Mary Balogh by A Counterfeit Betrothal; The Notorious Rake Page A

married and alone together.
    “I don’t care about the houseful of guests and the feasting and all the rest of it,” he had said. “I just want you, Livy.”
    “And I you,” she had said, turning into his arms. “Tomorrow, Marc. It seems an eternity away.”
    “Tomorrow,” he had whispered against her lips. “And then no more separations. Night or day. Never or ever, Livy, until death do us part.”
    “I love you,” she had told him, and he had kissed her long and deeply while they were buffeted by the wind.
    “I wonder if they feel as we did then,” he said, and she knew that he was thinking of the same memory. “I wonder if they feel their wedding to be a mere nuisance standing between them and eternal bliss.”
    “But it was a wonderful day after all, was it not?” she said.
    “Yes,” he said. “They will discover that, too.”
    Before they could remember that they should not reminisce together, they were at the top of the hill, and the breeze greeted them—and their daughter. She had released Lord Francis’s hand and pushed her way between them, taking the arm of each.
    “Is this not wonderful?” she said, her cheeks glowing from the wind and happiness. “Miles and miles of countryside to see, the lovely sunshine, the cool breeze, and the three of us together again. Is it not wonderful beyond belief?”
    “Yes, wonderful, Sophia,” Olivia said, and found herself fighting tears for some reason.
    “You are truly happy, Sophia?” her father asked. “You have not rushed into anything merely because you are eighteen and it seems the thing to do to marry?”
    “I am truly happy, Papa,” she said, squeezing his arm. “I am betrothed to the most wonderful man in the world and the most wonderful parents in the world are here to help me celebrate. This is going to be the happiest month of my life so far. And then all the years ahead with Francis. We want you to spend Christmas with us—you andFrancis’s parents, too, of course. And the New Year. Don’t we, Francis?”
    Lord Francis had been laughing and joking with some of the other young people. He turned at the sound of his name. “Don’t we what?” he asked with a smile.
    “Want Mama and Papa and your mother and father to spend Christmas with us,” she said. “And New Year. It is what we were talking about a few minutes ago when we were coming up the hill, is it not?”
    “The very topic,” he said, smiling deep into her eyes. “And we were both agreed that by Christmas we will probably be able to take our eyes off each other for long enough to entertain relatives. We will be disappointed if all four of our parents cannot be there.”
    “Mama?” Sophia asked eagerly.
    “We will have to see,” she said. “That is a long time in the future.”
    “Papa?”
    “I shall be there, Sophia,” he said quietly.
    “Doubtless there will be numerous other occasions, too,” Lord Francis said. “Won’t there, Soph?” Somehow he had possessed himself of the hand that had been linked through her mother’s. “Perhaps for the christening of our first child in a year’s time or less.”
    Olivia heard her daughter suck in her breath as Lord Francis smiled at her again and raised her hand to his lips. Good heavens, had they talked about such a thing already?
    “It looks as if the food has been taken from the baskets,” Mr. Hathaway said loudly enough for all to hear. “And I feel as if I could devour it all myself.”
    “You would not be so unsporting,” Rachel Biddeford said.
    “Oh, yes, he would,” Sir Ridley said. “I think those of us who hope to eat a bite had better race for it.”
    “Well, Soph,” Lord Francis said, “you must lift yourskirt above the ankles and grasp my hand. I don’t intend to be the last to the chicken slices.”
    And they were gone, all of the young people, laughing and shrieking and rushing down the hill.
    The earl looked at his wife and smiled. “What was that we have been saying about their having