“You are mine,” he said firmly. “Besides, I came equipped for the nightmare, didn’t I?”

“I was just going to ask! How did you happen to know one of my favorite books by heart?”

“I asked your mother if she remembered any books on Capri you liked. She quoted me a passage, but she couldn’t recall the name of the book, only that you loved it. So I set to work.”

He had seven bookshops deliver to his hotel every single travel guide they stocked that so much as mentioned Italy. After he and Mrs. Douglas returned from the Savoy Theatre, he stayed up most of the night perusing any and all pages that dealt with Capri, until he came upon the passage Mrs. Douglas had recited.

“I found the book with the intention of reading it to you until you fell back asleep, should you have your nightmare again. But then I realized that reading would require a light. Better just to commit it to memory, which was what I did on the train going back to Devon.”

“That is—that is incredibly sweet.” The bed creaked. She pushed a little off the mattress and kissed him on the lips.

“I have only two more paragraphs of text left in me. But had I known that travelogues had such erotic properties, I’d have memorized the whole thing.”

She chortled. “Oh, you would, would you?”

He combed his fingers through her cool hair. “If you want me to, I would—even if I’m banned from ever seducing you with Capri travelogues again.”

She leaned her cheek against his, a simple gesture that almost caused his gratitude to spiral out of control.

“Would this be a good time to apologize to you for my having been a complete ass when we were in the castle ruins?”

His conduct that day had chafed his conscience ever since.

She pulled back slightly, as if to look him in the eyes. “Only if it’s also a good time to apologize to you for having forced you to marry me.”

“So I’m forgiven?”

“Of course,” she said.

He used to believe that to forgive was to allow an offense to go unpunished. Now he finally understood that forgiveness was not about the past, but the future.

“And me, am I forgiven?” she asked, a note of anxiety in her voice.

“Yes, you are,” he said, and meant every word.

She exhaled unsteadily, a sound of relief. “Now we can go on.”

Now they could look forward to the future.

“What does ‘Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo’ mean?” Elissande asked, as they hiked up the steep path that led to the top of the Hangman Cliffs.

The day had dawned sunny and beautiful. And the coast had been a revelation of untamed headland and feral sea. She had been instantly captivated.

After breakfast, they’d hired a coach and driven to Combe Martin, the closest village to the Hangman Cliffs, and from there they had set out on foot, tramping across the green moors on a path dotted with surprisingly white goats.

Her husband had been taking a sip from the canteen of water he carried. At her question, he choked, as badly as his brother had the night he’d brought up the phrase as the family motto for the Edgertons of Abingdon. Elissande had to forcefully smack his back to help him clear his airway.

He panted and laughed at the same time. “My God, you still remember it?”

“Of course I do. It is not anyone’s family motto, is it?”

“No!” He doubled over with mirth. “Or at least, I hope not.”

She adored his laughter. All the more so for the long, lonely path he’d trudged to reach this day, when they could enjoy the coast of the West Country arm in arm. She picked up his hat, which had fallen onto the trail.

“What is it then?” She smoothed his hair with her fingers and put the hat back on his head, adjusting the angle for it to sit properly—she was largely unfamiliar with a man’s toilette.

“It’s from a poem by Catullus, probably the rudest poem you could ever hope to read in your life,” he said, playfully lowering his voice, “so rude I don’t think a translation has ever been published in English.”

“Oh?” This she must hear. “Do tell.”

“A nice young lady like you shouldn’t ask,” he teased.

“A nice young gentleman like you shouldn’t withhold—or the nice young lady might be driven to ask your brother.”

“Ooh, blackmail. I like it. Well, if you must know, the first verb refers to buggery.” He burst out laughing again, this time at her expression. “Don’t look so shocked; I already told you it’s rude.”

“Clearly I’ve led a sheltered life. My idea of rudeness is calling someone ugly and stupid. Is there a second verb?”

“Indeed there is. It refers also to a sexual act, one of somewhat lesser infamy—but would still have roomfuls of ladies braying for their smelling salts if it were ever mentioned.”

She gasped. “I think I know what it is.”

He drew back in astonishment. “No, you most certainly do not know what it is.”

“Yes, I do,” she said smugly. “The night you were drunk as a skunk, you mentioned withdrawal. And you said that if you were in a really terrible mood, you’d make me swallow your seed.”

His jaw dropped. “I take it back. You do know what it is then. My God, what all did I say to you that night?”

A young shepherd appeared on the path, walking toward them with his flock.

“On second thought,” said her husband, “let’s wait until tonight. I have a presentiment that speaking of my precise words and actions that night might lead us to activities that would get us arrested.”

She giggled. He gave her a mock glare. “Be serious. It’s your reputation I’m worried about.”

She cleared her throat and set her face. “Was this the sort of Latin verse you were looking for to put yourself to sleep when you were at Highgate Court?”

“Indeed not. This is the sort of Latin verse I read when I want to choke on my water, obviously.”

She chortled. “Speaking of looking for Latin verse, what were you doing in my uncle’s study that night?”

His expression turned sheepish. “It was right next door to the green parlor. I was hoping to come in on you after Lady Avery had caught you all by yourself. I thought it would be amusing.” He sighed. “See, my own vengefulness led to my downfall.”

She patted him on the arm. “You are still a good man.”

“You think so?”

He had probably meant for the question to be nonchalant, but it had emerged laden with both hope and doubt.

She understood him. She’d never thought of herself as particularly good—how could anyone good be so adept at lies and deceit? But she did not doubt his goodness: She needed only to look at the way he took care of her mother.

And he gave himself too little credit. To recognize the change he needed required insight; and to confess before Freddie, after all these years, took true courage.

“I know so,” she said.

He was silent. The path turned. He held out his hand to help her over a rock that jutted from the ground. She gazed upon him, her strapping, handsome man, golden and pensive, and felt a ferocious protectiveness.

They walked on for almost five minutes before he touched her shoulder and said, “Thank you. I’ll live up to it.”

She had no doubt he would.

The top of the Hangman Cliffs gave onto a stunning vista: miles of verdant headlands towering hundreds of feet high, a twilight-blue sea upon which the sun glimmered like silver netting, and in the distance a pleasure boat, all its sails unfurled, gliding across the water with the leisurely grace of a swan.

She could not take her eyes off the views. And he could not take his eyes off her. Her face was flushed, her breath still slightly uneven from the strenuous climb, and her smile, ah, her smile—he would have crawled across broken glass for it.

“It’s even more beautiful when the heathers are in bloom,” he said. “Then the slopes turn a glorious purple.”