This was our first alfresco encounter of the new spring season, and there is something about a woman standing naked in a field or forest that appeals to the most primal instincts of both sexes, while at the same time flouting modern conventions regarding where love should be made. Trust me on this; you get used to the occasional ant or bumblebee.

Susan asked, "What are you going to do to me?"

"Whatever I wish." I looked at Susan standing motionless, her long red hair blowing in strands across her face, waiting patiently for a command. She has no acting background, but if she had, she would be a method actress; there was not a hint in her face or bearing that she was my wife, and that this was a game. For all purposes, she was a naked, defenceless woman who was about to be raped by a strange man on horseback. In fact, her knees were shaking, and she seemed honestly frightened.

"Please, sir, do what you will with me, but do it quickly." I'm not good at the impromptu games, and I'd rather she scripted it so I know who I'm supposed to be or at least what historical epoch we're in. Sometimes I'm a Roman or a barbarian, a knight or an aristocrat, and she's a slave, a peasant, or a haughty noblewoman who gets her comeuppance. I brought Yankee right up to Susan and reached out and held her upraised chin in my hand. "Are you embarrassed?"

"Yes, sir."

I should mention that Susan often takes the dominant role, and I'm the one who plays the part of a naked slave at auction or a prisoner who is stripped and given a few lashes, or whatever. Lest you think we are utterly depraved, I want you to know we are both registered Republicans and members of the Episcopal Church, and attend regularly except during the boating season. Anyway, on this occasion, I had the feeling we were in the seventeenth century or thereabouts, thus the "Don't be insolent" line and all the rest of the silly dialogue. I tried to think of another great line and finally said, "Are you Daphne, wife of the traitor Sir John Worthington?"

"I am, sir. And if you are indeed Lord Hardwick, I've come to ask you to intercede on my husband's behalf with His Majesty, the King." I was indeed hardwick at that moment and wished I'd worn looser trousers. "I am every inch Hardwick," I replied, and saw a real smile flit across her face. Susan dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around my boot. "Oh, please, my lord, you must present my petition to King Charles."

History is not my strong point, but I can usually wing it. History wasn't the point anyway. I said, "And what favour will you do me in return if I do this for you?"

"I will do anything you wish."

That was the point. And in truth, the playacting usually got me jump-started before Susan, and I wanted to get on with the last scene. "Stand," I commanded. She stood and I grabbed her wrist as I took my foot from the stirrup. "Put your right foot in the stirrup."

She put her bare foot in the stirrup, and I pulled her up facing me, both of us tight in the English saddle, with her arms around me and her bare breasts tight against my chest. I gave Yankee a tap, and he began to walk. I said, "Take it out."

She unzipped my fly and took it out, holding it in her warm hands. I said, "Put it in."

She sobbed and said, "I do this only to save my husband's life. He is the only man I have ever known."

A few clever replies ran through my mind, but the hormones were in complete control of my intellect now, and I snapped, "Put it in!" She rose up and came down on it, letting out an exclamation of surprise. "Hold on." I kicked Yankee, and he began to trot. Susan held me tighter and locked her strong legs over mine. She buried her face in my neck, and as the horse bounced along, she moaned. This was not acting. I was now completely caught up in the heat of the moment. I'm only a fair horseman, and what little skill I have was not equal to this. Yankee trotted at a nice pace through the cherry grove, then out into the pasture. The air was heavy with the smell of horse, the trodden earth, our bodies, and Susan's musky odour rising between us.

God, what a ride, Susan breathing hard on my neck, crying out, me panting, and the wetness oozing between us.

Susan climaxed first and cried out so loudly she flushed a pheasant from a bush. I climaxed a second later and involuntarily jerked on the reins, causing Yankee to nearly tumble.

The horse settled down and began to graze, as if nothing had happened. Susan and I clung to each other, trying to catch our breath. I finally managed to say, "Whew… what a ride…" Susan smiled. "I'm sorry I trespassed on your land, sir." "I lied. It's not my land."

"That's all right. I don't have a husband in trouble with the King, either." We both laughed. She asked, "What were you doing here?" "Same as you. Just riding."

"Did you visit our new neighbour?"

"No," I replied. "But I saw a light in his window."

"I'm going to speak to him."

"Perhaps you'd better put your clothes on first."

"I may have better luck as I am. Was he good-looking?"

"Not bad, in a Mediterranean sort of way."

"Good."

I reined Yankee around. "I'll take you back to Zanzibar and your clothes."

She sat upright. "No, I'll get off here and walk."

"I'd rather you didn't."

"It's all right. Hold my hand."

She dismounted and walked off. I called after her, "You have no time to talk with Bellarosa. We'll be late for the Eltons again."

She waved her arm to show she'd heard me. I watched my wife walking naked through the pasture until she entered the shadows of the cherry grove, then I turned Yankee and headed for home.

After a minute or so, I was able to get Lord Hardwick back in his pants.

I do make love to my wife, Susan Stanhope Sutter, in our bed, and we enjoy it. Yet, I believe that marriages entirely grounded in reality are bound to fail, just as individuals who cannot escape into flights of fancy are bound to crack up. I'm aware that a couple who acts out sexual fantasies must be careful not to step over into the dark side of the psyche. Susan and I have come to the brink a few times but always drew back.

I crossed from Bellarosa's land through the white pines to Stanhope. I didn't much like leaving Susan with darkness coming and with a few hundred yards' walk in the nude back to her horse, but when she says she's all right, she means go away.

Well, I thought, the flowers were bought and planted, the main house resecured, we had chicken Dijon and asparagus delivered from Culinary Delights for lunch, I was able to get into the village to do some errands, and I had my afternoon ride, and got laid at the same time. All in all, an interesting, productive, and fulfilling Saturday. I like Saturdays.

The Lord rested on the seventh day, which has been interpreted to mean that His sixth-day creations should do the same.

George and Ethel Allard take the Sabbath seriously, as do most working-class people from that generation who remember six-day workweeks of ten-hour days. I, on the other hand, have to take care of the Lord's English ivy creeping over my windowpanes.

I don't actually do any business on Sunday, but I do think about what has to be done on Monday morning as I do my Sunday chores.

Susan and I had cut ivy until about ten in the morning, then got cleaned up and dressed for church.

Susan drove the Jag, and we stopped at the gatehouse to pick up George and Ethel, who were waiting at their front door, George in his good brown suit, Ethel in a shapeless flower-print dress that unfortunately seems to be making a comeback with women who want to look like 1940s wallpaper. The Allards have a car, William Stanhope's old Lincoln that he left here when he and Charlotte Stanhope moved to Hilton Head, South Carolina, in '79. George sometimes doubled as the Stanhopes' chauffeur and is still a good driver despite his advancing years. But as there is now only one service at St Mark's, it would seem snooty for us not to offer to drive, and perhaps awkward for us to ask him to drive us. Maybe I'm being too sensitive, but I have to walk a thin line between playing lord of the manor and being George and Ethel's assistant grounds keeper. We all have so many hang-ups from the old days. Anyway, George isn't the problem; Ethel the Red is.