Besides, it was interesting to know that he /could /tease.

They spent hours of each day out of doors. The weather was not to be resisted. Although it was still only spring, the sun shone, the sky was cloudless, and there was warmth in the air. They could not have asked for better.

They strolled about the lake and never once spotted another soul.

Everyone was indeed respecting their privacy.

They went to the boathouse one day and looked at the boats inside and then took one out onto the water even though it /was /a little chilly out there. Vanessa insisted upon rowing and even got them safely back to shore. But because she had not rowed for years, since she was a girl, in fact, she spent far more time fighting the water and the oars and moving in circles than in skimming gracefully across the lake admiring the view. "An impressive display," her husband commented after their return. "Perhaps next time you will allow /me /to take the oars to see if I can impress you equally." She laughed. "But it was such /fun, /Elliott, you must confess," she said. "Did you fear for your life?" "I can swim," he told her. "Can you?" "About as well as I can row," she said, and laughed again. "I have always been afraid to put my face under the water." They walked out to the end of the wooden jetty close to the boathouse on another occasion and gazed down into the water at the fish swimming there. He used to dive in as a boy, he told her, and try to catch the fish with his bare hands. "Did you ever succeed?" she asked him. "Never," he admitted. "But I did learn something about expending energy on an impossibility." "That stopped you?" she asked. "No." She remembered the stone he had sent skipping across the lake at Warren Hall the day she proposed marriage to him. She had him demonstrate again now and then tried it herself - without any success at all. He tried to teach her, but she could not perfect the sideways flick of the wrist that was apparently the secret to success. When she tried it, she only succeeded in sending her stone straight up in the air so that they both had to duck in order not to be hit on the head when it descended.

She did a great deal of laughing and then watched him show off with a second demonstration. "Twelve bounces," she said admiringly. "That is a new record." "Think how much easier your task is now than mine," he said. "I have to reach thirteen to beat my record. You have to reach only one to set yours." "I think," she said, "that all I have learned is not to expend energy on an impossibility." She threw one last stone - and it bounced an unmistakable three times. She shrieked with laughter and turned to him in triumph. "Well," he said, his eyebrows raised. "Maybe I should dive in and see if I can catch a fish." One of these days, she decided, she was going to make him smile. She was even going to make him laugh. But it did not matter that he did neither.

He was enjoying himself as much as she was. She was /sure /of it.

This may not be a match made in heaven, and they may never really /love /each other. But there was no reason at all why they should not be happy together. She had promised him happiness and pleasure and comfort, had she not?

On the third day they walked around to the far side of the lake and came upon a sloping bank that was simply covered with daffodils. It had been hidden from sight from the other bank by a band of willow trees that overhung the water. The yellow trumpets nodded and waved in the sunlight and the light breeze. "Oh, look, Elliott!" she cried, as if he could possibly not have noticed. "Just look!" And she went dashing off to run through the daffodils, her arms spread to the sides. She twirled about in the middle of them and lifted her face to the sun. "Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?" she asked, coming to a halt but keeping her arms raised.

He was standing at the edge of the bank, watching her. "Probably," he said. "But I cannot for the moment think what it might have been. I believe you must have had secret knowledge of this place, though, Vanessa, and dressed accordingly. It was very cunning and clever of you." She looked down at herself. She was wearing her lemon-colored dress and pelisse and her straw bonnet. "I thought you would be impressed," she said, smiling brightly at him. "I am." He had come closer while she was looking down. And he kept coming as her smile faded. When he was close enough, he leaned forward and set his lips to hers, and she twined her arms about his neck and kissed him back.

She loved his heavy-lidded look. It made her feel desirable. That he actually found her desirable still seemed incredible to her. But he must. He surely could not be thinking /just /of those heirs for which he had married her. She gazed into his eyes after he had finished kissing her, and smiled again.

It was one of the happiest moments of a happy three days. She almost felt that she was in love with him after all. And he with her. "Even if family and gardeners had not been given strict orders to stay away from the lake," he said, "this would be a deserted spot. I cannot remember seeing it before at this particular time of the year." /A deserted spot./ His meaning was abundantly clear. Vanessa felt the growingly familiar ache between her thighs. "No one comes here?" she asked him, and licked her suddenly dry lips. "No one." And he shrugged out of his coat, spread it on the grass among the daffodils, and gestured toward it.

And they made love in the outdoors, surrounded by the green and gold of springtime, the sun beaming down on them, its rays almost hot in the shelter provided by trees and flowers and the slope of the bank.

It was quick and lusty and wonderfully wicked - for of course someone /could /have come striding into sight at any moment. There was something strangely erotic, she discovered, about making love while almost fully clothed. "I am going to pick some daffodils for the house," she said when they were on their feet again and had adjusted their clothing. "May I?" "This is your home," he said. "You are mistress of Finchley Park, Vanessa. You may do whatever you wish." Her smile broadened. "Within reason," he added hastily. "Help me," she said, bending to the daffodils and plucking them by their long stems. "Is this enough?" he asked after he had picked perhaps a dozen and she had picked more than twice that number. "Not nearly," she said. "We will pick until our arms can hold no more.

We will fill the dower house to over-flowing with sunshine and spring, Elliott. Gather some greenery too." Some time later they staggered back around the lake to the house, their arms laden. "I hope," she said as they approached the door, "there are enough pots and vases. There must be at least one bouquet for each room." "The servants will see to it," he said, opening the door with difficulty and standing back for her to precede him inside. "They will certainly /not,/" she protested. "Arranging flowers is one of the finest pleasures of life, Elliott. I will show you. Come and help me." "I'll come and /watch /you," he said. "You will thank me for not helping, Vanessa. I have no eye for arrangements." But he did help nevertheless. He filled the pots with water and divided the flowers and leaves into groups and cut their stems according to her directions. And he helped carry the pots to the appointed rooms and adjusted their positions while she stood back and looked on with a critical eye. "One half an inch to the right," she said, gesturing. "Now one quarter of an inch back. /There! /Perfect!" He stood back and looked steadily at her.

She laughed. "Perfection ought always to be aimed for," she said, "even if it is not always possible to achieve. Anything worth doing ought to be done well." "Yes, ma'am," he said. "What happens to the flowers when we return to the main house tomorrow?" She did not want to return to the house. She wanted to live here just like this forever and ever. But it had never been possible - or ultimately desirable - to hold back time. "Tomorrow does not exist until it comes," she said. "We need not think about it today. Today we will enjoy the daffodils." "Do you know the poem?" he asked. "The one by William Wordsworth?" she said. "His 'host of golden daffodils'? Oh, yes, indeed. And now we know just how he felt when he came upon them." "We /do /have some reading in common after all, then," he said. "Yes, so we do." Vanessa gazed about happily at the vases full of flowers. And there was one more evening to look forward to and one more night.