Mary Balogh - Slightly Wicked

“There are not,” he said, lifting their hands and kissing the back of hers. “Even when we make love tonight, it will not adequately express love itself, will it? That has been the great surprise of the last couple of months—that love is not entirely physical or mental or even emotional. It is larger than any of those things. It is the very essence of life itself, is it not? That great inexpressible mystery that we can best grasp through the discovery of a beloved. Rescue me here, Judith. Am I spouting nonsense?”

“No.” She laughed. “I understand you perfectly.”

Her head tipped down then and the fingers of her free hand played along the back of his.

“Rannulf? Do you remember when we were up in the hills at home six weeks ago and you said that you almost wished it were true?”

“About...” He gazed at the shining curls at the back of her head, his mouth turning dry.

“It is true,” she said softly, and lifted her head to look into his eyes. “I am with child. At least, I am almost certain I must be.”

He stared at her, transfixed.

“Do you mind dreadfully?” she asked him.

He bent to her then, releasing her hand so that he could place his arm about her shoulders, sliding the other beneath her knees and swinging her up into his arms as he stood. He twirled her once about.

“I am going to be a father ,” he told the blue sky above them, tipping back his head. “We are going to have a child .”

He whooped loudly and then bent his face to hers. She was bright-eyed and laughing.

“I think,” she said, “you do not mind dreadfully.”

“Judith,” he said, his lips touching hers. “My wife, my love, my heart. Am I spouting nonsense again?”

“Probably,” she said, still laughing and twining both arms about his neck. “But there is only me to hear.

Spout more of it.”

But how could he? She was kissing him hard.