“Only forty-seven? I’m losing my touch.”
Marianne cleared her throat from the doorway. “Are you two bonding?”
Both men turned at once, looking like schoolboys caught pilfering sweets.
“We were discussing settlements,” Adrian said with attempted dignity.
“You were discussingthreats,” Catherine corrected, sweeping into the room with the newfound confidence of an impending bride. “We heard you from the entrance hall.”
“Threats are part of settlements,” Adrian said. “A threatening clause—quite standard. Ask any solicitor.”
“There’s no such clause,” Timothy said mildly, “though perhaps there ought to be. It would save considerable time.”
“Exactly! The boy understands. We could standardise them—have printed forms. ‘I,blank,do hereby acknowledge that should I harmblank,I shall be destroyed byblankin the following manner...’”
“Adrian, you cannot create legal documents for threatening,” Marianne said, moving to his side and slipping her hand into his. He immediately pulled her closer, his other hand going to her stomach in what had become an unconscious gesture.
“Why not? I’m a duke. Surely that comes with some privileges.”
“Not that particular one.”
“It should. Much more efficient.”
“Darling, perhaps you could postpone the threatening until after dinner? We must finalise the wedding breakfast menu. Cook needs to know how many courses to prepare.”
“More wedding details,” Adrian groaned, but his thumb was stroking gently over where the baby had been particularly active that morning. “Can’t we just serve everyone cake and send these two away?”
“To their honeymoon, which you’ve insisted bechaperoned.”
“Not chaperoned. Merely... observed. From a respectable distance.”
“Adrian!” Catherine’s tone was scandalised.
“What? They’re going to the Lake District. I have a hunting lodge there. Coincidentally. Which I suddenly recall requires urgent inspection.”
“You arenotfollowing us on our honeymoon,” Catherine said firmly, folding her arms.
“I’m not following. Merely being in the vicinity. For hunting. In December. When there’s nothing to hunt.”
“Adrian—”
“Fine! But I expect letters. Daily ones. Detailed. About architecture and mathematicsonly. No mention of any... other matters.”
“We’ll write when we can,” Timothy said diplomatically.
“Daily.”
“Weekly.”
“Daily.”
“Every three days,” Catherine countered with the weary skill of one long practised in managing her brother.
“Fine. But I expect lengthy letters. With diagrams. And proofs of your continued virtue.”
“You wish for diagrams from our honeymoon?” Timothy asked mildly.
“I wish for proof that you’re not merely... honeymooning.”
