“Anything that produces bubbles?” he asked.

“The milk bath.”

“Shall we try it?”

She met his eyes. “We?”

He smiled. “Shame to waste hot water and bubble bath on just one person. What would Barky say?”

“We never had bubble baths.”

“I should have guessed.”

“In the winter, we’d heat water on the wood stove and use that.”

“The virtues of frugality.” He was standing so close. “I suppose you feel guilty every time you fill the tub more than two inches?”

She grinned. “Unless it’s for a good cause.”

“And what would a good cause be?”

“My physical and mental well-being.”

He kissed her softly. “Then turn on the faucet and get your clothes off.”

The bathwater was still hot when they could stand it no longer, and they fell onto the cool sheets of her huge bed. Their skin was damp and soft from the bath. She kissed him lightly, everywhere, and then he lifted her by the hips and brought her toward him, so that she was leaning over him, her hair dangling nearly in his mouth. And she realized she enjoyed him for who he was, for his argumentativeness and his unreasonableness and his pigheadedness, and for his intelligence and his sense of humor and his strength of personality—and for the way he poked fun at her faults, without ever asking her to change. And his eyes, of course. She adored his eyes.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked, holding her still.

“You.”

And they made love. Ashley did things she had never done before, because she didn’t want the feeling to stop, the sensations, the waves of passion that drowned the questions and the ugly presence of reality. Over and over she threw herself into him, deeper and harder, with the sort of wild reckless abandon that springs from wanting and fear and love. Finally, they were both spent, and they snuggled close together, warm and sweaty, smelling of each other.

Jeremy smiled. “I take back what I said.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re not a prude.”

It was right that they should be together, she thought. For no one else, then, could have made her smile. She buried her face in his chest, and she hoped he wouldn’t be able to distinguish their perspiration from the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

She felt his breathing change as he fell asleep. A little while later, exhaustion overcame her, and she, too, slept.

Sarah let David talk her into spending the night at the farm, and, because of his leg, she cooked supper for him, on the wood stove. They ate fried apples and ham and butternut squash from the garden, and she told him about life as a Balaton, and he told her about life as a Wakefield. The Liechtenstein trust hadn’t changed him, she decided. He was so tall and sinewy and wild looking, and she shuddered when she thought of what it would be like to have his brown callused hands on her breasts. He wouldn’t be a three-minute bang. He would give as much pleasure as he took. But his leg—damn his leg.