Page 58 of The Rake and Lady Julia
"I do," Julia agreed, "But what will your father say?"
"He will agree to anything, once he thinks the line is secured," Montague gave her a lusty smile, "And I feel we shall secure it a dozen times over, my lady, once we are left to our own devices."
Julia flushed, as a ripple of desire coursed through her. How she longed for the night to be over—as much as she was enjoying it—for tomorrow, she would be married to the man that she loved.
"I must be gone," Montague called to the room, his hand still lingering on Julia's waist, "I must call on the Archbishop and secure a special license."
They were parted briefly, as Montague made the rounds of the room, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. Julia's parents also made noises about wishing to take Julia home for her last night under their roof.
"Parting is such sweet sorrow," Julia quipped, as Montague came to bid her one final goodbye.
"Ah, but we shall not wait until the morrow," he replied, his eyes dancing, "Wait for me on the balcony, and I shall come and kiss you goodnight."
"You might come through the front door," Julia argued, but Montague shook his head.
"Where's the fun in that?" he asked, and the sensible, practical Lady Julia, found she was inclined to agree.
Epilogue
Julia frowned at the mirror as she surveyed the wrinkles which lined her eyes.
In times gone by, a good nap might have cured them, or a dollop of Olympia Dew, but now nothing would budge these lines, they were hers forever.
"Why is Her Grace frowning?" the Duke of Staffordshire called, as he bustled into the room, "Especially whilst looking at her reflection? A more beautiful woman has never existed, I forbid you to scowl at her so."
"I look old," Julia smiled, pointing to her eyes, "See? Lines, everywhere."
"Laughter lines," Staffordshire countered, "And most becoming ones at that."
"If they are laughter lines, then I have someone at whom I can point the finger of blame for their existence," Julia replied, turning to her husband and poking him playfully in his broad chest. Every day, her husband made her laugh and smile in some way, so the lines were his doing, she reasoned.
Never one to miss an opportunity for an embrace, even after five-and-twenty years, Staffordshire caught hold of her hand, placed it against his heart, and drew her toward him.
"I love each and every part of you," he said, as he dropped a kiss on her forehead.
Julia closed her eyes, breathed in his masculine scent of wood and tobacco, and smiled to herself as he kissed her eyelids and the lines around them.
"Every part," Robert whispered, "But I am especially fond of your mouth."
"Oh, you are?" Julia cocked a brow.
"Especially," her husband replied, and with a wicked gleam in his eye, he bent his head and caught her lips with his.
All thoughts of her dress and her hair fled Julia's mind, as her husband pulled her against him. It was heavenly to be kissed so. Utterly divine. Tremendously fun.
"Ugh," a voice called from the dressing room door, "If you're going to be so embarrassing, could you please put a sign on the door?"
"If you find us so embarrassing," Rob countered mildly, as he turned to their son George, "You might think of knocking first."
"No one else I know has to knock when they go looking for their parents," George grumbled, perfectly petulant at fourteen, "You're both incorrigible."
Incorrigible? Robert raised an amused eyebrow, and Julia hid her smile behind her hand. Dear, serious George was so different to his father, though no doubt, his Montague blood would one day win out.
"Sarah is ready," George said, "The maid sent me to fetch you both so you might admire her in her dress."
The word dress was uttered as thought it was an epithet and was accompanied by a roll of the eyes. All the fuss regarding the wedding upset George's practical sensibilities, and he could not fathom why everyone was so excited.
"You are your mother's son," Staffordshire said affectionately, as they passed, ruffling George's hair.
