Mistletoe and Mayhem - Cheryl Bolen Page 0,99

playroom, directing him to a stool, and crouching before him.

“I have something to discuss with you—to ask you, really, and I don’t want those nodcocks interfering.”

Arthur’s eyes widened, and he nodded.

“Arthur, I’ve grown to love and respect your mother. I’ve asked her to marry me. She has said yes. And I know she’ll talk to you, but I wanted to speak to you first. If my mother were to remarry, I’d want to have a say in it. Now, I want to know any objections you might have.”

Arthur’s eyes pinched together in a frown much like his mother’s. “You would be my stepfather.”

“That is the way of it. And my brothers, even the two nodcocks you’re rooming with, would be your uncles; my sisters, your aunts; my mother, your grandmother.”

He worried his lip chewing over those facts.

“You will all be marrying into a great noisy family. I’ll treat your mama well, I promise you. You and Ben, also.”

“May I go to school with James and Edward?”

George smiled. “Yes. With your mother’s approval, which I will do all in my power to obtain. Do I have your blessing?”

Arthur’s answering grin displayed a mouthful of healthy white teeth. George shook his hand. “Now, go and get dressed. Your new grandmother expects everyone down for breakfast.”

“What’s going on here?” Sophie asked from the doorway.

“Mama.” Arthur flung himself into her arms. “Merry Christmas, Mama.”

She hugged him and glanced over, her eyes glistening. “Mr. Lovelace has spoken to you?”

He nodded.

“And?”

Arthur’s grin had frozen in place.

Like his own, he realized.

“You have my blessing, Mama. But may I please go to school with James and Edward?”

“We will talk.”

“Mr. Lovelace said he will do all in his power to get your approval.”

She tousled his hair and smiled fondly. “Then we shall certainly find a way. Mr. Lovelace can be quite convincing. Now go and finish dressing and I will see you downstairs.”

George escorted her out and down the stairs, pausing at the landing and pointing up.

“Oh you.” She smiled and rose up on her toes for a kiss that went on, and on, and on.

Epilogue

5 January, 1823

“Mama.”

Ben burst through the door of Sophie’s bedchamber.

His brother snagged his coattail. “You’re supposed to knock,” Artie said.

“Don’t rumple your mama’s fine dress,” Willa called.

Sophie bent to receive her boys. Attired in coats loaned from the nursery wardrobe, they both looked very fine. “My, but you both are so handsome today.”

“So are you, Mama,” Artie said.

She ruffled his hair and glanced in the cheval mirror, holding the vision she saw there in her heart. The three of them together—she wished she could capture this in a portrait. Her boys looked well, and so did she. The gown, cream muslin with lace points and scalloped trim, shimmered in the soft morning light. Willa had dressed her hair into intricate coils held with Lady Loughton’s pearl-studded combs and laced with blue ribbon.

Something borrowed, and something blue.

But it wasn’t just a matter of their attire—the boys glowed with happiness, and so did she.

Lady Loughton appeared in the open doorway. “Are you ready, my dear? I see that your escorts are here, and the carriage has dropped the last passengers and returned. Everyone is at the church except us.”

She straightened and took in a steadying breath. Since George’s Christmas Eve proposal, her life had been a whirlwind of introductions, and meetings, and even shopping.

The gown was new, made especially for her with her own money.

Something new.

And then there’d been the rushed travel, long days in the cold of this bitter winter, short nights in inns, so that they might reach Loughton Manor by Twelfth Night.

“Come along, dear ones. We’ll wait for your mother downstairs.” Lady Loughton ushered the boys to the door and sent Sophie a wink. “Don’t delay. George is not known for his patience.”

Her boys would forever draw a full share of Lady Loughton’s kindness. It was enough to make her weep.

Oh, but she mustn’t. Not until later.

Willa held up the sky-blue redingote for her to slip into. “There now,” she said, tugging her over to the mirror again. “You look more like a countess now than ever you did before.”

She squeezed Willa’s hand. “And I’ll come home a mere missus.”

“Ye’ll always be a lady, my girl.” Willa’s eyes brimmed, and she turned away.

Sophie squeezed her own eyes tight, gathering her composure. She would not walk down the aisle with red eyes.

When Willa finally spoke, she was her usual bustling self. “It’s time we should go,” she said, coming to stand with Sophie, and