Mary Balogh by A Counterfeit Betrothal; The Notorious Rake

face.
    “I don’t see how it can fail, Soph,” he said, “with the weather cooperating so gloriously and you and me so deeply in love, and all the joy of a wedding beginning to catch everyone up in its excitement.”
    “Oh, you are wonderful to say so,” she said, squeezing his arm again. “I could kiss you, Francis.”
    “Once is enough for the time being,” he said. “And not too free with the
wonderfuls
if you please, Soph. I might start to think that you mean them and really start to feel choked by my cravat.”
    Sophia turned with a bright smile to greet the group offriends who were reaching the summit of the hill and beginning to exclaim on the splendor of the view.
    H E HAD GIVEN her the details of the visit to the rector. She had told him of some of the plans she had discussed with the duchess as they wrote the invitations.
    “Was it a good idea to agree to let the wedding take place here?” she asked. “Rose seems a little disappointed that it is not to be at St. George’s.”
    “It is what they both want,” he said. “And these large
ton
affairs can be cold, you know.”
    “Yes,” she said. “I never regretted that we married here, Marcus. It was a wonderful wedding, was it not?”
    “Yes,” he said. “But then I think a clay hut would have seemed wonderful to us on that particular day, Olivia.”
    She could think of nothing more to say and indeed was embarrassed that she had spoken so freely and thoughtlessly. They did not need to speak of their own wedding. Doing so would only cast a blight on their daughter’s and make them anxious for her happiness again.
    “You are content to invite only two friends from Rushton, Olivia?” he asked. “It seems not quite fair when I chose five of my close friends.”
    “Emma and Clarence will be enough,” she said. “But I would be sorry if they could not come for Sophia’s wedding. Clarence said, after I had received your letter, that it was quite what was to be expected at her age. I suppose a mere friend can see more clearly than a parent that a child is growing up.”
    “Yes,” he said. “I have not seen Clarence for many years. Or Miss Burnett, either.”
    “Emma has never been far from home,” she said. “And Clarence has not for quite some time.”
    She was breathless from climbing the hill and talkingat the same time. He paused and drew her arm more closely against his side. It would be so easy, she thought, to relax into this new state of amity, to believe that their natural and mutual concern for their daughter was a totally binding force, to imagine that the truce they had agreed to was a permanent peace. It was a feeling she must hold firm against. She did not want to have to go home in a month’s time to fight all the old battles again.
    But it was easy to remember just why she had been so happy with him, why she had loved him so much.
    “I think perhaps we have done the right thing, don’t you?” he said. “None of our guests threw up their hands in amazement that we would allow the betrothal of so young a daughter. And the rector seemed to feel that it was the most natural thing in the world for Sophia to be getting married. They look good together. They look as if they belong together.”
    “Yes.” Olivia looked to the top of the hill, where their daughter and Lord Francis stood close together in animated conversation, their fingers laced. “They have known each other all their lives. That must help. It is not as if they have just recently met and have had romance blind them to each other’s faults. They talk to each other a great deal. They seem to be friends, Marcus.”
    “Do you remember this hill?” he asked.
    They had walked there the day before their wedding, when they had been able to escape from the frenzied activities going on at the house. They had climbed right to the top, as they were doing now, and let the wind blow in their faces and wished that the following day were over already so that they could be