He curled up off the blanket and seized her in an embrace that only ended when they were both limp, panting, and spent, he flat on his back, she sprawled on his chest, riding the rise and fall of his breathing like a happy little seabird on a sunny, joyous tide.

“We will be married here,” Rothhaven said, making lazy patterns on Constance’s back. “Vicar Sorenson can preside on short notice so that the weather will not thwart our plans. I want the staff in attendance, if you don’t mind.”

She loved the feel of his voice, loved the calm in all he said. Loved the scent of his skin, loved that he wanted to be married where they’d consummated their engagement.

“Right now, Your Grace, I mind the prospect of putting on my clothes. I mind that I must move. I mind that I must open my eyes, but at least if I make that great effort, I will behold my beloved.”

“You will also behold a picnic basket that includes servings of Monsieur Henri’s pear torte.”

Constance opened her eyes. “I suppose we should keep up our strength. It wouldn’t do to expire of bliss prior to speaking our vows.”

He patted her bum. “I am marrying a practical sort of duchess. Good to know.”

Being a duchess didn’t sound so awful if it meant Robert would pat her bottom like that.

They took their time getting dressed, with kisses, laughter, and even some truly inane tickling making the process more protracted. They fed each other sandwiches and torte, and drank from the same flask of lemonade.

“You probably prefer yours sweeter than this,” Robert said, sitting cross-legged opposite Constance on the blanket. “I avoid consuming too many sweets, just as I avoid strong spirits. I’ve found that both are correlated with a greater frequency of seizures.”

They had much to learn about one another, and seizures were only part of it. “I did not avoid strong spirits,” Constance said. “Even though gin ruined my father and eventually killed him, I have still been tempted by the oblivion to be found in a bottle. Althea has an occasional nip, but I don’t gather drink is a problem for her.”

Robert took the flask and jammed the cork in the top. “Is drink a problem for you?”

Nothing Constance could say in reply would drive him away, which gave her the courage to be honest.

“Drink could be a problem. I hope it never will be, but Jack Wentworth was my father. He was a vile, lazy, violent man, and ultimately, he was self-destructive.”

“What could be more mentally unsound than a man in good health, one blessed with precious children, seeking to destroy his own life?” Robert murmured. “And yet I did contemplate that very course myself. Then you came along.” His expression was alight with wonderment, with a bemused tenderness Constance had done nothing to earn.