Page 42 of The Wallflower and the Duke
Marjorie grinned at Alfie over her teacup, titling her face up to the light peeking through the shady oak at Hollyvale. Beside her, Emily was deep in conversation with Lady Barrington about gardening and slugs.
She reached forward and placed her empty plate down, only a few crumbs left behind of the tea sandwiches and scones she had arranged for the small house party of close friends and family. She never envisioned she would leave behind the days of writing novels in her room and climbing through windows of childhood friends to this—hosting as duchess and openly celebrating her latest novel’s release.
Marjorie couldn’t help but sneak another glance at her husband as he stood a few feet away, speaking with her father, George.
She excused herself and rose, feeling the need to slip her hand into his. She had been planning this party for weeks now, and thankfully, it had all gone according to plan.
“Marjorie, darling,” her father boomed with a glass of lemonade in his large hand. “You must convince the duke to take you on a honeymoon. Go on a grand tour. Your book is finished.”
“We had a honeymoon,” she said, feeling the tension in her shoulders melt as Alfie clasped her hand. “And it was lovely here at Hollyvale.”
The truth of it was, while Alfie continued to become more comfortable traveling, he wasn’t ready to journey past London. She had faith he would get there in time.
“Nonsense, you two are young. You need to travel and see the world.”
“No, none of that. I need grandbabies,” her mother insisted, swooping in. “It is high time, and I would be a fabulous grandmother. They can call me Grandmama.”
“Pardon?” The dowager duchess’s bright blue eyes widened. “Did I hear mention of a baby?”
It was foreign once, in regard to Marjorie, but she had caught her mother-in-law’s appreciation in passing more often than not. Never directly, of course.
Alfie leaned down, gently knocking his arm against her shoulder. “Well, we’ve done it now, Jo,” he whispered. “One mention and all of London will be on alert.”
His soft chuckle was a smooth balm to her nerves, and the sudden blush creeping up to singe her cheeks.
“You and Father are busy enough,” Marjorie said diplomatically.
“Tut, tut,” the dowager said with a small laugh. “The world can wait if there’s a baby. Though I must warn you, I will spoil the child often and lavish them with all the sweets they can manage. And a pony. Every child should have a pony of one’s own.”
Alfie drew back, his brows drawn in frustration even as Marjorie stifled a chuckle. “Mother? I wasn’t allowed such?—”
“You are my son. Everyone knows a grandmother is meant to be fun.”
She couldn’t help herself. Marjorie laughed, enjoying the small moment between her husband and mother-in-law and, to some extent, herself. Everything was far more amenable since the wedding.
“Of sweets and late bedtimes and new toys?” Marjorie grinned. “And a pony, of course. She is right about the pony, Alfie.”
“Right, precisely.” The dowager gestured toward Marjorie with a hint of a smile, the sun glinting off her ruby bracelet in the warm September afternoon sun. “See, darling, Marjorie understands.”
Alfie rolled his eyes and hooked his arm through Marjorie’s. “It seems you have lots to discuss then. So while you do, please excuse me while I steal my wife away for a moment.”
Her parents adored the dowager even while, at best, the older woman tolerated them. But that farce apparently didn’t withstand the rumor of a baby.
Marjorie subtly wiped her forehead, feeling a tad nauseous. “I never thought I would escape that conversation, Alfie. Thank you.”
“Much too long,” he said. “Much too knowing…”
“Wait, come here,” her sister said, flagging her over. Emily adjusted her glasses, glancing at Alfie’s hand clutched in Marjorie’s. “Have you seen the paper this morning?”
“No,” she hedged, fighting back the blush at the memory of what she had been doing instead.
“You haven’t received a letter from Georgie recently, have you?” Emily pushed herself up to stand, drawing Marjorie and Alfie away from the rest of the party and over instead by the arbor drawing in the last remnants of roses for the year. The air was perfumed with the saccharine smell of honey and myrrh.
Alfie pointed a finger at her twin. “Don’t you dare ‘Your Grace’ me, Em. Is there something the matter?”
She smacked the paper, holding it out for them to see.
“This is a gossip rag,” Alfie corrected, “not the newsprint.”
