“Do not say such things,” she said. “We should not court misfortune.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said with a laugh. “I had forgotten your superstitious nature.”
“I am not superstitious. I am simply prudent. There is a difference.”
“If you say so,” he replied, kissing her forehead. “Now, shall we press on and find our rooms? I want to look in on Mrs. Greaves. She was already getting ill in anticipation of the voyage.”
Marianne chuckled, although it was not funny. Poor Mrs. Greaves was convinced she would be most ill the entire journey.
“Well, it is fortunate that the physician has provided remedies to help her along. Although I must say, I do hope I shall not grow sick. I have felt rather unwell the last few days.”
“Have you?” he said. Then he inclined his head. “Are you quite certain that you have been feeling unwell because of the upcoming journey and not because of some other reason?”
Her eyes grew wide, and she placed her hand on her stomach. “Can it be so?”
“I am no physician, but I dare say I think it is possible.” He beamed at her. “I would be delighted.”
“As would I, but what inopportune timing, we will be away from home for so long.”
“Do not fret,” he said. “I am certain that there are excellent physicians in Italy and Spain and wherever else we shall be. And if you are truly with child, as I hope you are, our child will have to be a continental child, and we will settle wherever we are at the time until the child is old enough to travel with us.”
A child, she thought. The word sounded strange in her mind, and yet warmth spread through her at the thought of having a child that was an equal part of her and Lucien. She adored Henry, but she had known for some time that she wanted a child of her own as well. Maybe two or three or even four. However many they were going to be blessed with.
“I think we should keep these possible tidings to ourselves for a time,” she said. “Juliet will fuss over me terribly and Mrs. Greaves...”
Lucien grimaced. “Yes, we shall keep it to ourselves and see what happens. I think our companions will be excessively animated.”
“But let me tell you, if you are truly with child, you shall make me the happiest man in all of England. No, in all the world.”
“I love you, Lucien. And there is no one with whom I would rather have a family than you.”
“Nor I,” he said, kissing her again. Around them, several heads turned, for of course it was improper to be displaying such tenderness publicly, but Marianne did not care. And neither did Lucien. They were entirely of one mind.
“There is one thing I must tell you,” Lucien said. “I know you thought you were not made for the London drawing rooms or the stage, but you are entirely made to be a mother and an adventurer.”
“And your partner through life,” she added.
“And that is exceedingly fortunate for me,” he said, and with that, he kissed her once more, heedless of the stares about them. And Marianne closed her eyes, felt the sunshine on her face, and knew that whatever the future might hold, they would from now on be as one in all things, forevermore.
The End?
