She was filled with energy despite last night's love-making. Or perhaps partly because of it. That aspect of her new life was wonderful indeed and far surpassed any of her expectations. She had expected, and hoped, that it might be pleasant. It was … Well, it was much better than that.

Duncan was a skilled, patient, thorough, and passionate lover. And she had discovered an answering passion in herself. Perhaps it was unladylike to enjoy the marriage bed quite so much. But if it was, then she was content to be no lady – at least during the nights and in the privacy of their own bedchamber.

She intended to spend at least a part of the morning in consultation with the housekeeper and perhaps the cook too. There was much to learn, much to organize, if she was to establish herself as mistress of Woodbine. She would find it easier this time. When she had moved to Warren Hall with Stephen and Kate, she had gone from managing a small village cottage to running a grand country mansion. The two tasks had had very few similarities. It had taken her a great deal of effort and determination.

Duncan arrived in her dressing room before Ellen had quite finished styling her hair. He had been gone from bed when she woke up earlier. He was wearing riding clothes and looked as if he had been out already. "I thought," he said, meeting her eyes in the mirror, "that perhaps you would get lost between here and the breakfast parlor and would wander aimlessly about the house all day before someone found you and rescued you." "And so you came to escort me?" She smiled at his image. He looked as full of energy as she. He looked younger somehow, more carefree, more handsome. It struck her that he was probably far more at home in the country than he was in the city. "I did." He sat down on a chair by the door to wait for her and crossed one booted ankle over the other knee. Oh, yes, and he looked very virile too. Very attractive. "I must spend the morning with the housekeeper," she said when they were on their way downstairs for breakfast. "Mrs. Dowling, that is. There will be a great deal to learn, and I am eager to begin." "But not today," he said. "You must need to spend time with your steward after such a long absence," she said. "But not today," he said again. "Today we will start with the gallery, though we will not spend a great deal of time there when the weather is so good. We will go outside, and I will show you the park." A day of pleasure instead of duty? How irresponsible! And how irresistible! "Is that an order?" she asked him, turning her head to smile at him as they reached the bottom of the staircase and turned in the direction of the breakfast parlor.

He stopped walking rather abruptly, and he was not smiling when he looked back into her eyes. "It was /not/ an order," he said. "You will never hear one of those from me, Maggie." "It will be a holiday because we both wish for it, then," she said, tipping her head to one side, still smiling. "A sort of honeymoon." He raised his eyebrows. "Yes," he said. "Precisely. Though I am not sure I have heard that word more than once or twice in my life." "It is a holiday," she explained, "in celebration of a new marriage." "Oh, yes," he said, "I know what it /is/. It is a span of time in which a newly married couple can give, ah, vigorous attention to their new relationship." "Yes," she said. "Precisely." Oh, she felt very wicked, very carefree, very… /happy/?

So after breakfast they proceeded to the portrait gallery, which ran the whole width of the top floor of the house on the east side and was filled with light from windows on three sides.

The portraits were youthful and cheerful, as Duncan had indicated last evening. And he knew who every painted figure was and could recount numerous anecdotes about them.

It surprised Margaret to see how much he resembled his grandfather as a young man. "Oh," she said, "what a very handsome man he was. And you look just like him, Duncan." "Is that a compliment?" he asked. "I seem to remember your saying that I am not handsome or in any way good-looking." Had she really said that? But she seemed to remember that she had. "I was wrong," she said. "It was because you looked bleak, almost morose. People are always better-looking when they are happy." "I am happy, then?" he asked.

Oh, why did he keep asking questions like that?

She turned to him, stepped closer, and reached up to cup one side of his face with her hand. "I don't know," she said. "I can only guess at all you have suffered in the last five years, Duncan. I can only guess at how you must have longed for some solitude after your bereavement in order to deal with your grief and recover from your loss and enjoy the company of your son.

But you /are/ happier than you were when I first met you. I do not know if returning home here has done that for you or if I have had a hand in it." "And you," he said, setting a hand over hers. "Are /you/ happier, Maggie?" "Than I was when I met you?" she said, and smiled. "I was fleeing Crispin and the Marquess of Allingham at the time, and the realization that all the dreaming and planning I had done over the winter had come to naught. And then I met you. Yes, I am happier. Oh, and I did correct my first impression of your looks on our wedding day. I told you you were beautiful, if you remember." The smile began deep in his eyes and ended by curving his lips upward at the corners and lighting up his whole face. "I was naked," he said. "Perhaps my body is prettier than my face." "But your face is part of your body," she protested, and they both laughed.

Oh, it felt very good, she thought as she rested her free hand on his shoulder, to laugh together over something so absurd. The sun, slanting in through the south window, bathed them in light and warmth.

She moved away from him to look out through the window, and he followed her. The view was very similar to the one they had from their bedchamber. When they moved to one of the east windows they could look down upon the flower garden. It had been built over a series of low stone walls, which were almost like steps in the hillside. There were roses growing there and pansies, marigolds, hyacinths, sweet peas, daisies – oh, almost every flower Margaret could think of, all rioting together in a glorious mix of color and height and size and texture, and all apparently spilling downward to the river.

Someone had wanted both wildness and cultivation in that garden and had succeeded wonderfully well. There were a few wrought iron seats set among the flowers, she could see. "Was that your mother's creation?" she asked. "My grandmother's when she lived here as a young wife," he said. "I have always thought it lovelier than any carefully regimented formal gardens I have seen." They strolled on to look out the north window. There was a cobbled terrace directly below the house and then a steep bank ending at the river. There were a few low trees on the slope and masses of wildflowers. There was a boathouse and a short jetty off to the left.

And beyond the river was a long avenue, whose grass surface had been shaved so close that it might almost have been used as a bowling green.

There was a stone structure in the distance, at the end of it. Trees lined it on either side, like soldiers. "This is all very, very beautiful," she said.

He took her hand in his and laced his fingers with hers. "Shall we go outside?" They did not go far from the house, though they remained outside for several hours. They did not even return for luncheon. There was so much to see, so much sunshine to be soaked up, so many flowers to be smelled and touched, so many different vistas to be admired. So much talking to do. So many short silences to enjoy, filled with birdsong and the croaking of unseen insects.

They ended up strolling along beside the river behind the house, watching fish dart beneath the surface, watching the slight breeze rippling over it.