“Will you be wanting a supper tray, sir?” Griff halted on the master staircase, turning to face Mrs. Jernigan, the cook.
Griff looked down at Alyssa. They hadn’t eaten since the wedding breakfast, and the light fare they’d nibbled there had long since disappeared.
She nodded.
Griff agreed. He needed sustenance for the hours ahead of him.
“I made a nice beef and potato stew, and we’ve fresh bread and cheese and butter and jam. Oh, and I also made your favorite spice cake—as a wedding cake of sorts—to welcome you and your bride home. We’ve waited to cut it until you arrived.”
Griffin’s stomach rumbled.
“That sounds wonderful,” Alyssa said. “And I would be honored if you would cut the cake on my behalf and share it with the staff.”
“Break out the wine and the ale,” Griff added. “For the staff. And send a bottle of whisky and a nice sherry for my wife and me up with the supper tray as soon as possible.” Griffin turned and continued his climb up the stairs. “We’ll ring if we require anything else.”
“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Jernigan bobbed a curtsy and hurried back to the kitchen.
Griffin continued up the stairs. He didn’t set Alyssa on her feet until they reached the privacy of the master’s chambers. Griffin paused at the massive double doors, then leaned down. Alyssa opened the door, and he carried her over the final threshold, across the sitting room that connected the master bedchamber with the mistress’s bedchamber, to the rug in front of the fireplace where he set her on her feet.
“Alone, at last,” Griffin teased, untying the ribbons of her bonnet, the same ribbons he’d hastily tied three-quarters of an hour earlier. Tugging the bonnet off, he tossed it to the floor.
Someone gasped.
“Not quite,” Alyssa replied, peeling off her gloves.
Griffin followed her gaze and discovered Alyssa’s lady’s maid sitting quietly in a wing chair before the fire. Blister it! Would they never have any privacy? How many more gauntlets would they have to run before they could consummate their first game of seduction?
Alyssa took charge. “My lord, you remember Winifred Durham, my maid?”
“Yes indeed, Miss Durham,” Griffin acknowledged.
“Winifred, my husband, Lord Abernathy.”
“
M’lord.” Durham bobbed a curtsy to Griffin, hurried to retrieve Alyssa’s discarded bonnet, then turned to face her mistress.
“I had them bring hot water for your bath.” She set the bonnet on a table and nodded toward the metal buckets lined up in front of the hearth. “And I unpacked your things and left your night rail on the foot of your bed while you were meeting the rest of the staff, miss”—Durham glanced up at Griffin—“I mean, my lady.”
“Thank you, Durham, you may retire to your own bed now,” Alyssa told her.
Durham looked confused. “But, miss…I mean, my lady, I always assist you in your preparations for bed.”
“And I thank you for that,” Alyssa answered more firmly. “But I don’t require any assistance tonight.”
Durham’s eyes grew as round as saucers. “But who’s going to help you out of your dress and into your night rail? Who’s going to unpin and brush your hair for you? Who’s—”
“I am.” Griffin placed his hands on Alyssa’s shoulders.
“Go to bed, Durham,” Alyssa said.
“But, Lady Alyssa—”
“What my wife is politely trying to tell you, Miss Durham, is that I will provide whatever assistance she requires tonight and every other night and morning I am in residence. I will see to her dressing and undressing and tend to her most personal needs.”
Durham opened her mouth, but Griffin forestalled further comments by holding up his hand. “Didn’t my valet explain this to you on the journey?”
“Yes, sir,” Durham said.