Page 97 of The Marquess Wins a Wife

And there were so many these days. His and Lizzie’s, Imogen’s, and even George’s new son, just a month old now. He’d married fresh out of Cambridge, to the daughter of a baron, whose family was just as large and rambunctious as their own.

It made holidays more than chaotic, but the madness of it all had simply become tradition at this point.

Careful not to muss the delicate lace overlaying her gown, Luke sighed and embraced her, surrendering to the inevitable. “Just remember that I loved you first,” he said. “And that you can always come home.”

“I know,” Jo said, turning her cheek into his shoulder. “You have been the best brother, Luke. The verybest.”

“I heard that.” George stood in the doorway of the drawing room, his son held in his arms. “It’s not fair to play favorites.”

“Well, whenyoufinance my expeditions, thenyoucan be my favorite brother,” Jo said, plunking her hands upon her hips. “Don’t be difficult, George. It’s my wedding day.”

Shifting his son in his arms, George withdrew a silver pocket watch from his pocket—the same one that Luke had given him so many years ago. “For which we are about to be dreadfully late,” he said. “Willie’s got the carriages outside already, Aunt Susan is meeting us at the church, and Lizzie,” he added to Luke, “is on her way down with a fresh cravat.”

“I hope she’s forward-thinking enough to have made it two,” Luke said, with a nod toward the infant in George’s arms, who was busily gumming away upon the fabric of his own.

“Lord.” George rolled his eyes heavenward, tugging the sodden fabric away from the baby’s mouth. “Let’s go, then, Jo. I’ll change it in the carriage.”

No sooner had they whisked out of the room than Luke heard the familiar stampede of footsteps upon the staircase—and an overlapping avalanche of voices, competing to be heard. Imogen and Wycombe—who had six children between them, and yet somehow managed to make the handling of them look effortless—sailed by in an orderly queue. “Don’t be late!” Imogen trilled as she passed. “Jo’s expecting you to give her away.”

Shehadforgiven him for missing her wedding, eventually—though he suspected the fact that he had made it possible for Wycombe to wed her in the first place had made up for it. A bit of sound financial advice—in addition to the generous dowry he had provided—had kept them both,andtheir brood of children, comfortable and happy.

“Papa!” The delighted shriek had him turning once more toward the door, just in time to stoop to catch his youngest daughter, Tabitha, as she launched herself at his legs.

“Darling,” Luke said, peppering her face with kisses. “But where is your mama?”

“Here,” Lizzie said breathlessly, coming into the room with a length of snowy fabric held in her hand. “I managed to get the other children into the carriage, but Tabby got away from me. Honestly, I don’t knowhowImogen does it.” She gently unknotted his ruined cravat, casting it aside to be replaced with the fresh one, and managed a knot that would have put his valet to shame. “Oh, no,” she said, laughing as Tabby reached once more for the cravat. “That’s what got Papa into this situation in the first place. Come here, sweetheart.”

She nestled Tabby against her hip, and her gaze drifted toward the portrait that hung upon the wall of the whole family done in oils. In fact, it was only the most recent iteration of it—there had been others they’d commissioned over the years, ever-widening with marriages and births, each representing their growing family.

Lizzie sighed as she gazed up at it. “We’re going to have to have a new one done,” she said, placing her free hand over her stomach.

“Again?” Luke blurted out, shocked.

She arched a brow, asking dryly, “Perhaps we should give separate bedchambers a go?”

“Absolutely not.” A laugh rumbled in his throat. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, collecting her in his arms, careful not to squish Tabby. “I’m pleased. Really.” What was one more bit of chaos when added to all the rest? “It’s just a surprise.” All of the children had been, really. They’d been married for five years before Michael had made his appearance. They’d thought his conception had been a fluke, a lucky break—but Katherine had come the following year, and Tabby the year thereafter. “Three years without a new baby,” he said. “I’d thought our family was complete—but I’m delighted to have been wrong.”

“Just think,” Lizzie said, with a gamine grin, “you’ve got at least a dozen years before you have to worry about another wedding.”

“Good.” This one had given him heart palpitations enough. He chucked Tabby beneath the chin. “At leastyou’llnever leave Papa to marry an antiquarian, will you, Tabby?”

“No, Papa,” Tabby promised, leaning forward to plant a kiss upon his cheek.

“We’ll find you a nice duke,” he said. “How about that? And you will never have to leave England, and Papa will never have to miss you dreadfully.”

Lizzie smiled, tipping her head against his shoulder. “I think she’d be better off holding out for a wicked marquess.”