All About Passion (28 page)

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 familiar 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." Nodding curtly, he dug in his heels—his horse reared, then all but bolted up the street.

"Insolent puppy!" Sir Henry glowered after Lancelot's rapidly dwindling figure. Francesca took Gyles's arm. "One can only hope he'll grow up soon and leave such ungraciousness behind."

The comment answered the questions that had been about to bloom in the Middleshams' minds. Allowed them to dismiss Lancelot as the mere nuisance he was. Lady Middlesham pressed her hand as they made their farewells; Sir Henry smiled and expressed a wish they would meet again soon. They parted from the Middleshams and headed for the Red Pigeon. Francesca squeezed Gyles's arm.

"Lancelot is a spoilt boy, of no interest to me and no consequence to you." Gyles slanted her a glance, grey eyes hard, then ushered her into the inn. Harris came rushing to conduct them to the parlor he'd prepared. Francesca was pleased to approve both the parlor and the fare the innkeeper and his buxom daughter efficiently set before them. Then Harris and the girl withdrew, leaving them in comfort, well supplied with viands and wine. The food was as delicious as it looked; Francesca was free with her praise. Glancing up, she noticed the amusement in Gyles's eyes, noted his not entirely straight lips. "What is it?" He hesitated, then said, "I was just imagining you at a dinner party in London. You'll create a panic."

"Why?"

"It's not common practice for ladies of the ton to evince such…
desire
over food." She opened her eyes wide. "If one has to eat, one may as well enjoy it." He laughed and inclined his head. "Indeed."

The table could have sat four; they faced each other over it. It was easy to converse, and they were free of all ears. As they sampled the various meats and pastries, Francesca asked about the estate in general, encouraged when Gyles answered readily, with no hint of reluctance. They discussed the past year, the trials and successes, and the harvest presently being gathered in.

Then Harris returned to remove the dishes; setting a platter piled with fresh fruits between them, he beamed benignly and left them in peace.

Selecting a grape, Francesca asked, "The families on the estate—are they primarily long-term tenants?"

"Mostly long-standing." Watching the grape disappear, Gyles leaned back in his chair. "In fact, I can't think of any who aren't."

"So they're used to all the"—another grape was selected—"local traditions."

"I suppose so."

She studied the grape, turning it in her fingers. "What traditions are there? You mentioned a market."

"The market's held every month—I suppose it's a tradition. Everyone would certainly be upset if it was stopped."

"And what else?" She looked up. "Perhaps the church sponsors some gathering?" Gyles met her wide eyes. "It would be a easier if you simply told me what it is you want to know." She held his gaze, then popped the grape into her mouth and wrinkled her nose at him. "I wasn't
that
transparent."

He watched as her jaw worked, squishing the grape, watched her swallow, and didn't answer. Folding her hands on the table, she fixed him with an earnest look. "Your mother mentioned there used to be a Harvest Festival—not the church celebration, although at much the same time—but a fete day at the Castle."

Although he kept his expression impassive, she must have seen his reaction in his eyes; she quickly said,

"I know it hasn't been held for years—"

"Not since my father died."

"True—but your father died more than twenty years ago."

He couldn't now argue that most of his tenants wouldn't recall the event.

"You're the earl, and now I'm your countess. It's a new generation, a new era. The purpose of the Festival was, as I understand it, to thank the estate workers for their efforts throughout the year, through the sowing, husbanding, and reaping." She tilted her head, her eyes steady on his. "You're a caring landlord—you look after your tenants. Surely, now I'm here, it's right—appropriate—that we should again host the Festival."

She was right, yet it took some time to accustom his mind to the idea—of holding the Festival again, of he himself being the host. In all his memories, that was a position his father had filled. After his death, there had never been any question—not that he could recall—of continuing with the Festival, despite the fact it was, indeed, a very old tradition.

Times changed. And sometimes adapting meant resurrecting past ways.

She'd been wise enough to say no more, to push no further. Instead, she sat patiently, her gaze on his face, awaiting his decision. He knew perfectly well if he refused she would argue, although perhaps not immediately. His lips lifted spontaneously as he recalled her earlier comment. Transparent? She was as easy to read as the wind.

Hope kindled in her eyes at his half smile; he let his lips relax into a more definite one. "Very well. If you wish to play the role of my countess to the hilt—"

He broke off. Their eyes met, held; all levity evaporated. Then, deliberately, he inclined his head and continued, his voice even, "I see no reason to dissuade you." After an instant's pause, he added, "I won't stand in your way."

She understood what he was saying—all he was saying. After a moment, she stood and came around the table. She stopped by his side, turned, and sank gracefully onto his lap. "And will you play your part, too?"

His gaze remained steady. "In the Festival, yes."

For the rest, he could make no promises.

She studied his eyes, her own unreadable, then she smiled, her usual, warm, gloriously radiant smile.