She smiled and slipped a hand through his arm, as eager as he to saddle up and be gone. “What a very good idea.”


Ten minutes later, they were in the saddle and off. Gyles led the way up to the escarpment, then, side by side, they flew before the wind.

Francesca flicked a glance along her shoulder. Gyles caught it-with her eyes, she flashed a challenge, then looked ahead and urged Regina on. The mare lengthened her stride, steady and sure. And fast.

The grey thundered alongside, keeping pace. The wind whipped Francesca’s hair back in black streamers. Fresh and clear, the air rushed to meet them. With hands and knees, she urged the mare faster.

Stride for stride, pace for pace, they streaked across the downs. The crisp coolness of the morning enveloped them. They raced, neither intending to lose yet not thinking of winning. The exhilaration of the moment was prize enough, the speed, the thrill, the thunder. They were locked in the moment, in the movement, horses and riders merging into one entity, the pounding of hooves echoed by the pounding of their hearts.

“Slow here!”

Francesca obeyed instantly, easing back in concert as Gyles slowed the grey from gallop to canter, and finally to a walk. The escarpment was less steep there. Gyles reined in where a track led down. Francesca halted beside him.

His chest was rising and falling, as were her breasts. Their eyes met; they both grinned, ridiculously pleased. Francesca shook back her unruly curls and looked around, conscious that Gyles’s gaze lingered on her face, then traveled over her with a proprietorial air.

She glanced back at him, eyes widening, questioning.

His lips quirked. Reaching out, he tugged the plume on her cap. “Come on.” He clicked his reins, and the grey stepped onto the track. “Or we’ll never leave.”

Francesca grinned and set the mare in his wake.

They ambled down through gently rolling hills. Beyond lay fields reduced to stubble, hay stacked ready to be fetched away, the corn sheaves already gathered in.

“Is this still your land?”

“Down to the river and beyond.” He pointed to the east, then around in an arc to the south until he was pointing back toward the castle. “That’s the shape, with the escarpment the north boundary. Like an elongated oval.”

“And the Gatting property?”

“On the other side of the river. Come on.”

They followed a lane between two lush meadows, then clattered across a stone bridge. Gyles shifted the grey to a canter. Francesca kept pace. The lane rounded a bend. An old house came into view, set back in the fields, a narrow drive leading to it.

Gyles drew rein at the mouth of the drive. He nodded at the house. “Gatting. It was originally a manor house, but it’s been razed and added to over the centuries-there’s little of the original left.”

Francesca studied it. “Were there tenants in it?”

“Still are. They’re related to some of my tenants, and I knew their worth. There was no reason for them to leave.” Gyles turned the grey down the lane. “Come up to this rise. You’ll be able to see the whole property.”

Francesca nudged the mare and followed. On the rise, she halted beside him. “Charles told me the tale of how Gatting came to be and how I came to inherit it.” She rested her hands on the saddle bow. “Show me the land.”

He pointed out the boundaries. It didn’t seem that important a property, not compared to the rest of the estate. She said so, and he explained. They rode across the fields as he elaborated on the management strategies he currently employed. “Without Gatting, managing the acreage on this side of the river was a perennial headache.”

She glanced at him. “One our marriage has relieved?”

He met her eyes. “One it’s relieved.”

They rode on in complete harmony, heading west through the fields. Eventually, they reached another lane, and Gyles turned back toward the river. “This’ll take us to the top of the village.”

Another narrow bridge got them across the Lambourn. They rode past orchards enclosed by stone walls. A square-towered church loomed directly ahead, perched above the village and surrounded by a graveyard. They came upon a cottage, neat behind a white fence; the lane turned sharply beyond it, just before the church’s lych-gate. Gyles halted at the turn and waited until Francesca came alongside. He gestured ahead. “Lambourn village.”

The street dipped, then gradually rose. Beyond the point where the village ended and the houses ceased, the street joined the main road the coach had taken on her wedding eve, carrying her to the Castle farther on.

Buildings clustered on either side of the street. The houses ran the gamut from workers’ cottages, abutting one another in a row, to more prosperous free-standing cottages with strips of garden between stoop and gate. In the middle of the street, a number of shops proclaimed their existence via brightly painted boards hanging over the narrow pavements. The signs of two inns, one this side of the shops, the other just past them, were the biggest.

“I hadn’t realized the village was so large.”

Gyles jiggled his reins; the grey stepped out. “There’s a fair number of people on the estate and more in the village and on adjoining estates-enough to support a market day.”

“And two inns.” Francesca considered the first as they passed it. The sign identified it as the Black Bull.

“It’s nearly time for lunch.” Gyles glanced at her. “We can leave the horses at the Red Pigeon and I’ll show you around the village, then we can lunch at the inn.”

She hid her surprise. “That would be pleasant.”

The Red Pigeon was a large coaching inn. Handing their reins to a freckle-faced lad, Gyles escorted Francesca through the heavy front door into the large hall.

“Harris?”

A round, bald head popped out from a door; it was followed by a rotund body clothed in black and white, with a white apron tied about the hips. Harris hurried forward.

“My lord! What a pleasure to see you.”

The innkeeper’s gaze fastened on Francesca.

“My dear, allow me to introduce Harris-his family have owned the Red Pigeon for as long as there have been Rawlingses at Lambourn. The story goes that the first Harris served under arms to one of our ancestors and on retirement took to innkeeping. Harris, this is Lady Francesca, my countess.”

Harris beamed and bowed very low. “It’s a rare pleasure, my lady, to welcome you to this house.”

Francesca smiled as he straightened.

“We left our horses with your Tommy.” Gyles noted the interested stares of all those in the open tap. “I’m going to show Lady Francesca about, then we thought to take luncheon here. A private parlor, I think.”

“Of course, my lord. The garden parlor, perhaps. It has a nice view over the roses to the orchards and river.”

Gyles raised a brow at Francesca.

“That sounds splendid,” she said.

Gyles retook her arm. “We’ll be back in an hour.”

“I’ll have everything ready, my lord.”

Outside, Gyles steered Francesca along the pavement to the shops. The first was a bakery.

“What a glorious smell!” Francesca paused to peer through the steamy window. A second later, a round, ruddy-faced woman appeared on the steps, wiping floury hands on a voluminous apron.

Gyles nodded. “Mrs. Duckett.” The woman bobbed a curtsy and mumbled a “m’lord,” her gaze fixed on Francesca. Gyles hid a wry smile. “Allow me to make you known to Lady Francesca, my countess.”

Mrs. Duckett sank into her best curtsy. “My lady! Welcome to Lambourn village.”

Francesca smiled and with her usual ease acknowledged the greeting and inquired after Mrs. Duckett’s enterprise. Mrs. Duckett was only too happy to show her ladyship all.

Thus it went as they progressed up the street, then crossed and returned on the other side. The outing was, Gyles discovered, an unexpected education.

He’d expected that the shopkeepers would be eager to greet his countess; he hadn’t realized she would be so interested-transparently sincerely-in them, in the village itself. But she was. Her interest rang clearly in her questions, in her bright eyes and focused attention.

He found his mind following hers, seeing things through her eyes. And was surprised by what he saw. Yet that was only part of the revelation. He knew and was known to everyone here; despite that familiarity, whenever he appeared he was usually the center of attention. Not today. Which left him in the position of some ghostly observer watching Francesca’s entrance on this familar scene, viewing her effect on it, on all the familiar characters.

She drew them to her like moths to a flame. Her confidence, her assuredness… he tried to pinpoint what her principal attraction was. He watched as she parted from the milliner, saw her smile, saw the milliner’s delighted response.

Saw something he recognized. Francesca’s belief in happiness, an unshakable conviction that happiness existed, that it was there for the claiming regardless of one’s station in life, regardless of whatever it was that happiness meant to each one.

That conviction hung over her like a cloak, touching all about her.

She turned to him, her smile brilliant, lighting her eyes. He took the hand she held out to him, hesitated, then carried it to his lips. Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Come. It’s time for lunch.” With a nod to the delighted milliner, he handed Francesca from the shop.

“She seemed to have very good quality wares.” Francesca glanced back at the delicate lace in the window.

Gyles guided her firmly along. “Mama and Henni both use her services on occasion.”

“Hmm. Perhaps-”

“Chillingworth!”

They halted, turned; Francesca saw a middle-aged lady and gentleman crossing the street toward them.

“Sir Henry and Lady Middlesham,” Gyles murmured. “Not like the Gilmartins,” was all he had time to add before the Middleshams reached them.

The introductions were made. Lady Middlesham was a comfortable woman with twinkling eyes while Sir Henry was a solid country sort, content to bow over her hand, tell her she was “a pretty little thing,” then turn to Gyles with some question about the river.

“You’ll have to excuse them,” Lady Middlesham told her. “Our lands lie to the north and west of the Castle, on the other side of the river farther upstream. They both have an abiding interest in the fish stocks.”

“Gyles fishes?”

“Oh, indeed. You should ask him to take you in summer. It’s quite relaxing, doing nothing but watching them play with their rods and lines.”

Francesca laughed. “I must try it sometime.”

“Indeed, and we’d be pleased if you would call at the Manor sometime, too.” Lady Middlesham pulled a face. “I suppose, theoretically, we should call on you first, but I always get confused with such formalities.” She squeezed Francesca’s hand. “Now that we’ve met, let’s not stand on ceremony. If you have time, do call in, and next time we’re passing the Castle, we’ll make a point of looking in. Elizabeth and Henni are at the Dower House, I believe?”

As she and Lady Middlesham chatted, already comfortable, Francesca noted that Gyles and Sir Henry, although not close in age, were likewise comfortable in each other’s company. The idea of taking her first social steps blossomed in her mind.

“Countess!”

Francesca turned, as did the others. They beheld a figure, all in black, mounted on a prancing black steed.

Lancelot Gilmartin bowed extravagantly; his horse danced nervously, nearly bumping Lady Middlesham.

“Here! I say!” Sir Henry drew his wife to safety. “Watch what you’re doing there.”

Lancelot looked down his nose at Sir Henry, then focused his dark gaze on Francesca. “I wanted to thank you for your hospitality. I wondered if, later this afternoon, you might like to ride on the downs. I could show you Seven Barrows. The mounds have an eerie atmosphere. Quite romantic.”

Francesca was very aware of Gyles by her side, aware of the restraint he was exercising. She smiled coolly at Lancelot. “Thank you, but no.” With a wave she drew Lancelot’s attention to the presence beside her. “We’ve been out all morning riding the downs-I’ll have much to catch up with this afternoon. Please convey my regards to your mother and father, and my thanks for their visit.”

A scowl marred Lancelot’s too-handsome features. Faced with a wall of trenchant respectability, he was forced to accept her dismissal. He didn’t do it with good grace. “Some other time, then.”