Triumph in Arms by Jennifer Blake Page B

wanted. Even as he spoke, moving after her to lean a shoulder against the tree trunk next to her, he was aware she had not said she believed his story of where he had been.
    “You can have no idea,” she said with a sigh.
    “Now it will begin again with our wedding.”
    “Yes.”
    “People will look elsewhere for entertainment once the novelty of it palls. Speaking of the wedding…”
    “Yes, I suppose we must speak of it.”
    Her reluctance was hardly flattering, but he had little right to complain. “Have you a date in mind?”
    “I expect it had better be soon,” she said, the unhappiness in her face deepening. She sent him a look that barely met his eyes before flitting away again. “Because of the gossip, I mean to say. There will be all manner of speculation and counting on fingers if you remain in the house too long before the wedding.”
    “A serious consideration,” he said, his voice at its most grave.
    “Indeed.” She sent him a brief glance. “You are laughing about it.”
    She was quick, his future wife, and more sensitiveto his moods than expected. “No, no, only thinking that a small gaffe such as our living under the same roof pales before the rest.”
    “So it does.” She lifted a hand to rub between her eyes with her fingertips, as if a headache had begun to throb there.
    “I would do nothing to cause further embarrassment for you,” he said softly as he reached to take her hand, holding it between his, “but only what may make this easier.”
    “Short of going away and never coming back, I suppose.”
    His smile took on an ironic curve. “Yes, short of that. I am grateful, you know, for your agreement to my odd proposal.” He lifted her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips across the backs of her fingers. Smooth and silken, they carried the scent of roses. And they trembled a little in his before she tugged them free. “Don’t,” she said, her voice carrying a husky note. “There’s no need to play the gallant.”
    “What if I’m not playing?” He hardly knew what he was saying, only that he must spout something to keep her with him.
    “Flirtation is also not a requirement. The arrangement between us is financial in nature, nothing more. Pretending otherwise will not help.”
    “As you wish, though your brother feels you deserve to be courted.”
    “Paul is still young enough to be a romantic.”
    “You, on the other hand, at the great age of—what, two- or three-and-twenty?—are not. It seems a shame.”
    “I should think you would prefer it under the circumstances.” Her voice, though sharp, held the barest hint of a question.
    “A politely distant marriage will not suit me. I thought I made that clear.” His parents had enjoyed a rapport that spread love and laughter to every corner of their lives. The memories of it had kept him warm at night in the years when he’d first left the swamp. He’d always assumed his would be the same. By keeping that image before him, he could at least sound like a prospective groom.
    “As to that, we must wait and see.” A flush stained her skin and she swallowed as she looked away, a movement perfectly clear in the elegant line of her throat. She went on at once. “We will be married in the chapel here at River’s Edge, if you have no objection. The wedding should be small, with only close family and friends present. Father Damien will of course preside.”
    “Perfection.”
    “You have someone who will stand with you?”
    “I will arrange it.”
    Her nod of acceptance was brief. “I see no need for a corbeille de noce, as that implies a normal betrothal and is an unnecessary expense besides. As for—”
    “My prerogative, I believe.” His voice had a distinct edge. She apparently thought he lacked romantic spirit, as well, or else was without funds to supply the usual basket of gifts for the bride from her groom. It irritated him either way, putting him on his mettle.
    She gave him a quick glance. “As you please. I