“Should I help you with your clothes?” the girl asked tentatively. “I could sponge off the skirt for you and press it. Have it good as new by morning.”

The prospect of spending the night in the inn was suddenly very appealing. It was a place with no connotations, no ill memories, a place where she and Guy could be themselves, with no distractions from their own personal issues. What better place to sort out those issues that had to be sorted if they were to have a proper marriage?

“Is there a shop somewhere you could buy me a dressing gown?” she asked the girl, digging her purse out of the deep pocket of her jacket. She took out three guineas.

“Yes, ma’am. There’s Judy’s on the High Street. She has some nice things. I could run there now for you.”

“Thank you.” Petra handed her the guineas and as soon as the girl had left stripped off her sodden outer garments and, dressed only in her chemise and drawers, poured hot water in the basin on the washstand and sponged as much of her as she could get to. The heat was wonderfully refreshing and relaxing. Feeling much more comfortable she wrapped herself in the bed coverlet and returned to the settle by the roaring fire, wondering what had happened to Clothilde. Would Guy bring her to the inn?

She had her answer a few minutes later when Guy came in without an alerting knock. He gave a sigh of relief as he looked around the warm, inviting room. A fragrant pot now simmered gently in the hearth, two earthenware mugs warming beside it.

“You look comfortable,” he said, crossing over to her with long strides. “What an abominable afternoon.” He kissed her, then said, “I want to hold you but I’m filthy and wet and you look so warm and comfortable, and dry,” he added.

“Where’s Clothilde?”

“On her way back to Harrington Hall with Harrington’s driver,” he said shortly. “And that, my love, is the last time the woman’s name will ever pass between us. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she said, deciding she didn’t want to pry further. Whatever had happened between Guy and the Frenchwoman would not have been pleasant for either of them, she guessed. “If you have the motor, what are we to do with the pony and trap?”

“Douglas is taking them back to Ashton Court now.” He stripped off his shirt. “Pour some of that wine, sweetheart. I am perished.”

“Did you have to swim to shore?” She knelt by the fire, ladling the hot wine into the mugs, sticking a cinnamon stick in each one.