by M C Beaton
“Only members of the ton anxious to secure an invitation to the wedding,” said Patricia. “We are all the crack.”
“And does that matter so much to you?” he asked huskily.
“The only thing that matters, Charles,” said Patricia with a catch in her voice, “is you. I cannot bear to think you might not love me.”
He turned to face her and held out his arms. “That, my little love,” he said softly, “is my fear too.”
“Oh, Charles,” cried Patricia, running into his arms. “Kiss me. I am so weary of being conventional.”
He caught her to him and kissed her fiercely and passionately and then long and languorously until he felt her tremble in his arms.
He put her away from him and said shakily, “Soon I will have you in my bed and in my arms and all these noisy chattering people will not be able to plague us or make me worry about our love. Oh, Patricia, my only love.”
“Your only love? You keep a miniature of a vastly beautiful woman beside your bed, as I recall.”
“Not content with putting stuffed hedgehogs in my bed, you also pried into my love life. No, my love, that is a miniature of my mother.”
Patricia gave a happy little sigh and raised her lips to his.
“No, Patricia, do not kiss me again. I can barely wait for our wedding night as it is.”
She pressed her body against his and wound her fingers in the thick hair which curled over his collar at the back of his neck.
He lifted her up in his arms, his green eyes glinting down at her flushed face and the swell of her bosom.
“My sweeting,” he said, tightening his arms about her. “You seem determined to turn me into a wicked guardian after all!”
