Free Mary Balogh by A Counterfeit Betrothal; The Notorious Rake Page B

Then we can sit down and plan everything else.”
    “I think for this evening we might as well relax,” the earl said, “and await developments. Do have a seat, Rose. Olivia? And you, too, William. What can I offer you to drink?”
    “This is quite like old times,” the duke said, beaming about him a few minutes later when they were all seated cozily, drinks in hand.
    It was and it was not, Olivia thought. They were together, the four of them, talking and apparently relaxed, as they had often been in the past. But she was no longer seated beside her husband, their hands almost touching—they had never embarrassed their family or friends by showing open affection in public. He was sitting in a chair by the fireplace, she on the sofa beside the duchess. And she no longer felt quite part of the group. The three of them had continued the friendship over the fourteen years when she had been at Rushton.
    She had agreed with Marcus that afternoon that the betrothal should be consented to if his interview with Lord Francis was satisfactory. She still did not know if they had made the right decision. Probably they would not know until several years had passed and they could see how the marriage developed. But she wished, after all, that they could have done something to prevent it.
    If there were to be no marriage, she would be able to go back home without further delay. Home to the safety and familiarity of Rushton and to her friends—Clarence and Emma Burnett in particular.
    But now she was to be at Clifton for at least another month, amid all the fevered excitement of an approaching wedding. And it was to be at the church in the village. It was going to be very difficult.
    And difficult to be in company with him daily, both of them mingling with his guests. And there would be innumerable occasions when they would have to be alone together, working on the arrangements. It was going to be difficult to bear. Every bit as difficult as she had expected. More so.
    He was so very attractive. She had never particularly thought of that word in connection with him before. He had been excessively handsome and vital and very, very dear to her. But she could not recall ever feeling this aching pull toward his masculinity. It was not a pleasant feeling. She had no wish to feel it. She was not a schoolgirl to be sighing over a handsome man. She was a mature woman.
    Besides, he was Marc—Marcus—and she did not want to be reminded of a marriage that had failed a long time ago and from the misery of whose ending she had fought her way back to life through a year and more of hell. She wanted only to be away from him, to be at peace again. And she knew very well what had made him so very much more attractive than he had been when they were together. It was experience—experience gained with countless other women.
    She wanted nothing to do with his experience. She had preferred her innocent Marc.
    They were interrupted less than half an hour after sitting down by the sudden and unheralded opening of the doors and the arrival of Sophia and Lord Francis, hand in hand, their faces brightly smiling.
    “Ah,” Lord Francis said, “you are all together here. Very opportune. Sophia has just agreed to marry me.”
    “I have,” she said, flushing and laughing.
    They were all on their feet suddenly, talking and laughing. And the duchess raised her handkerchief to her eyes again.
    “Oh, my boy,” she said. “My baby. And it seems no longer than a year ago that you were in leading strings.” She hugged him and wept over him.
    “Sophia, my girl,” His Grace said, opening his arms to her, “we have wanted you for a daughter-in-law from the time when you could climb stairs after our boys but not descend them again. And now our wish is to be granted. Come and have a father-in-law’s hug.”
    Everyone had to hug everyone else, it seemed. Olivia submitted to a bear hug from the duke, who assured her that he could not be better pleased at the closer