“I’m covered with sweat,” he observed, stilling again.

“Is that bad?” Her eyes went wide again.

“No! It’s good. Remember, I told you that regular exercise has helped my heart?”

“Yes, but this isn’t—”

“It is. If you stop me now, it’ll be a terrible shock to my body,” he offered.

She scowled at him.

“My heart’s steady,” he said. “Here, feel it.”

Her little hands came up to his shirt and pressed. “I can’t feel anything,” she cried, frustrated.

So with a groan of regret he pulled away, stood up and pulled his shirt over his head. She liked to look at him. He could tell the way her eyes darkened, just a bit. In a flash he was back where he needed to be.

“Now you’re going to monitor my heart,” he said, grinning because he couldn’t stop.

She swatted him. “Elijah, we’re making love in the outdoors, in case you didn’t notice that. What if that little monk comes along?”

“In the rain?” He snorted. “The man is snuggled up next to a fire somewhere drinking a toddy. That’s what monks do. They certainly don’t engage in gardening.”

“As if you know!” But she looked better for a little jousting: more like herself, and less like a frightened, white-faced woman he didn’t recognize.

“Now as I said, you’re in charge of monitoring my heart, not that anything will happen.”

“How can you know that?”

“Because, I never faint when my heart is pumping. Exercise seems to make it go in a steady rhythm. It’s only when I’m resting or fighting with Stibblestich that it skips a beat now and then.”

She clutched him. “Oh my God, you’re resting right now.”

“That’s right,” he said, enjoying every evil moment of it. “I’d better stop resting. For my own good.”

Her eyes narrowed. He knew he had her. So before she could start arguing, he slipped back into the cradle of her thighs.

Sure enough, she protested. She had starting thinking in the two minutes it took him to remove his clothing. “Elijah! We really shouldn’t do this. We’re—we’re outdoors.”

“Stay put,” he told her. The sight of her had peeled away all his niceness, and now he was just one growling male again. “I want you.”

Rain was falling like an uncertain melody, just one drop here or there. One fell on her breast, glistening like a diamond.

He licked it off and then gave her a little bite and she apparently forgot that she was outdoors, because even a monk behind stone walls could have heard that shriek. Then he blew on her skin, and gave her another sweet, deep caress.

It seemed that this particular duchess liked making love outdoors.

Finally, when he had her just where he wanted her, he came up on his knees and drove into her with one powerful stroke. She came. Just like that, with a wild cry, and a convulsion that damn near sent him over the edge too.

Being Jemma, she hadn’t even recovered when she began patting his chest, trying to find his heart. He didn’t stop; his whole body was intent on one mission, and one mission only.

“Where is it? Where is it?” she moaned, patting him all over the right side of his chest.

“Wrong side,” he managed. She was never going to settle down, so he took one of her hands and plopped it on top of his heart. Which was beating so hard that he could feel it in his ears—but with perfect rhythm.

“My heart,” he said hoarsely, “is happy, Jemma.”

Her fingers pressed his chest, and then he saw her start to smile.

“Enough,” he said, pulling back.

“But—”

“We’re making love, Jemma. I’m—” But he couldn’t shape the words anymore. Instead he just stared at her as he thrust, at her beauty, at the deep goodness of her. She couldn’t resist either. Her eyes squeezed shut and her arms flew restlessly around his arms, his shoulders, his chest, caressing him, leaving trails of fire, sliding down his back, clutching his rear.

He pumped harder and harder, until neither one of them had a thought for the rain. Not for anything but the two of them: God’s creatures, lucky enough to experience His greatest pleasure.

Elijah lost control. The world narrowed to just the sweet smell of his wife, the taste of her skin, the movement of his hips.

Still, he waited to be sure that her fear was gone. Waited until she cried out and surged against him. And then he flew. The world dissolved into such acute pleasure that his bones flamed with it.

Blissful moments later, he rolled onto the slick stones, enjoying the cool, wet stone against his buttocks and back. His heart beat steadily.

“What are you smiling about?” Jemma asked, but there was a smile in her voice too.

“My body’s happy,” he said, stretching.

She was already sitting up, pulling her bodice into place.

Elijah just folded his arms behind his head and watched her. It felt wonderful to lie there, stretched out in the warm rain. He didn’t give a damn if the monk came along. In fact, he didn’t give a damn if the whole House of Lords decided to go for an afternoon stroll, happened down this particular path, and saw the Duke of Beaumont, lying naked on an old stone path.

No one told you that almost dying was so freeing. “I could live here,” he said dreamily. “In my house the birds would sing day and night.”

“Where will you sleep?”

“Under that huge horse chestnut. We’ll have a bed of eiderdown and make love every morning before the birds rise.”

“I shall miss my morning tea,” Jemma said. She had managed to wrench her bodice up just enough so that it covered her nipples. The plump tops of her breasts looked ready to fall out at any moment.

“That gown will never be the same,” he said, watching her. “That yellow part, that pleated cloth on top, looks as if a dog has chewed on it.”

“One did,” Jemma retorted. “At least it covers my nipples now.” She looked over and seemed to realize that he was making no attempt to dress. “Are you going home like that? Or are you truly planning to sleep under the horse chestnut?”

He was too happy to move. “Why not? My blanket could be made of those little green hearts it throws out in spring, the ones with little crimson centers.”

Jemma being Jemma, she didn’t break into a chorus of little remonstrances. Instead, she surprised him. Again. She turned around and lay down, her head on his bare stomach as the rain spattered her face.

“I never imagined, ever, a duchess lying on the ground, being rained on,” he said, after a time.

“It’s not really raining. But you’re right. I suppose duchesses don’t lie about in the rain.”

“With their naked husbands,” he added.

“That makes it even worse,” she agreed. Her hair was all rumpled and fallen from its nest of curls, so he picked a spray of flowers and started poking blossoms in it.

“What are you doing?” she asked, twisting her head so she could see him.

“Turning you into a pagan goddess,” he murmured.

“Why?”

“See Apollo there?” In the center of the little stone courtyard was a statue of the god wearing little more than a shawl. He stood on a stone pedestal, its latticework woven through with knot grass and other weeds.

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