. There was little he could do for her now but get her somewhere warm.
When they entered the inn, the warmth of the hearth reached them faintly from within, carrying with it the smell of smoke and damp wood. The servants, startled by the sudden arrival of their noble guests, curtseyed deeply.
Butler Blake stepped forward, his face taut with concern. "Your grace," he began quietly, "the luxury rooms are full." His eyes flickered briefly toward Evelina, his worry mirroring his master's.
Adrian's jaw tightened. "All of them?" he asked sharply, irritation threading through the fatigue in his voice.
Before Blake could respond, the innkeeper appeared — a stout man with kind eyes and a face reddened by heat and haste. He bowed deeply, his voice trembling with respect. "Your Grace, my lady," he greeted. "Forgive the poor accommodations. We were not expecting such… distinguished company."
"It's all right," Adrian replied curtly, running a hand through his rain-darkened hair. "My butler says there are no luxury rooms?"
The innkeeper looked nervous. "Yes, Your Grace. All are taken. But—" he hesitated, glancing between them, "there is one chamber left. It is… modest. Smaller than you might prefer."
"We'll take it," Adrian said at once. There was no time for vanity, not with Evelina shivering beside him.
"As you wish, Your Grace." The man bowed again and hurried off to make arrangements.
Turning to Blake, Adrian said firmly, "Fetch us something warm to eat, and dry clothes. Quickly."
"Yes, Your Grace." The butler departed at once.
The innkeeper soon returned and led them up the narrow staircase. The hallway smelled faintly of pine smoke and old wood. He followed closely behind Evelina, watching as she lifted the hem of her soaked gown to keep it from dragging. He noticed how her hands shook and wished, not for the first time, that he could do more than merely watch.
When they reached the chamber, he dismissed the innkeeper with a nod and turned to her just as she was pulling off her soaked gloves. She wrung them gently, droplets falling to the floor like small tears.
He said nothing — only moved to the fireplace and crouched slightly before it, extending his hands toward the flames. The warmth bit at his cold skin, and he closed his eyes briefly, letting the heat seep in.
A knock came at the door. He straightened and went to open it. Blake stood there with neatly folded garments and a few servants carrying trays of steaming food. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread filled the small room.
Adrian stepped aside to let them in. They set everything down swiftly and withdrew, leaving the chamber quiet once more. The only sound was the soft crackle of fire and the faint patter of rain against the window.
He turned then. Evelina stood near the hearth, her damp hair loose about her shoulders, her cheeks flushed faintly from the heat. She looked fragile in the firelight.
He cleared his throat softly. "You can change first," he said, forcing his tone to remain formal. "I'll wait outside."
For a moment, she looked startled — her eyes widening before she lowered them to her fingers. "O-Of course," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."
He hesitated. Just for a breath. And then, inclined his head slightly. "Call if you need anything," he said, his voice softer now, almost reluctant.
She nodded once, eyes still lowered.
Then, with a quiet sigh, he turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.
*****
Clara tried to steady her breathing, but her heart refused to obey. No matter how she willed herself to calm, it beat wildly against her chest — a betraying rhythm that made it impossible to think clearly.
She had moved now to sit on the edge of the bed, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the flicker of the fire across the room.
'Calm yourself, Clara,' she whispered inwardly. 'You are only sharing a room. There is no reason to panic.'
And yet, every passing moment made her more aware of what it meant. They would be alone tonight for the first time. She tried not to dwell on the thought, but it lingered like a shadow at the back of her mind.
Even during her bath, her thoughts had refused to quiet. The warm water had done little to ease her nerves; instead, it had increased her fear.
She wondered, dreadfully, if he would find out tonight that she was not his real bride. The thought made her pulse race.
The idea of being in such closeness with him, unsettled her. Would he find out she was an imposter tonight?
She exhaled slowly, determined to quiet both her nerves and her thoughts.
By the time a knock sounded at the door, she had composed herself as best she could. Her chestnut brown hair had dried into soft waves that framed her flushed face, and she sat properly on the bed, hands clasped tightly together to still their trembling.
"Come in," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
The door opened, and there he was.
Adrian stepped inside, the faint scent of rain following him. His hair was damp, his clothes clinging slightly to his frame. Her breath caught.
Then their eyes met.
Her courage failed her. Quickly, she dropped her gaze to the floor, her fingers tightening in her lap. She did not trust herself to look at him too long; he could see through her façade.
"Will you be needing something for the night?" His voice was low — courteous, careful, as though he feared to startle her.
She looked up then, just briefly, to find him crossing the room toward the table where the fresh linen and dry garments had been laid. Her throat felt tight.
"N-no," she managed quietly. "I can manage, thank you."
He inclined his head slightly, lifting a folded shirt from the pile. "The room is rather small," he remarked in a tone that was almost apologetic. "I hope you will be comfortable until morning."
"Yes," she murmured again, her eyes lowering once more.
There was a pause. Then he nodded faintly. "Very well," he said at last. "I shall take a bath."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out — only a small, uncertain "All right," that barely reached his ears.
He turned then, gathering his clothes, and walked to the washroom.
When the door closed behind him, the quiet that settled was almost deafening.
She released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Her shoulders slumped slightly as she brought a trembling hand to her chest, feeling the thundering of her heart.