“I’m too young to get married, particularly for such an absurd reason. You’re too young too. Admit it. Marriage is-or was-the last thing on your mind before all this happened.”
“I won’t admit to that.”
“Then I’ll have to reassess how truthful you are.”
“All right, dammit. I had no thought of marriage. For God’s sake, I’m only twenty-five years old. You speak of sowing wild oats. Well, I have bucketfuls left to sow. But I will forego them because honor is more important. Stop whining. Accept what must be.”
“But neither of us did anything wrong!”
“I will waltz with you until there are holes in your slippers.”
“I imagine Uncle Simon promised the same thing to my aunt. She didn’t get holes in her slippers, James, she got leaves. Bloody leaves! She told me once that on their honeymoon, Uncle Simon allowed her to press three leaves in one of his many books. However, he didn’t allow her to label it. That sounds perfectly dreadful, James.”
“I will not have you pressing leaves on our honeymoon.”
“Ah, and what would you do on our honeymoon?”
He was close to swallowing his tongue. “There are standard things that a man and a woman do after they’re married. Surely you know all about sex, Corrie.”
“Well, not all that much, really. You mean to say that’s what you would do rather than pressing leaves? You wouldn’t be reading me treatises on the orbital rotation of Saturn in a cosmic dust storm?”
“No. Saturn would cease to exist for me. Saturn wouldn’t exist for most normal men on their honeymoon, unless they were looking up at the stars and Saturn just happened to be shining down in their eyes. You see, most men think about only one thing, and on their honeymoon, they can-well, never mind that.” James dashed his fingers through his hair. “Dammit, you need a bit of promised wickedness, don’t you? Very well, I am going to strip you naked and make love to you until you are snoring with exhaustion.”
“James, you’ve said quite a lot there. But the end of it-me lying there snoring-that doesn’t sound very romantic.”
“All right, I happen to know that you don’t snore. You make little mewling noises. Now, listen to me. I will let you flirt with me, endlessly.”
“Men do not flirt with their wives.”
“Now there’s a wise oracle speaking.”
“Don’t be sarcastic with me, James Sherbrooke. I’m not stupid. I know that Aunt Maybella would many times rather kick Uncle Simon than kiss him.”
“You should see my parents. Last week I came around a corner and saw my father pressing my mother against a wall, kissing her neck. They’ve been married forever.”
“Pressing her against a wall? Really?”
“Really. And I would do no less. I will nibble on your neck in a dark section of a garden, the night jasmine scenting the air. We will get along famously, Corrie. Now, I’m nearly ready to collapse, so say yes and leave me in peace.”
“You don’t love me.”
And he said, the words pouring out of his mouth, “I can’t imagine that Devlin Monroe told you he loves you?”
“No, he didn’t. He told me he finds me a delight, his word. Don’t get me wrong. Being a delight sounds clever indeed, but it’s not what’s important in marriage, James.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Oh yes. He said it was a nice start, didn’t I agree, and I said I did, but I said it was only a nice preamble to say a picnic or a ride in the park, not marriage.”
She’d routed Devlin; she’d sent him about his business; she’d turned him down flat. James grinned. Relief poured through him.
“I told him to think about it with more depth, and perhaps I would entertain his request at a later date.”
James cursed. He wished his brain was working a bit more competently, but he was tired, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed and sleep until supper. He said, “We know each other, Corrie. We like each other, at least we do most of the time.”
“You didn’t like me at all when Darlene nearly nudged you off the cliff.”
“You want the truth, Corrie? What I remember about that day is the feel of your bottom against my palm when I spanked you.”