by Mary Balogh
Sophia and Lavinia had been smiling at each other.
“I say yes,” Sophia said, tipping her head sideways to rest on his shoulder despite the presence of an audience. “I say yes, yes, yes.” She was laughing softly.
“I rather think, Lavinia,” Eden said, “our presence here is severely de trop. They had not finished kissing when we interrupted them. Shall we slink off back to the house and see if Moira has recovered from her sprained ankle or her headache or torn hem or whatever it was that took her back there?”
“Sunstroke,” Nathaniel said.
“Ah. Nasty.” Eden led Lavinia away.
“I am not at all sure about those two,” Nathaniel said, lowering his head to Sophia’s.
“You do not have to be,” she said, wrapping her arms about his neck. “They have their own lives to live and their own marriage to forge, Nathaniel. As we have. You must stop worrying about people who are old enough to see to their own futures.”
“Soon enough I will have new people to worry about,” he said. “A new person anyway. Will it be a daughter, do you think?”
“Heaven protect her from an overprotective father,” Sophie said, laughing. “Perhaps it will be a son. You can teach him to smile.”
He laughed with her until laughter faded as they felt again all the wonder of having discovered a love they had shared without knowing it for some time and would share with full awareness for the rest of their lives.
They moved together to close the distance between their mouths.