" There's much to do," she said. "The funeral will be in Ireland." She gave Helen a stricken glance. "I haven't been there since I was a child."
"You don't have to make decisions right now," Helen said. "Perhaps you should go upstairs and lie down."
"I can't, there are things I must-" Kathleen stopped as Devon entered the room.
His intent gaze swept over her, coming to rest on her bleached white face. "What is it, love?" he asked gently.
"My father's gone." She tried very hard to sound prosaic. "It's not a surprise, of course. We knew that he was in ill health."
"Yes." Devon came forward and took her rigid form against his, wrapping her in his arms.
"I'm perfectly calm," she said against his shoulder.
"Yes." Devon kissed her temple. His face was taut with concern, the blue eyes hazed with tenderness.
"I'm not going to cry." Her tone was matter-of-fact. "He certainly wouldn't have wanted my tears."
Devon smoothed her hair, his hand covering half her small head. "Give them to me, then," he said softly.
Kathleen hid her face in his shirtfront, her slight form seeming to wilt. In a few seconds, a low, broken keening sound began to emerge without stopping. Her husband laid his cheek on her head and cradled her closer against the solid reassurance of his body. "

― Lisa Kleypas , Marrying Winterborne (The Ravenels, #2)