She swallowed.
“Flavian,” she said.
“It does not sound so b-bad spoken in your voice,” he said. “Say it again.”
“Flavian.” And, surprisingly, she laughed. “It suits you.”
He grimaced.
“Say the rest of it,” he said. “You spoke my name, and there was m-more to come. Say the rest.”
She had forgotten. It had something to do with whether they would be safe together or not. But—safe? What did it mean?
Tomorrow. She could be marriedtomorrow.
“I think my father and my brother would find it an inconvenience to travel all the way to London,” she said. “Especially for a second marriage. Do you have a large family?”
“Enormous,” he said. “We could fill two St. George’s and still allow for s-standing room only.”
It was her turn to grimace.
“But what will they allsay?” she asked him.
He threw back his head, his arms still about her, and—bayed at the moon. There was no other way of describing the sound of triumph that burst from him.
“Willsay?” he said. “Notwouldsay? They will be as cross as b-blazes, all s-seven thousand and sixty of them, at being denied the fuss and anguish of having a say in my w-wedding. Tomorrow, Agnes, if it can be arranged? Or the day after tomorrow at the latest? Say yes. Sayyes.”
She still could not understand. Why her? And why the complete turnaround from the time, not long distant, when he had told her he would never have marriage to offer anyone? What sort of attraction did she hold for a man like Viscount Ponsonby?
Because I want to be safe with you.
What could those words possibly mean?
She slid her hands behind his neck again and raised her face to his.
“Yes, then,” she said in exasperation. “You will not take no for an answer anyway, will you? Yes, then. Yes, Flavian.”
And his mouth came down on hers again.
12
Flavian was feeling as fresh as a daisy—or some such idiotic thing. He had gone to bed at midnight and had awoken at eight o’clock only because his valet was bumping around in his dressing room with deliberate intent.
And then he had remembered that it was his wedding day.
And that he had slept all night without a hint of a dream or any other disturbance.
Good Lord, it was his wedding day.
He had gone back up to the drawing room with Agnes Keeping last night, and no one would have shown they had noticed the two of them had gone or returned—until he cleared his throat. That had got an instant silence. And he had told them that Mrs. Keeping had just done him the honor of accepting his hand in marriage. Yes, he believed he really had used pompous words like those. But they had got the message across.
And, looking back, it seemed to him that everyone had collectively smirked, though that smug reaction had soon been followed by noise and backslapping and hand shaking and hugs and even tears. Miss Debbins had shed tears over her sister, and so had Lady Darleigh. And evenGeorge. Not that he had shed tears exactly, and certainly not over Agnes, but his eyes had looked suspiciously bright as he squeezed Flavian’s shoulder fit to dislocate it.
Flavian had followed up with the announcement that the nuptials were going to be in the morning, provided Reverend Jones was willing to perform the ceremony on so little notice.
“Tomorrowmorning?” Miss Debbins and Hugo had chorused in unison.
The vicar had merely nodded congenially and reminded Lord Ponsonby that there was the small matter of banns to be considered.
