Sophie stretched, feeling the prickling grass under her shoulder blades. Patrick’s eyes dropped to her breasts as they strained against the soft cotton of her gown. The daisy left her cheek and stroked its way down her throat and paused at her breasts.

“This dress needs ornamentation,” Patrick said, his voice slightly hoarse. Nimble brown fingers turned the daisy into a shower of silky white petals that drifted over her bodice.

Sophie shivered instinctively and looked up at her husband.

Patrick’s hair was standing in wild disorder. He must have napped as well. They had eaten a light picnic … elegant trifles and a bottle of lightly sparkling wine.

It had been two long months since Patrick and Sophie arrived from London, sick at heart.

They found their child’s grave and chose a simple white tombstone for her. They had her name, Frances, and one other word engraved on it: “Beloved.” One day Charlotte and Sophie went to the family cemetery and planted dozens and dozens of snowdrops on the grave while Charlotte’s gardener hovered, scandalized at the idea of ladies getting their hands dirty. But still Patrick and Sophie didn’t go back to London.

The thought of their town house, with its memories of speechless days and chilly nights, was not a happy one. They settled into one of Downes Manor’s huge bedrooms like two slightly wounded birds.

It was a healing time. Charlotte and Alex were a comforting, laughing presence. Indeed, Downes Manor was no longer the empty cavernous place that Patrick had hated as a child. The summer term at Harrow ended and Henri arrived, to Pippa’s delight. Now the manor’s hallways rang with children’s laughter and grown-ups’ chuckles.

But, more important, wherever Sophie turned, Patrick was there. He helped her out of chairs. He wouldn’t let her carry anything larger than an embroidery hoop. In the evening he delighted in dismissing Simone and brushing Sophie’s hair with slow, seductive strokes.

At night they slept in a sweet heap together, Patrick’s face buried in Sophie’s neck. If she rolled away in the night, she would wake to find his arms pulling her back. Even in his dreams, Patrick wouldn’t let her go.

That evening, guests were due to arrive at the manor for a small house party. Seeing the confusion generated by the preparation of some ten or twelve bedchambers, Patrick had seized Sophie and almost flung her and a picnic basket into the carriage.

“Where’s the coachman?” Sophie said lazily. Looking about, she could see the blanket Patrick had spread on the grass, and the assorted remains of their lunch, but she didn’t see the carriage.

Patrick didn’t look up. He was intent on his daisy caresses. “I sent him home,” he said absently.