by Megan Bryce
Elinor held a fist to her mouth and said tightly, “I am not getting back on board for a very long time.”
He laughed, pulling her fist from her lips and kissing it lightly. “I told you I would make you change your mind before we landed.”
Her lips tipped up and then they opened to say, “I hoped you would.”
He kissed her, softly, sweetly.
He pulled the cloth from her eyes to see the icy blues shimmering with happy tears, and he shouted, “Jones! Call for the vicar!”
Before the next Michaelmas, George Sinclair wrote to his brother, the Earl of Ashmore, informing him of the birth of a son.
Requesting direction as to how one was supposed to raise a boy to be staid and steady and responsible. How one raised an earl.
Sebastian wrote back saying not to worry about the boy. His twin sister– the widow’s daughter, George’s namesake– couldn’t be anything but wild and contrary, and George’s son would learn all he needed to by trying to keep her out of trouble.
George’s reply was short and curt.
And was followed by another, longer, missive a few months later when Georgiana started walking. And then running. And then climbing.
Florian, all the while, chasing after her and shouting, “No, Gigi. No!”
George’s missive began,
Damn you, Sebastian, for always being right. . .
Copyright
To Wed The Widow
The Reluctant Bride Collection, Book Three
Copyright © 2014 by Megan Bryce
To my husband–
my other, better, half.
And to Mom and Dad, the original storytellers–
from whose lips I have heard more stories over more years than I care to count.
And who passed on the love of a good tale, even if none of us thought I was listening.
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