When the lengthy affair was finished, Beatrix was relieved to be able to go upstairs and remove her wedding dress. As Amelia and a housemaid helped to remove the voluminous dress, the three of them started laughing as a shower of cake crumbs fell to the floor.

“That is my least favorite Stony Cross wedding custom,” Beatrix said ruefully, brushing at the remaining few crumbs that clung to her arms. “On the other hand, it’s probably made more than a few birds happy.”

“Speaking of birds, dear . . .” Amelia waited until the maid had gone to draw a bath. “That brings to mind the line from Samuel Coleridge’s poem about spring, ‘The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—’ ”

Beatrix gave her a quizzical glance. “Why do you mention that? It’s autumn, not spring.”

“Yes, but that particular poem mentions birds pairing. I thought you might have some questions for me on that topic.”

“About birds? Thank you, but I know far more about birds than you.”

Amelia sighed, giving up the attempt to be delicate. “Forget the blasted birds. It’s your wedding night—do you want to ask me anything?”

“Oh. Thank you, but Christopher has already, er . . . provided the information.”

Amelia’s brows lifted. “Has he?”

“Yes. Although he used a different euphemism than birds or bees.”

“Did he? What did he reference, then?”

“Squirrels,” Beatrix said. And she turned aside to hide a grin at her sister’s expression.

Although they would be leaving on the morrow for a fortnight in the Cotswolds, Beatrix had assumed that they would spend their wedding night at Phelan House. She had sent a trunk containing some clothes, toiletries, and a nightgown to Christopher’s home. She was surprised, therefore, when Christopher informed her that he had different plans in mind.

After bidding her family good-bye, Beatrix went out to the front drive with Christopher. He had changed from his uniform, with its gleaming jangle of medals, and wore simple tweed and broadcloth, with a simple white cravat tied at his neck. She much preferred him this way, in rougher, simpler clothing—the splendor of Christopher in military dress was nearly too dazzling to bear. The sun was a rich autumn gold, lowering into the black nest of treetops.

Instead of the carriage Beatrix had expected, there was a single horse on the drive, Christopher’s large bay gelding.

Beatrix turned to give him a questioning look. “Don’t I get a horse? A pony cart? Or am I to trot along behind you?”

His lips twitched. “We’ll ride together, if you’re willing. I have a surprise for you.”

“How unconventional of you.”

“Yes, I thought that would please you.” He helped her to mount the horse, and swung up easily behind her.

No matter what the surprise was, Beatrix thought as she leaned back into his cradling arms, this moment was bliss. She savored the feel of him, all his strength around her, his body adjusting easily to every movement of the horse. He bade her to close her eyes as they went into the forest. Beatrix relaxed against his chest. The forest air turned sweeter as it cooled, infused with scents of resin and dark earth.

“Where are we going?” she asked against his coat.

“We’re almost there. Don’t look.”

Soon Christopher reined in the horse and dismounted, helping her down.

Viewing their surroundings, Beatrix smiled in perplexity. It was the secret house on Lord Westcliff’s estate. Light glowed through the open windows. “Why are we here?”

“Go upstairs and see,” Christopher said, and went to tether the horse.

Picking up the skirts of her blue dress, Beatrix ascended the circular staircase, which had been lit with strategically placed lamps in the wall brackets where ancient torches had once hung. Reaching the circular room upstairs, Beatrix crossed the threshold.

The room had been transformed.

A small fire glowed in the formerly dark hearth, and golden lamplight filled the air. The scarred wooden floors had been scrubbed clean and covered with rich, thick Turkish carpets. Floral tapestries softened the old stone walls. The ancient bedframe had been replaced by a large chestnut bed with carved panels and spiral columns. The bed had been made up with a deep mattress and luxurious quilts and linens, and plump white pillows piled three deep. The table in the corner was draped in mauve damask and laden with covered silver trays and baskets spilling over with food. Condensation glittered on the sides of a silver bucket of iced champagne. And there was her trunk, set beside a painted dressing screen.

Stunned, Beatrix wandered farther into the room, trying to take it all in.

Christopher came up behind her. As Beatrix turned to face him, he searched her face with a gently quizzical gaze. “If you like, we can spend our first night together here,” he said. “But if this doesn’t suit you, we’ll go to Phelan House.”

Beatrix could hardly speak. “You did this for me?”

He nodded. “I asked Lord Westcliff if we might stay the night here. And he had no objections to a little redecorating. Do you—”

He was interrupted as Beatrix flung herself at him and wrapped her arms tightly around his neck.

Christopher held her, his hands coursing slowly over her back and hips. His lips found the tender skin of her cheeks, her chin, the yielding softness of her mouth. Through the descending diaphanous layers of pleasure, Beatrix answered him blindly, taking a shivering breath as his long fingers curved beneath her jaw. He shaped her lips with his own, his tongue questing gently. The taste of him was smooth and subtle and masculine. Intoxicating. Needing more of him, she struggled to draw him deeper, to kiss him harder, and he resisted with a quiet laugh.