it myself. Now . . . tell me where you think my sprain is.”
“Sebastian,” she said, trying to sound severe as his wet hands roved over her bodice, “you’re going to r-ruin my dress.”
“Unless you remove it.” He gave her an expectant glance.
Smiling wryly, Evie pulled away and stood to comply. He had always loved to have her undress for him, especially when the clothing was intricate with many fastenings. Her pink muslin summer dress had been topped with a matching vest fastened all down the front with pearl buttons . . . exactly the style of garment he fancied watching her remove.
“Tell me about the picnic,” her husband said, sliding a bit lower in the water, his gaze moving over her intently.
“It was lovely. We were brought out in wagonettes to a green hill. The footmen spread cloths on the ground and set out picnic hampers and pails of ice . . . and then we were left alone to feast and talk as much we pleased.” Evie worked diligently on the buttons, finding some of them difficult to unfasten. “Daisy told us about her latest trip to New York, and—you’ll never guess—she’s modeling a character in a gothic novel after you. A v-vampire!”
“Hmm. I’m not sure I like the idea of being a creature in a gothic novel. What exactly does he do?”
“He’s a handsome, elegant fiend who bites his wife’s neck every night.”
His brow cleared. “Oh, that’s all right, then.”
“But he never drinks enough of her blood to kill her,” Evie continued.
“I see. He keeps her conveniently on tap.”
“Yes, but he loves her. You make her sound like a cask with a spigot. It’s not as if he wants to do it, but he—did you just ask something?”
“I asked if you can undress any faster.”
Evie huffed with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “No, I can’t. There are too many b-buttons, and they’re very small.”
“What a pity. Because in thirty seconds, I’m going to rip away whatever clothing you have left.”
Evie knew full well not to take the threat lightly—he’d done it before, on more than one occasion. “Sebastian, no. I like this dress.”
Her husband’s eyes glinted with devilish humor as he watched her increasingly frantic efforts. “No dress is as beautiful as your naked skin. All those sweet freckles scattered over you, like a thousand tiny angel kisses . . . you have twenty seconds left, by the way.”
“You don’t even h-have a clock,” she complained.
“I’m counting by heartbeats. You’d better hurry, love.”
Evie glanced anxiously down at the row of pearl buttons, which seemed to have multiplied. With a defeated sigh, she dropped her arms to her sides. “Just go on and rip it off,” she mumbled.
She heard his silky laugh, and a sluice of water. He stood with streams runneling over the sleek, muscled contours of his body, and Evie gasped as she was pulled into a wet, steaming embrace.
His amused voice curled inside the sensitive shell of her ear. “My poor little put-upon wife. Let me help you. As you may recall, I have a way with buttons . . .”
Later, as Evie lay beside him, deeply relaxed and still tingling in the aftermath of pleasure, she said drowsily, “Phoebe told me about your conversation during the walk back to the house.”
Sebastian was slow to reply, his lips and hands still drifting over her gently. “What did she say?”
“She was unhappy about your opinion of Edward Larson.”
“No more unhappy than I, when I learned he’d broached the subject of marriage with her. Did you know about that?”
“I thought he might have. I wasn’t certain.”
Propping himself up on one elbow, Sebastian looked down at her with a frown. “God spare me from having to call another Larson ‘son-in-law.’”
“But you cared very much for Henry,” Evie said, surprised by the comment.
“Like a son,” he agreed. “However, that never blinded me to the fact that he was far from Phoebe’s ideal partner. There was no balance between them. His force of will never came close to matching hers. To Henry, Phoebe was as much a mother as a wife. I only consented to the match because Phoebe was too bullheaded to consider anyone else. For reasons I still don’t fully understand, she would have Henry or no one.”
Evie played with the light mat of his chest hair. “Whatever Henry’s faults, Phoebe always knew he belonged to her alone. That was worth any sacrifice. She wanted a man whose capacity for love was unqualified.”
“Does she claim to find