He faced forward. "Anyway, I meant immediately."
If she'd been surprised before, now she was stunned. "But I thought—"
"I've changed my mind."
"Why?"
"You mean aside from the little matter of spending last night in your bed? And, of course, that wasn't the first time we'd indulged."
She narrowed her eyes. "Indeed — aside from that. That doesn't necessitate an immediate trip to the altar, as we both well know."
"True, but it does raise the question of why not. Why not get married immediately, so we can indulge as we wish, without me having to risk my neck climbing creepers? I'm no lightweight, and besides, what will we do when we get back to London?"
What was going on? "Stop trying to distract me." He was still gazing at the house. "The reason we weren't going to get married for at least the next two weeks was because you didn't believe society would accept our attachment and not look for other reasons."
"As
I said, I've changed my mind."
At the cool, arrogant statement, she raised her brows to the absolute limit.
He was watching from the corner of his eye. His lips thinned, then he inclined his head. "All right. You were right. The old biddies have accepted us as a couple — indeed, they're expecting an announcement. We don't need to play at wooing any longer." He looked at her; both his eyes and his expression were uncompromisingly hard. "Don't argue."
Their gazes locked, and she bit her tongue. He was right. Take what you can get. She would, especially as it was precisely what she'd wanted. She could go on as she'd planned from here.
"Very well." She looked at the flowers, raised them to her face, and breathed in their perfume. Over them, she met his eyes. "Thank you, kind sir, for your proposal. I will be honored to be your wife."
The flowers' perfume was heavenly; she closed her eyes for an instant, savoring it, then looked again at him. "So — when should we wed?"
He shifted and cast a frowning glance at the house. "As soon as humanly possible."
Their decision to marry quickly was going to be interpreted as primarily if not solely due to his impatience.
By the time they quit Hightham Hall late that afternoon, that much was clear; even though they'd said not a word, their intentions had somehow been divined. After being twitted for several hours by every lady, young and old, Luc bundled Amelia into his curricle, left Reggie, greatly entertained, to see to his mother, her mother, his sisters, and Fiona, and escaped.
As he tooled his curricle down the drive, he felt like he was fleeing.
Amelia, beside him, parasol deployed, a smile on her face, wisely held her tongue as he negotiated the narrow lanes; he felt her occasional glance, knew she sensed his underlying irritation.
When they reached the main road to London, however, she asked, "How long does it take to get a special license?"
"A few days. Less if one can arrange an audience quickly." He hesitated, then added, "I've already got one."
She glanced at him. "You have?"
Keeping his gaze on his horses, he shrugged. "We agreed to wed by the end of June — given we weren't going to announce the fact three or more weeks in advance, we were going to need a special license regardless."
Amelia nodded, pleased that he'd thought ahead — that no matter how things had seemed, he'd been as committed to their marriage as she.
"More to the point, how long will it take you to make your preparations?" He glanced at her. "Your gown, the arrangements — the invitations, and so on."
She opened her lips to airily dismiss such details, then hesitated.
He noted it; his gaze traveled her face, then, lips twitching, he faced forward. "Indeed. There are the families' expectations — both yours and mine — to satisfy. Let alone society's."
"No — society's expectations we need not regard. Neither you nor I need do so, not with our age and standing, and at this stage of the year, so late in the Season, the ton will accept our wish to marry quietly."
He inclined his head. "So what have you been planning?"