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“Fits you.” She wrapped her hand around his nape and kissed him just as he felt satisfaction overtake her. That kiss was nearly his undoing, a kiss for the ages, a kiss to remind a man of all the wonders of creation, but he switched to counting in Latin, and preserved control.

Barely.

“Lysander,” she said, his name never before having been such a benediction. “I had forgotten much. You remind me so sweetly.”

“Allow me to remind you again.”

No daring feats of loverly restraint this time. He approached this interlude with purpose, and she gave as good as she got, until she wrapped him in a ferocious embrace and shuddered against him once more. He withdrew and spent on her belly, the repletion magnificent in its intensity.

“Now you are reminded as well,” she said, her fingers drifting through his hair. “I need to hold you.”

He crouched over her, breathing like a winded steeplechaser. “I need to hold you as well.” All night long.

“Handkerchief, please, my lord.”

Right. But where…?

She kissed his wrist, for he was braced with a forearm on either side of her hand. “On the bedside table.”

He spied the desired linen. “I suppose you expect me to reach for it, and me in such a weakened condition?”

She hugged him with her legs, a good strong squeeze. “If you wouldn’t mind. I’m too satisfied to reach for anything but you.”

He sat back and passed her the handkerchief, frankly admiring her breasts while she tidied up, and then—oh, then—she made a few passes with the cloth at his fading arousal, and angels sang naughty thoughts in his imagination.

“Thank you,” he said, taking the cloth from her and tossing it onto the bedside table. “Thank you, exceedingly. Cuddle up.”

“You cuddle up too,” she said, resuming her place against his side.

“Gladly.” He was tempted to make those stirring declarations now, to lay his heart at her feet and embark on the delightful business of planning their future.

“I will never begrudge Mrs. Ingersoll her raptures again,” Daphne said. “I feel as if I’d like to run yodeling through the corridors that house parties are wonderful, and you are wonderful, and all of creation is wonderful. My offspring would be mortified.”

“I would be flattered, and I daresay you’d surprise more than a few of the guests.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, patting his chest. “I am the soul of discretion. Also blissfully relaxed.”

Sleep tugged at Lysander, but so did a sense that he was allowing an opportunity to slip past him. He cast about for a way to broach the topic of a courtship, for he would not be cheated out of a period of doting swain-hood.

One embarked on that course by asking to pay a lady addresses. Such a question was generally asked while both parties were clothed, probably to spare a man much embarrassment if he’d misread the situation.

Had he mis-read the situation? “Daphne?”

She breathed in a slow easy rhythm, an inert length of well-pleasured female warm against his side.

“My dear?”

Nothing, not even a murmur.

“Ah, well. In the morning then.” He kissed her cheek and let dreams of doting swain-hood claim him.

Daphne had been greedy, making love with Montmarche again in the middle of the night, the sort of dreamy, half-aware pleasuring that brought smiles when recalled the next day. She’d also accepted his overtures as the first hint of gray pearled the eastern horizon, though she should not have.

The knowledge of impending parting gilded her satisfaction with sorrow and frustration, even as she drowsed in Montmarche’s bed. He had allowed himself the proverbial stolen moment with a willing widow. Maybe that was his version of a fling before yielding once again to the bonds of matrimony.

Or maybe not. He was a sumptuous lover, attentive and considerate with enough imagination to keep a lady very, very interested. He’d also been more than that though… He’d been affectionate, tender, doting .

“I should be going,” Daphne said, making no move to leave the bed.

“Must you?”

A gentleman’s answer. “My good name means much to me, your lordship, and the scavenger hunt is today. Your guests will be up and about early.” Though not this early. The house party schedule meant breakfast had not yet been laid out.

“The voice of reason is an unwelcome addition to any tryst.” He was spooned around her, a comfy blanket of lover, and gave her a long hug. “I have enjoyed this night more than I can possibly say.”

He let go of her, while Daphne fumbled for a reply. “Likewise, your lordship. Unlooked for delight that will be much savored in memory.”

“You are lordshipping me and we haven’t even put our clothes on. Do you know how primness when you’re naked inspires my manly humors?”

“We haven’t time for a demonstration, sir.” More’s the pity.

He let her go. “Very well, then away with you.” He took her hand and kissed her knuckles, his smile wicked and sleepy.

“Wretch.” Daphne tossed back the covers and began the trek to the far side of the bed. She grabbed her nightgown on the way, and pulled it over her head. The step was on the earl’s side, so she slid down from the mattress, her heels hitting the carpet with a soft thump.

Montmarche left the bed more decorously, then paused to scratch his chest and stretch before shrugging into his dressing gown .

Daphne indulged a gawk and liked what she saw very much. She would miss him, and this memory, as precious as it was, would be bittersweet.

“I could ring for a tray,” he said, holding up Daphne’s dressing gown. “The maid leaves it in the sitting room, and nobody will suspect that I’ve had company in my bed.” He smoothed Daphne’s dressing gown over her shoulders, the gesture so casually affectionate she nearly asked him to do it again.

“The sooner I am back in my own quarters, the better.” She went up on her toes to kiss him, a peck on the cheek lest her resolve weaken.

“Very well, madam.” He grasped the ends of her sash and belted the dressing gown. “But I’m walking you to your door. If anybody asks, we met down in the breakfast parlor where we stole an early cup of tea rather than bother the staff on such a busy day.”

Daphne’s mind went where it always did: What would Terrence think of me larking about in my dressing gown, except a dressing gown was decent, if highly informal, attire.

To blazes with Terrence for once . “I will appreciate your escort.” Though being seen in dishabille with the earl was a risk—a small risk.

He wrapped her in an embrace, which Daphne took for a bodily request to remain present with him for at least the space of one more shared hug.

“We will talk further of what has transpired here, my lady. I am mindful that neither of us shared our favors lightly.”

He could not possibly want her for a mistress, nor would she be his mistress, so what on earth was that declaration about?

“Prior to this encounter, I hadn’t shared my favors at all ,” Daphne said. “But I have no regrets about being your lover. None.”

The light in his eyes changed, from pleased to thoughtful, with a possible hint of frustration. Maybe that wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear, but they had no time left for flirtatious discussion.

“Thank you.” He stepped back just as Daphne would have clung for yet more stolen moments, then they were walking side by side through the shadowed corridor.

Half the sconces had guttered, which was a kindness preserving the sense of nocturnal privacy. The distance from his room to hers was too short, though all was silence as Daphne paused with Montmarche outside her door.

“Thank you,” she said, giving Montmarche’s words back to him. She gave him the embrace as well, wrapping her arms around him, and holding on for a last, lovely hug. She would treasure this night for the rest of her life, and regret that she wasn’t to treasure the man as well.

Montmarche held her close, as if he’d imprint her form on his memory. “We have more to say to each other, but now is not the time. You will haunt me until next we meet.”

Over his shoulder Daphne caught a movement in the gloom. White linen, pale breeches.

Offenbach, damn him for all eternity. As quickly as she’d spotted him, he drew back. The earl would not have seen him, but Daphne surely had.

She ended the embrace and opened her door. “Farewell, my lord.”

Montmarche bowed, the dressing gown giving his courtesy a regal air. “Farewell, for now.”

Daphne closed her door, locked it, and listened for the earl’s footsteps to fade. Offenbach’s word alone would not condemn her—his reputation preceded him to that extent—but if Offenbach could inspire others to find fault with Daphne’s behavior, she’d have a fight on her hands.

“So be it,” she informed her cold, empty sitting room. “What’s one more skirmish?”

Though why, why on God’s green and beautiful earth, should she have to fight at all?

“The scavenger hunt is today,” Sophronia said.

“Papa has said I may watch from the schoolroom.” She’d watched last evening as the gardeners and footmen had secreted various objects about the grounds, though the rules of the game according to Aunt Cassandra meant teams could only search the public rooms, terraces, and formal gardens for the items on their lists.

Henderson gave Sophronia’s porridge a stir. “You would have watched from underfoot otherwise. When your papa took his leave of you yesterday, he told me that if you maintain good behavior this morning, you are to join the company this afternoon for the picnic.”

The day was already beautiful, as only Marche Hall on a fine day could be beautiful. The nursery windows were open, the trill of birdsong and the scent of scythed meadows wafting in a soft breeze.

“Papa said I could attend the picnic ?”

Henderson’s smile was rare and kind. “You have tried very hard these past two weeks, my lady. It’s not my place to say, but I think you should be proud of yourself.”

The scent of cinnamon rose from the bowl before Sophronia, and normally, she loved her morning porridge, but this news was too exciting.

“Do you think Papa is proud of me? Is that why he’s taken to visiting the nursery?

” He came by at no set time, though for the duration of the house party, he’d been making regular appearances in the East Wing.

Sophronia feared the visits would stop when the guests departed, but she did not know how to ask her Papa to continue looking in on her.

Henderson poured herself a cup of tea and added milk and sugar. She was a stout, calm young woman, and without the Dreaded Dagmire smacking everything with her birch rod, Henderson had become friendlier too.

“The earl is a busy man. He would not come by on a whim, child. Eat your porridge.”

Sophronia wanted to gulp down her breakfast so she could dance around the schoolroom, but that would be silly. Papa might come by and catch her capering around like a spring lamb.

“Lady Cargill said I have promise as an artist,” Sophronia said. “I showed Papa my drawings, and he said I have a keen eye for equestrian anatomy. What does that mean?”

“You should ask him, though I think it means you draw horses well.”

“Sindri is handsome.”

Henderson scowled at her tea. “Handsome is as handsome does. I will be glad when this house party is concluded. Poor staff is run off their feet, and such goings on…”

“You mean like Mr. Offenbach kissing everybody?” Sophronia had kept an eye on him such as she was able to.

Henderson set her cup on its saucer. “You are growing up too fast, my lady. Mr. Offenbach is a bachelor. They sometimes forget themselves.”

Mr. Offenbach had forgotten himself with Mrs. Ingersoll, Miss Tremont, and Mrs. Hofstra, that Sophronia knew of. The nursery windows overlooked the gardens, maze, and tree line, and much of the house party had unfolded beneath Sophronia’s envious eye.

Lord Cargill liked to take a sketch pad into the garden. He rode occasionally too, though his horse was not so fine as Papa’s.

Cousin Helena and Mr. Prescott had forgotten themselves near the laburnum alley twice, and Mrs. Cavanaugh seemed compelled to sit along various garden paths with a book, but she seldom turned a page.

Lady Cargill had taken her easel into the park on several occasions, and Sophronia had resisted—mightily—the temptation to sneak out through the scent garden and join her.

“I forget myself too,” Sophronia said. “I don’t go around kissing people when I do.”

“No,” Henderson replied. “You merely get grass stains on your pinny, neglect to put your table napkin on your lap, and switch to French without realizing it. ”

Sophronia checked and found her napkin exactly where it should be. “Papa understands my French.” He answered Sophronia in French as well, which made her feel very grown up.

“Your porridge will get cold,” Henderson said. “The guests will take a late breakfast today and then embark on the scavenger hunt. The picnic won’t start until two of the clock so we’d best plan to keep you occupied until then, lest you disappoint your papa.”

Sophronia’s porridge was already cooling, though it still tasted good.

“I will write a letter to Lady Cargill, to send after the house party. She said I could, and she will write back. I can also practice the pianoforte—did you know that Papa can play the pianoforte?—and then I will sketch the gardens during the scavenger hunt and wave to anybody who sees me.”

“A fine plan,” Henderson said, topping up her tea cup. “I foresee a wonderful afternoon for you, my lady, and for all of his lordship’s guests, too.”