“Do you come here often?” Amelia asked, taking his arm when he offered it to her. It was surprisingly thrilling, this, to be on the arm of her betrothed, and not because it was a requirement he felt he must fulfill. It was almost as if they were a young married couple, off on an outing, just the two of them.

“I consider the innkeeper a friend,” he replied.

She turned to him. “Really?” Until this very day, he had been the Duke to her, raised high on a pedestal, too rarefied to converse with mere mortals.

“Is it so difficult to imagine that I might have a friend who is of inferior rank?” he asked.

“Of course not,” she replied, since she could not tell him the truth—that it was difficult to imagine him with a friend of any stripe. Not, of course, because he was lacking. Quite the contrary. He was so splendid in every way that one could not imagine walking up to him and uttering anything benign or banal. And wasn’t that how friendships were usually formed? With an ordinary moment, a shared umbrella, or perhaps two seats next to each other at a bad musicale?

She had seen the way people treated him. Either they fawned and preened and begged his favors, or they stood to the side, too intimidated to attempt a conversation.

She’d never really thought about it before, but it must be rather lonely to be him.

They entered the inn, and although Amelia kept her face politely forward, her eyes were darting this way and that, trying to take it all in. She wasn’t sure what her mother had found so repellent; everything looked respectable enough to her. It smelled heavenly, too, of meat pies and cinnamon and something else she couldn’t quite identify—something tangy and sweet.

They walked into what had to be the taproom, and were immediately greeted by the innkeeper, who called out, “Wyndham! Two days in a row! To what do I owe your gilded presence?”

“Stuff it, Gladdish,” Thomas muttered, leading Amelia to the bar. Feeling very risqué, she sat atop a stool.

“You’ve been drinking,” the innkeeper said, grinning. “But not here with me. I’m crushed.”

“I need a Baddish,” Thomas said.

Which didn’t really make any more sense than a radish, Amelia thought.

“I need an introduction,” the innkeeper returned.

Amelia grinned. She’d never heard anyone speak to him in this manner. Grace came close…sometimes. But it wasn’t like this. She would never have been so audacious.

“Harry Gladdish,” Thomas said, sounding supremely irritated that he was being made to dance to someone else’s tune, “may I present the Lady Amelia Willoughby, daughter of the Earl of Crowland.”

“And your affianced bride,” Mr. Gladdish murmured.

“I am most delighted to make your acquaintance,” Amelia said, holding out her hand.

He kissed it, which made her grin. “I’ve been waiting to meet you, Lady Amelia.”

She felt her face light up. “You have?”