The stone water mill with its twelve-foot wheel had long been abandoned in favor of a more productive mill closer to the heart of Stony Cross. With its charming stepped gable roof and half-timbered facade, the millhouse possessed a roughcast charm that was enhanced by the rustic scenery.

While Matthew cast a baited hook into the pond with an expert flick of his wrist, Daisy dangled her bare feet into the water. Every now and then the wriggle of her toes would invite adventurous minnows to dart forward.

She studied Matthew while he appeared to brood on some troublesome matter. His profile was strong and distinctive, with a straight, sturdy nose, sharply defined lips, a severely perfect jaw. She took pleasure in the sight of his dishevelment, the shirt dampened in patches, the trousers scattered with dry leaves, the thick hair rumpled and hanging over his forehead.

There was a fascinating duality about Matthew that Daisy had never encountered in another man. At some moments he was the aggressive, sharp-eyed, buttoned-up businessman who rattled off facts and figures with ease.

At other times he was a gentle, understanding lover who shed his cynicism like an old coat and engaged her in playful debates about which ancient culture had the best mythology, or what Thomas Jefferson’s favorite vegetable had been. (Although Daisy was convinced it was green peas, Matthew had made an excellent case for tomatoes.)

They had long conversations about subjects like history and progressive politics. For a man from a conservative Brahmin background, he had a surprising awareness of reform issues. Usually in their relentless climb up the social ladder, enterprising men forgot about those who had been left on the bottom rungs. Daisy thought it spoke well of Matthew’s character that he had a genuine concern for those less fortunate than himself.

In their discussions they had begun to lay out tentative plans for the future…they would have to find a house in Bristol that was large enough for entertaining. Matthew insisted it would have a view of the sea, and a library room for Daisy’s books, and—he added gravely—a high wall around the house so he could ravish her in the garden without being seen.

Mistress of her own house…Daisy had never been able to envision it before. But the idea of arranging things exactly as she wanted, establishing a home that suited her own preferences, was starting to sound very inviting.

Their communication often left something to be desired, however. For all the thoughts Matthew was willing to share with Daisy, there were many more that remained inaccessible. Sometimes talking with him was like ambling along a lovely winding path through all kinds of interesting scenery, only to run directly into a stone wall.

When Daisy pressed Matthew to discuss his past, he made only vague references to Massachusetts and growing up near the Charles River. Information about his family was stubbornly withheld. So far he had been unwilling to discuss which members of the Swift clan would be attending the wedding ceremony. And yet surely he wasn’t going to be completely unrepresented.

One would think Matthew hadn’t existed before he started to work for her father at the age of twenty. Daisy longed to break through the stubborn barrier of secrets. It was maddening to feel herself forever on the verge of an elusive discovery. Their relationship seemed the embodiment of some Hegelian theory…something always in the process of becoming something else, never attaining completion.

Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Daisy decided to regain Matthew’s attention. “Of course,” she said casually, “we don’t have to have a wedding ceremony at all. We can simply adhere to the classic marriage-by-purchase. Give my father a cow, and we’ll be done with it. Or perhaps we’ll do a handfasting ritual. Of course, there’s always the ancient Greek practice in which I would cut off all my hair as a sacrifice and dedicate it to Artemis, followed by a ritual bath in a sacred spring—”

Suddenly Daisy found herself flat on her back, the sky partially blocked by Matthew’s dark form. She let out a gasp of laughter at the suddenness with which he had thrown aside his fishing rod and pounced on her. His blue eyes gleamed with mischief. “I would consider the cow exchange or the handfasting,” he said. “But I draw the line at marrying a hairless bride.”

Daisy relished the weight of him pressing her back against the spongy grass, the scents of earth and herbs all around them. “What about the ritual bath?” she asked.

“That you can do. In fact…” His long fingers reached for the buttons at the front of her dress. “…I think you should practice. I’ll help you.”

Daisy squirmed and shrieked as he began to tug her gown open. “This is not a sacred spring, this is a slimy old millpond!”

But Matthew persisted, chuckling at her efforts to evade him as he pulled her gown to her waist. In defiance of propriety, and as a concession to the unseasonable warmth outside, Daisy had gone without a corset. She pushed hard at Matthew’s rock-solid chest, and he rolled easily, taking her with him. The world spun crazily, the blue and white sky blurring. She found herself sprawled on his chest while her chemise was pulled inexorably over her head.

“Matthew—” she protested, her voice muffled in the linen garment.

Removing the chemise completely, Matthew tossed it aside. His hands hooked beneath her arms, lifting until she dangled as helplessly as a kitten. His breath quickened as he stared at her pale, rosy-tipped br**sts.

“Put me down,” Daisy insisted, blushing as she was displayed before his avid gaze. Although she had lain with him twice, she was still too innocent to be cavalier about making love in the open.