“Be careful,” she said a little breathlessly. “I’ll smack you with my muff.”
Fletch let his hands slide over his wife’s derrière. “I love these new fashions,” he said dreamily. “I never want to see a pannier again in my life.”
“Christmas,” she said, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes, “is my favorite day of the year.”
“Your day…” he said, leaning closer, “to nibble gingerbread men.”
“Do you know what the chef made this year?” she asked, eyes wide and innocent.
“No, what?”
“Gingerbread ladies!Covered with gold and quite, quite edible.”
Fletch grinned. “Are you saying that it’s my turn?”
Poppy leaned in and gave him a kiss that suddenly turned into something sweeter and deeper, the way things did on Christmas Day. “We’ll have to fight for it,” she whispered, some time later.
“For what?” Fletch asked, having lost track of the situation. “Poppy, I’m—”
She craned her neck instantly. “What’s he doing?” Alexander was their darede vil, but no, he was busily banging a toy carriage against the brick hearth in a manner guaranteed to destroy its wheels.
“Not Alexander,” Fletch said, catching her face in his hands. “Are you sure this isn’t a dream?”
Never mind the fact that women all over London sighed when they caught a glimpse of Fletch. Nor the fact that his party in the House of Lords turned as one man to the Duke of Fletcher when they needed a brilliant speech—and a clear victory. And finally the fact that his wife gave every sign of being tremendously happy in bed and out…her own darling husband never quite believed that he was worth it.
“John,” she said, a grin curling her mouth. “Did you know that last night was Christmas Eve and that meant that donkeys were able to speak in human voices?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is this something my wife the naturalist has noticed? Have you written a letter to poor Loudan? Maybe this fact will be the one that finally gets him the university professorship he would never deserve without all your editing of his work. Although I’m sure the university would rather hire a certain P.F., author of a recent treatise on possums.”
“You may not have noticed,” she said lovingly, “but I’m pretty sure there’s a donkey in the room now and he’s not speaking English anymore. It almost sounds as if…as if he didn’t hear all those things I said last night.”
“I think the Duchess of Fletcher just called her husband an ass,” he observed. “I knew you took after your mother!” Then he ducked when she swatted at him.
“Those things I said last night…” She could feel herself getting a little pink, even all these years into their marriage. “Last night,” she whispered, “after—”
“After supper?” His eyes were laughing at her.
Despite their years together, Poppy wasn’t very good at saying things out loud, though she’d become very good indeed at doing them in private. So instead she just pulled his head down and kissed him with all her heart, with the joy that comes from being truly loved, and truly loving.
With the joy that comes from knowing one’s children are utterly convinced they are lovable, and never fear a harsh word or a blow.
With the joy that comes from having a secret.
But after a while she remembered that her secret was meant to be a Christmas present, so she whispered, “Merry Christmas, John,” and took his hand in hers.
There was no more than a graceful curve under Fletch’s hand. “A baby?” he said, incredulous. “A baby?”
She nodded, tears prickling her eyes. “Another baby.”
And then Fletch was swinging her around and around in a great laughing circle that swept Alexander into her arms, and Clementina wiggled between them, all of them shrieking and laughing and saying it over and over, “A baby! A baby!”
Which made sense. As it was a Baby’s birthday, after all.