She’d never been to the Happy Hare. She’d passed it dozens of times, of course. It was on a main road, and she’d spent her entire life, save for two seasons in London, in this particular corner of Lincolnshire. But she’d never gone in. It was a posting inn, and thus primarily for travelers passing through the district. And besides that, her mother would never have stepped foot into such an establishment. As it was, there were only three inns that she would deign to visit on the way to London, which did make travels somewhat restricted.

“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.