When he’d loved her witless, he eased to her side and drew her against him. Constance cuddled closer, her head on his shoulder and peace in her heart.

“I want a special license, Rothhaven.”

He hugged her with the arm he’d looped around her shoulders. “Robert, please, considering the circumstances.”

Constance’s circumstances included a pattern of blooming plum trees against a backdrop of blue-and-white Yorkshire sky, a sprinkling of fallen blossoms on the lush grass surrounding the blankets, and a joy so profound she finally understood why Quinn and Jane looked at one another as they so often did.

She smoothed a hand over her lover’s chest. “A special license, please. Robert.”

“Of course.”

“Where?” Constance asked, fumbling about on the blanket to locate Robert’s coat, then dragging it over her.

He tucked the coat around her shoulders. “Where shall we hold the ceremony?”

“And when? I want Althea’s nuptials out of the way, but I don’t want her to have to put off her wedding journey while we fuss about ordering flowers and waiting for Quinn to make another copy of the settlement agreements.”

“You are eager to become my duchess?” He sounded so normal, so in control of himself, while Constance was drunk with affection and a complicated variety of relief.

“I am not particularly eager to become your duchess. We will be an eccentric couple, entertaining little, traveling even less. Most of our efforts will be absorbed with putting the Hall to rights. I am very eager to become your wife, though.”

He kissed her ear. “And I am eager to become your husband, Constance Wentworth. You don’t mention the effort we will expend finding your Artemis. Ensuring that your daughter thrives is more important to me than designing a damned gatehouse or completing an inventory of the library. Are you cold?”

“No.” She was warm, for the first time in years. “You?”

“Not in the least, but if we remain in this state of delightful dishabille, I will soon be again comporting myself like a beast in rut. One doesn’t want to impose.”

Constance shifted about under his jacket, then straddled him, the jacket over her shoulders. “Yes, one does. One wants to impose if one’s lover is willing.”

He smiled not at her, but at her breasts, which he caressed in slow, considering strokes. “I learned not to notice desire. I taught myself to regard self-satisfaction as simply another aspect of personal hygiene, like brushing my teeth, until I could ignore the urge altogether.”

He was already aroused, which made joining her body to his an easy, rocking slide of her hips.

“Ignore my urges at your peril, Robert,” Constance said, setting up a rhythm.

“I suspect—I fear—I will be a demanding husband, Constance. Perhaps a bit obsessed at first.”

“Good.” She increased the tempo minutely, for already desire was routing self-discipline. “For I intend to be a very demanding wife.”