by Joan Smith
“Each other, Harold,” Jane told him patiently.
“Really? Marrying each other, you say? Well, bless my soul. When did all this come about?”
“Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was about the same time Max started flirting with Miss Haversham,” Jane said with smug satisfaction at her scheme’s success.
“Her again!” Sir Harold fumed. “Max, you haven’t set up a flirtation with that old Tartar. Old enough to be your grandmother, ‘pon my word. I don’t know what this world is coming to. Louise marrying that old slice of a Grayshott, then Delsie marrying him, and now Delsie marrying Max, after he’s taken to throwing his cap at Miss Haversham.”
Their incredulous smiles made even Sir Harold aware that he had been conned, and he laughed at himself. “All a hum, I daresay,” he said, and ate up his soup.
Later, Jane shooed him off to the library to be rid of him while quizzing the two about their plans. When she had discovered what she wished to know, she cautioned them to leave before he came out, or he’d make them listen to his translation of Pliny, when she was sure they had more interesting things to talk about. “Not that you’ll get much talking done, I warrant,” she added roguishly.
Nor did they. Still, they managed to set on June thirtieth for a wedding day, and to agree on a locale for the honeymoon, as Delsie had been gypped out of one the first time around. The young lady was consulted so punctiliously on every point that it was necessary for her to remind her fiancé she had put him in charge of all details of her second wedding before she had contracted her first.
“Since I am in charge of all details,” he said slyly, “I think the bride must have a few lessons in what her groom will like.”
“Several large doses of brandy a day, like her first husband, I collect,” she replied.
“That, of course, and several large doses of love at night. Unlike her first husband.” His arm, already around her waist in the carriage, tightened as he pulled her to him. “Time for my first medication.”
“I have ended up a nurse after all,” she sighed, and administered a light peck to his cheek.
“A very stingy nurse! Several large doses was the prescription,” he reminded her, then proceeded to fill the prescription. “More addicting than brandy,” he murmured.
“You will please to stay sober till June thirtieth, milord.”
“So I shall, but on June thirtieth, Delsie Sommers, I intend to become roaring drunk.”
“I intend to become a little foxed myself on that day,” she promised happily.
Copyright © 1982 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Coventry [ISBN 0449502325]
Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are
fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is
coincidental.
