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She sat back against him, a coy smile playing on her lips. “I am afraid I shall most likely be ill whichever way we travel.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
Her coy smile grew. “I have a surprise for you, too.”
He did not answer for a moment. When he spoke, it was with the greatest hesitation. “And what is that?”
She turned to look at him. “By the look on your face, I believe you already know the answer.”
Venice was lovely. The following spring during the month of March, Cortland Henry Hubert de Russe was born without incident.
*THE END*
