First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4)(65)

No. She didn’t feel shy. That’s not what this was.

She waited for another burst of clarity, another eureka moment that might define this strange, conflicted feeling in her chest, but none was forthcoming.

All she knew was that she had feelings.

About Nicholas.

For Nicholas?

No. That was impossible. She’d known him her whole life. It was illogical to think that everything between them would change just because they’d placed rings on their fingers. It had only been a day, for heaven’s sake.

“Georgie?” the man in question murmured.

She looked down. He’d already exited the carriage and was holding out his hand to help her disembark. He looked tired, although not nearly as tired as she felt.

“Let’s get something to eat,” he said as she put her hand in his.

She nodded, letting him help her down. Her feelings—whatever they were—were going to have to wait. Firstly, because she could not be certain of the nature of his feelings, and she was not prepared to ponder the possibility of one-sidedness, and secondly—and more urgently—she was so hungry she would have happily eaten an entire cow.

Cooked, of course. She wasn’t a complete savage.

It was late enough when they arrived that everyone decided to eat right away, and she and Nicholas were led to what was clearly the second nicest spot in the dining room, at the end of a long table, scarred by use, but thankfully clean. A sour-faced couple and their sour-faced son sat at the other end of the table, which was closer to the fire. They looked to be almost done with their meal, but Georgie was too tired and hungry to wait for them to vacate their seats. She’d be warm enough at the far end of the table.

“Are you hungry?” Nicholas asked as he held out her chair.

“Famished. And you?”

“The same.” He took his seat across from her and set his hat on the table beside him. His hair was askew, with bits and pieces sticking out in unexpected directions. It would never do in a formal drawing room, but here on the road she found it charming.

“I’m half ready to eat the meat off their plates,” he said with a tip of his head toward the family at the far end of the table.

But when a youth came by with cheese and a basket of bread, Georgie watched Nicholas stop following the food with his eyes as soon as he got a glimpse of the boy’s forearm.

“That’s a nasty burn,” Nicholas said. He reached for the boy’s sleeve. “May I?”

The boy started to snatch his arm away, but he couldn’t due to the bottle tucked under his arm. He quickly set it on the table, then tried to pull his too-short sleeve down as he took a step back.

“It’s nothing, sir,” the youth said, shooting a look over his shoulder. “I’ll be back with the rest of your food in a moment.” He gave a quick bow, said a “sir” and a “ma’am,” and fled.

Georgie watched Nicholas fix his gaze on the doorway through which the boy had disappeared. She watched him take a deep breath, look at the spread before him, hungry eyes flitting from the bread, to the cheese, and to the bottle of wine.

And then again at the door.

And back to the bread, which he started to reach for, then stopped. It was as if he only had enough energy to do one thing, and thinking about the boy meant he couldn’t figure out what to do with the bread.

He looked hungry … and resigned.

Georgie wanted to kiss him.

“He’ll be back in a moment with soup,” she said. Though to be honest, she had no idea if soup or the boy would be forthcoming. They waited, inexplicably leaving the food untouched, until a nervous-looking young woman came with two steaming bowls. She set them on the table and turned to leave, but Nicholas caught her with a “Mistress?”

The woman had to stop and turn. “Sir?” She bobbed a quick curtsy to Nicholas, but she looked as if she wanted nothing more than to run.

“The boy who was just in before you,” Nicholas said. “His arm—”

“He’ll bide, milord,” the woman said quickly.

“But—”

“Please, sir,” she said, her voice dropping to a nervous whisper. “Mr. Kipperstrung, he don’t like us tending to nothing but work until after the meal’s been cleared away.”

“But the boy’s arm—”

An older man—Mr. Kipperstrung, Georgie presumed—emerged from the door to the kitchens and made great show of planting his fists on his hips. The young woman turned back to the table and made more of a show of slicing the bread that sat between Georgie and Nicholas.

“Martha!” Mr. Kipperstrung gruffed. “Dinnit be justen thand.” His words made no sense to Georgie, but his intent was clearly to summon Martha away from their table.

“Martha?” Georgie said quietly. “If you please, how did the boy burn his arm?”

Nicholas looked at Georgie and for the life of her she couldn’t tell if he was being stern, encouraging, or something else entirely. All her life she’d felt confident that she could read him, or at least his general mood. Now that she’d gone and married him, it was as if he was a stranger.

“Please, ma’am,” the woman practically begged while making a mess of the bread. “We’ll be turned out.”

Georgie tried to meet her eyes, but Martha turned back to the bread, slicing another two ragged pieces before setting down the knife.