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“How glorious,” she said.

He released her hand to unroll the blanket and spread it on the grass well back from the bank. They sat side by side, drinking in the peace and beauty of nature all about them. The trees were in shadow, but there were the smells of wood and greenery and earth and water. There was the slight lapping sound of the lake, and the hooting of a distant owl. The air was pleasantly cool.

“I think I have known since I was very young, though I did not articulate it in my mind until several years later,” he said softly, “that there was only one woman in this world who moved me to dream of love given and love received and forever after. I thought her pretty and sweet when I first met her and beautiful though entirely out of her milieu the second time. You were not made for the artificiality of a London ballroom, Stephanie. You were made for this.” He swept one arm across the scene in front of them. “Yours is a natural beauty, one that cannot be confined by convention and fashion. When Dirkson described you at Christmas as a buxom country lass, he expressed entirely the right sentiment but chose the one unfortunate word since it has developed a negative connotation. You are buxom—real and shapely and quite, quite gorgeous. Did that word cause you distress?”

“Some,” she said.

“I am deeply sorry,” he said. “There is no one more beautiful in my eyes, Stephanie. And I do not believe that is just because I see you through the eyes of love. I have seen the way other men look at you, yet I do not suppose they are all in love with you. I am. I have loved you since I was twenty, and that is not going to change even if I am forced to stifle my love because you cannot return it. Can you?”

She pressed the fingers of both hands against her mouth and closed her eyes.

You are…quite, quite gorgeous.

There is no one more beautiful in my eyes.

I see you through the eyes of love.

She dropped her hands and opened her eyes. “I was intimidated by you for all those years,” she said. “Not really because you were perfect, but because I fell in love with you at first sight and could not believe you might love me in return. I have gone through much of my life afraid of being hurt by love, avoiding all possibility of it, searching for a safe haven.”

“Do you believe it now?” he asked her. “That I might love you? That I do love you?”

It still seemed almost incredible to her that he did, that it was no fleeting infatuation. She turned her head to look at him in the dim light. He was gazing back at her, no longer just perfect, she realized, but…Bertrand.

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

He smiled then, and she felt tears spring to her eyes.

“And do you believe,” he said, “that you are the most beautiful woman in the world?”

She laughed softly. “In your eyes, yes,” she said. “You really ought to purchase some eyeglasses, you know, Bertrand.”

He raised one arm to set about her shoulders and draw her closer, and he dipped his head to kiss her.

Ah, the warmth of his mouth and his breath on her cheek in contrast to the coolness of the evening. And the wonder of him. She turned and wrapped an arm about his neck, pushing her fingers up into his hair. And she opened her mouth to the probing of his tongue. His free hand was roaming over her back, down over her hip, up between her breasts, over one of them to cup it in his palm. She felt his thumb stroke her nipple through the fabric of her gown.

“Stephanie,” he murmured against her mouth.

Her other hand, she realized, was gripping his hard-muscled thigh rather tightly.

And then she was on her back on the blanket, and he was leaning over her, still kissing her, his hand still roaming—over ample curves that no longer caused her distress though she had tried to hide them from the world for many years until recently. A slow fire was building inside her, and with it aches of yearning that were almost painful in their intensity. Her hands found their way beneath his evening coat and silk waistcoat as they had on another occasion, and he moaned softly as they roamed over his back and moved down to spread over his silk breeches. All hard, beautiful male.

His weight pressed down on her, and he cupped the sides of her face with both hands and deepened the kiss. Her arms came about him, and she was all raw desire.

He drew back his head after a while and spoke softly against her lips. “We will not make love,” he said. “Not tonight. Not until our wedding night. Forgive me for this. I did not intend it to be so—”

“Passionate?” she murmured when he could not seem to find the word.

“Unleashed,” he said. “Forgive me?”

She sighed. “I would if there were something to forgive,” she said. “Bertrand.”

“Stephanie,” he said with an answering sigh, and kissed her warmly and gently before turning to lie beside her, one arm about her shoulders, the other bent over his eyes.

They lay like that for some time while Stephanie gazed up at the moon and stars, particularly brilliant tonight, and into the dark tree branches overhead and the lighter sky beyond. She breathed in the aromas of nature and the warmth and faint scent of cologne or shaving cream from the man beside her. She felt the rawness of desire gradually subside, to be replaced by relaxation and a love so deep she did not even try to explore its depths.

Would she have let him make love to her? She was not sure of the answer, but she was glad he had not tried, that there had been no decision to make.

He slid his arm from beneath her head, got to his feet, and went to stand on the bank, looking outward. His silhouette was dark against the wide band of moonlight across the water. Stephanie sat up and wrapped both arms about her raised knees.