“Oh,” he said, “only that I am the luckiest man alive.”
“That you are,” she said, grinning.
He laughed. “I’m glad you think so.”
“And I am the luckiest woman,” she replied, leaning into him.
“I’m glad you think so,” he growled, pulling her in, leaning down to kiss her.
His mouth traced hers gently. She let out a sigh of pleasure as she gave in to the touch of his mouth.
“Oh no, not more kissing,” Henry cried with drama.
“Oh yes, my lad,” Chase declared. “More kissing, always more kissing.”
And with that, he swept Victoria up, spun her around, and kissed her passionately. He stopped and slid his hands into her wild hair, kissing her until they were laughing and breathless.
Henry let out a sound of disgust.
But then he sighed with a great sound of tolerance and applauded.
“Well done, Papa,” he observed. “Very romantic of you, worthy of any of Auntie Catharine’s poets.”
“Thank you, my boy. Thank you,” Chase drawled before he winked at his son. “A husband should strive to be worthy of the great poets when with his wife.”
Victoria leaned back and stroked his much longer dark hair back from his face. “I wager there is no one worthier,” she said. “Far more than any character in any poetry. Yes, I’d make any bet you are better than any fiction and you are exactly what any woman would dream of.”
“Any bet?” he quipped, knowing that more had been afoot than the simple roll of the dice when he’d found himself to be husband to Victoria. “It was a wager that won me you.”
“Well…” She grinned up at him. “I’d bet the rest of my life that you’re the man of my dreams.”
“Then I’ve already won, my love. Again,” he said. “And I couldn’t want anything more.”