“How so?”
“First, you know perfectly well that the entire ton has considered you determinedly unweddable—by your own choice. Your change of mind is a huge triumph for Mama. And similarly for Barnaby—it was greatly feared he would join the ranks of the confirmed bachelors, so of course Lady Cothelstone is in alt. And last but not least, for both Mama and her ladyship, you two are their last. The youngest and last of their offspring.” Portia looked down the room to where the two ladies sat. “As of this morning, their work isdone.”
Penelope blinked; that certainly cast their mothers’ happiness in a new light. “But surely,” she said, thinking further, “they’ll have a similar interest in their grandchildren’s lives and marriages.”
“Interest, yes, but at one remove—I suspect they’ll leave most of the worrying about our offspring to us.”
Something in Portia’s voice made Penelope look at her more closely. After a moment she asked, “Is that the way the wind blows, then?”
Portia met her eye, and blushed—something she didn’t readily do. “Possibly. It’s too early to be certain, but…it’s likely you’ll be an aunt again in another seven or so months.”
Emily had two children already, and Anne had recently given birth to her first, a son, whose advent had reduced her husband, Reggie Carmarthen, to a state of doting idiocy. “Excellent!” Penelope beamed. “I can’t wait to see Simon fussing over someone else.”
Portia grinned. “Neither can I.”
They both dwelled on the vision, then Penelope substituted Barnaby for Simon…and wondered. Children were something she hadn’t thought about; they either came or they didn’t, but…the notion of holding an angelic little Barnaby with golden curls made her feel strange and fluttery inside.
She put the thought away for later examination—she’d barely grown accustomed to being so ridiculously and consumingly in love—as others came up to claim her attention. Everyone in both families, and all their connections, had attended; not only was the Chase full to overflowing, but many of the nearby houses and every inn within reach were crammed with guests.
The oldest was Lady Osbaldestone; despite her age, her black eyes were still sharp. She’d tapped Penelope’s cheek and advised her she was a clever girl. Exactly what act had demonstrated her cleverness Penelope hadn’t asked.
The afternoon wore on with music, dancing, and general gaiety. The grayness outside made the festive atmosphere inside only more pleasurable.
Eventually, having endured hours of ribbing on his change of heart regarding marriage—to which he had with perfect sincerity pointed out that, as Penelope was recognized as a unique young lady, his earlier dismissal of young ladies in general had never applied to her, which statement had given rise to unrestrained hilarity on Gerrard’s, Dillon’s, and Charlie’s parts—Barnaby found Penelope, deftly excused them both from those with whom she’d been conversing, and whirled her into a waltz.
The dance floor was the one place she let him lead without challenge. Which brought him to his point. “I believe,” he said, looking into her dark eyes, “that we should depart. Now.”
“Oh?” She raised her brows, but she was smiling. “Where are we departing to? Are we following Stokes and Griselda back to town?”
“Yes, and no.” Stokes and Griselda had remained for the first hours of the extended wedding breakfast, but Stokes had had to get back to London; they’d left a few hours ago. “We’ll head to London, but by a different route.”
He owned a cozy little hunting box not far distant; he’d had it for years, but rarely used it. For tonight, he’d made arrangements to ensure it would provide the perfect venue for their perfect wedding night. He smiled down into her eyes. Before her advent into his life, he’d assumed he was devoid of romantic inclinations. Apparently not so. “I think you’ll like where we’re going.”
Her smile softened, deepened. “I know I will.”
She couldn’t have guessed; he raised his brows.
“Because all I need will be there—you.”
It was his turn to feel the glow that had turned her expression golden. He felt his heart expand, swell.
She saw it in his eyes. “Can I make a suggestion, to improve this plan of yours?”
As he’d expected. “Suggest away.”
“See that door over there—past the ornate mirror?” When he nodded, she continued, “If we sweep past after the next turn, we could simply halt, go out, close the door—and escape. If we don’t…if we try for a formal exit, we’ll be hours making our farewells and getting free. We’ve already thanked everyone for coming. I suggest we leave before we get trapped.”
He studied her eyes, then looked ahead as he steered her around the turn. They drew parallel with the door, and he stopped, opened it, whirled her through, closed it behind them—swept her into his arms and kissed her witless.
Thenthey escaped.
As he’d already learned, regardless of the subject, their two minds were always better than one.
EPILOGUE
Two months later
London
