“Reality, dear one, is me as your husband. The chase was the dream.”
“Perhaps,” she said a bit unsteadily, “you should ask me that after you are my husband.”
“I will, you can count on it. There was something else I wished to say to you, Chauncey. You are English. Until five months ago, England was all you knew. I want to assure you that if you wish to spend some time in England, we will go together. Wives adhering to their husbands is all fine and good, but I would never demand that you forget all that you were before you came to me.”
Her hand tightened about the stem of her wineglass. She spoke aloud her confusion without considering. “Why are you so . . . nice? So considerate and reasonable?”
He cocked a mobile brow at her. “Did you expect me to be otherwise?”
Yes, damn you!
She smiled brightly, a false smile. “No, of course not, you simply took me off-guard. There is really nothing left for me in England. But you, Del, you have those illustrious relations, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Were you not thick as . . . thieves with them when you were last in England? When? Fifty-one?”
“Yes, in 1851. The duke and duchess certainly introduced me to a lot of people, as I told you. I believe the duchess’s not-so-hidden motive was to find me a nice English wife. She will doubtless be utterly delight to hear that she has succeeded, all without lifting a finger.”
Oh God, will she recognize the name Jameson? If she doesn’t, will she want to know who the devil I am? Will Delaney ask questions I cannot answer?
“It takes dreadfully long to send and receive letters from England, doesn’t it? Good heavens, your precious duke and duchess won’t know of your marriage for at least three months.”
“True. I wrote to both to them and to my brother this afternoon after I returned home from my visit with Dan. My brother has long urged me to take the fatal step.”
“I don’t think I like the sound of this fatal-step business!”
“Man talk, Chauncey, nothing more. Men tend to boast aloud of their freedom all the while wishing desperately for permanency: a wife and home and family.”
Permanency. Will I be gone in six months?
“A family,” she repeated suddenly, her eyes going blank.
Delaney’s wineglass paused at his lips. “It is normally something that follows quite naturally from marriage, you know, my love. Do you not want children?”
She swallowed, unable to meet his eyes. “I don’t know. That is, I am young!”
“Many women have their first child when they are only sixteen or seventeen.”
She moistened her dry lips with her tongue. “Must children follow marriage, Delaney? Right away, I mean?”
What the devil was wrong? he wondered, keeping his expression impassive with difficulty. “No, I suppose not. Most husbands and wives desire children.” He wanted to tease her, tell her that the probability of her conceiving would be high, since he likely wouldn’t let her out of his bed for six months. He wondered if she even knew how babies were made, and decided not to pursue the subject until after they were married. “If you wish to wait, I suppose it can be arranged.” He pictured himself asking Marie what she used to prevent conception, and nearly choked on his wine at the thought.
“Yes,” she managed, “I think I do wish it.” She knew that husbands and wives were intimate, knew that they took their clothes off around each other and slept together. And kissed and other things. She shook her head, refusing to think closely about it. Whatever she had to do as his wife, she would do.
Delaney was devoutly relieved he was sitting down, for whatever she knew or didn’t know, he doubted she could be unaware of the bulge in his trousers were he to rise. “When will you marry me, Chauncey?” he asked, trying to distract himself.
“Whenever you would like,” she said, toying with her vegetables.
“Next week? At St. Mary’s?”
“For a man who has cherished his freedom for twenty-eight years, you are very anxious, Mr. Saxton, to get yourself chained!”
He grinned at her. “True, too true,” he said. “Also, my dear, I won’t want you moving back to the Oriental.” He lowered his eyes and murmured softly, “Saint told me you’d be in fine fettle in another week.”
“Wretched man! Do you know why he is called Saint?”
“Indeed I do, but it is his story, not mine.” He wanted to tease her that Saint would likely tell her when she was in labor with their first child. He remembered suddenly the terrible fear he had felt when his sister-in-law, Giana, had gone into labor while out walking with him in New York two years before. Perhaps, he thought, they could wait.