“We began with carriage trouble,” Marcel said, raising his voice above the din. “We might as well continue with it. I suppose there are boots attached back there and other paraphernalia. There is at least one pot. Anyone would think we had just got married.”
He turned toward her and smiled, and she smiled back.
“I think that is exactly what has just happened,” he said.
“Yes.”
He gazed at her. “And there is a wedding celebration to come,” he said.
“Yes,” she agreed. “And carolers this evening and the Yule log and the wassail bowl. And Christmas tomorrow. And probably sledding and snowball fights and snow angels and goose and plum pudding.”
“And there is the time between this evening and tomorrow,” he said. “Just for you and me.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Could we practice just a little bit now?” he suggested.
She laughed and so did he.
“Just a little bit,” she said.
But he gazed at her for a few moments longer.
“I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that you have not made a mistake, Viola,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “And I will spend the rest of my life proving to you that you do not have to prove anything at all.”
He blinked. “I will have to think about that one,” he said. “But in the meanwhile . . .”
“Yes,” she agreed. “In the meanwhile . . .”
He slid an arm about her shoulders and she turned into his arms.
“Lovely pearls, by the way,” he murmured against her lips.
“Yes,” she said. “My favorites.”