“Adrian,” Marianne said, fighting laughter, “that is literally what honeymoons are for.”
“Notmy sister’shoneymoon. Hers is for appreciating architecture. Separately. In different rooms. With a locked door. Preferably two. And a guard.”
Catherine and Timothy exchanged glances that suggested the door would be anything but locked.
“Of course, Your Grace,” Timothy said with exaggerated meekness.
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re humouring me.”
“Extensively.”
“I could still call off the wedding.”
“No, you cannot,” Catherine said serenely. “The invitations are sent, the church reserved, the flowers ordered, and my gown fitted. Also, I’ll never forgive you, and Marianne will banish you to the study until the baby’s born.”
“I would,” Marianne said sweetly. “Possibly longer.”
“You’reallagainst me,” Adrian muttered, though he pulled Marianne closer, resting his chin atop her head. “Fine. But I’m adding another threatening clause to the settlements.”
***
The evening continued with what Adrian called “wedding conspiracies,” though his complaints were half-hearted at best. Marianne could see his quiet contentment in every gesture—the way he drew her close, his hand resting protectively on her stomach, the small smile he tried to hide whenever Catherine and Timothy argued amiably over the geometry of floral arrangements.
After dinner—during which an energetic debate arose over whether the wedding cake should adhere to classical symmetry or mathematical beauty—they retired to the drawing room. The fire burned low and golden, shadows flickering over books and paintings, and for once, there was no scandal to contain, no crisis to endure.
Catherine was sketching modifications to the house plans, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Timothy sat nearby, pretending to read but actually watching her with an expression of such naked adoration that Marianne had to look away from the intimacy of it. Adrian was reading correspondence, though his free hand played absently with Marianne’s hair where she leaned against him.
“This is nice,” Marianne said suddenly.
“What is?” Adrian asked, glancing up from the letter he clearly hadn’t read.
“This. Peace. Catherine happy. You calm. The baby thriving. It’s... pleasant.”
“Suspiciously pleasant,” Adrian said at once, alert. “Something must be about to go wrong.”
“Must you always expect disaster?”
“I don’t expect it. I anticipate it. There’s a difference.”
“And that difference is...?”
“Expectation implies certainty. Anticipation implies readiness.”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m careful.”
“You’re catastrophising.”
“I’m catastrophisingcarefully. With mathematical precision.”
Catherine looked up from her sketch. “You two bicker like an old married couple.”
“Wearea married couple,” Marianne pointed out.
“Yes, but only for months, not decades. You sound like the Weatherbys. They’ve been married forty years and argue every morning about the proper temperature of tea.”
“We don’t have the same argument,” Adrian objected.
