A Waltz in the Park (12 page)

Authors: Deb Marlowe

Addy leaned across and kissed her husband as the carriage made its way to the manor house in Crawley. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Of the two of us, I always knew you were the angel.” She gave him another quick, smacking kiss. “Not many men would agree to start their bridal trip with a visit to an infant.”

She smiled when he kissed her back. “I confess, I’m looking forward to meeting her, although I don’t know much about infant girls.”

“You won’t have to,” she reassured him. “Mary writes that she’s in a bossy stage. She’ll likely tell you what to do.”

Everyone was out to meet them again. Addy made the introductions, then looked around. “But where is Muriel? Is she at her nap?”

“No, she’s coming along.” Her aunt suppressed a smile. “She’s got a surprise for you.”

“Another pinecone?”

“No,” someone said behind her. “Better than that.”

She gasped and spun about, then clutched at James as her knees threatened to give out. “Papa?”

He stooped to pick Muriel up, then rushed her, holding them both while Addy sobbed and Muriel patted her head.

“I’m sorry,” he said into her hair. “I was wrong. I’m so sorry.”

“I was already having doubts,” he told Addy later, at tea, while Muriel directed James in how to rearrange all the curios in a cabinet. “Then I started dreaming of your mother, shaking her finger at me. When we were delayed in Spain, I thought it must be a sign.” He looked sheepish. “Then Hestia’s letter arrived.”

Addy’s eyes widened. “Oh, my.”

“Yes, you can imagine. She didn’t hold her punches. And she was right. Your mother would never have forgiven me, had I left you for so long.” He glanced at her. “It was long enough, I see. I didn’t like what I heard about The Celestial. It didn’t sound like my spitfire, story-telling girl.” He cleared his throat. “But I see she is back.”

“She is,” Addy replied contentedly.

“And she’s happy?”

“Very happy, indeed.”

She repeated the sentiment to James later, as the coach pulled away, headed for Brighton.

“I am glad,” he said.

She leaned into his hand as he tucked away a stray strand of hair.

“I was very interested in seeing how well you looked holding a babe in your arms,” he whispered.

She blushed. “There are so very many things to see before then, though. I was thinking of seeing how you look sprawled nude against a Parisian backdrop.”

He raised a brow. “Nude?”

“It’s artistic, is it not? Don’t many young women go to Paris to hone their artistic skills?”

“You, my sweet, are a story teller, and that’s a different sort of artist.”

“I’ll learn to paint, if it means having you nude against a Parisian backdrop.” She squealed as he hopped across to her side of the carriage and gathered her in his arms. “Or perhaps I’ll write a naughty story about it.”

“Will you? Who will you tell it to?”

“Only you,” she said.

“That sounds . . . perfect.”

About the Author

USA Today Bestseller Deb Marlowe adores History, England and Men in Boots. Clearly she was destined to write Regency Historical Romance!

A Golden Heart Award winner and Rita nominee, Deb grew up in Pennsylvania with her nose in a book. Luckily, she'd read enough romances to recognize the true modern hero she met at a college Halloween party--even though he wore a tuxedo t-shirt instead of breeches and boots. They married, settled in North Carolina and produced two handsome, intelligent and genuinely amusing boys. Though she spends much of her time with her nose in her laptop, for the sake of her family she does occasionally abandon her inner world for the domestic adventure of laundry, dinner and carpool. Despite her sacrifice, not one of the men in her family is yet willing to don breeches or tall boots. She's working on it.

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