The luncheon bread was made from dough pressed flat and covered with chopped ham, cheese, and spices, then rolled up, baked, and sliced. Monsieur had been apprenticed to a cook in the army and had concocted that bread as a meal for men on the march.

Constance set aside the bread and crawled around the basket. “There’s something else I’d enjoy al fresco.” She kissed Robert’s cheek and remained near enough that he caught the scent of her soap—orange blossoms with notes of clove and cinnamon. Warm, sweet fragrances apparent only in intimate proximity.

“You are feeling frisky today, my lady.” And God help him, so was he. Robert was always aware of Constance as a woman, aware of her in ways he didn’t permit himself with any other female. He’d greeted her today prepared to be set aside as a bridegroom, and all that he’d lose if she cried off had been painfully clear.

Mostly, he would have lost her—lost her companionship, her lively mind, her humor, her energy. But he would have lost as well the hope of a degree of intimacy that went beyond bodily urges. He’d never experienced that blessing and longed desperately to share it with her.

Only with her, always with her.

“I am feeling more than frisky, Rothhaven,” she said, starting on the knot of his cravat. “If there’s something I need to know about an epileptic man’s intimate needs or limitations, tell me now before I become too…”

“Aroused?”

“Eager. Is a mathematical all your valet can manage?” She drew off his cravat and began on the buttons of his shirt.

“I don’t use a valet. The first footman tends to my clothing. I tend to me. To answer your question, I am unaware of any limitations on my ability to please a lover, at least as a function of my illness.”

“You aren’t just saying that?” She ran her fingers inside the collar of his open shirt. “I can handle disappointment, you know.”

“You are also adept at handling me.” By virtue of a loose hug, he started undoing the hooks at the back of her dress. “Some believe that sexual congress or onanism invites seizures. My experience of the former is limited, but based on my exhaustive familiarity with the latter, I can confidently refute that theory.”

She rested her forehead on his shoulder. “Even your naughty talk is ducal. We will be so happy.”

Because she believed that, he could believe it too. He could hope for happiness, not mere contentment, and even hope for joy. The magnitude of that gift, a future unlimited by infirmity or secrets, made his kisses luxurious, his hands cherishing.

“I seem to have misplaced my clothing,” Constance said, some minutes later. Her smile assured Robert the errant articles were not much missed.

“Shall you remove your shift?” Robert was down to his breeches and hoped to part with them momentarily.