The estate itself was an arena he could legitimately keep to himself. Many of his standing did, but she hoped he’d allow her to become involved in more than a peripheral way. Large estates were complicated to run-the prospect fascinated her, not the questions of income, output and how many bags of grain each field yielded, but the people, the community spirit, the combined energies that drove any successful group effort. On an estate such as Lambourn, that spirit was reminiscent of that of a large, sprawling family, the prosperity of all interdependent on everyone performing their allotted tasks.

Her view might be naive, but from all he’d revealed of his ideas on the voting franchise, she suspected their opinions would be largely compatible. At the moment, however, she was biding her time.

And idly scanning the room.

Like the library, the study’s walls were lined with bookcases, in this instance housing, not books, but ledgers. Surveying the serried ranks, she was prepared to wager that accounts predating the establishment of the earldom would be found among them. She swung her gaze over the regimented rows, then stopped, staring at the one shelf that contained books. Old books, including one in red leather with a spine at least six inches wide.

She rose and crossed to the shelf. The book was, indeed, the old Bible she’d sought.

Behind her, a chair scraped. She turned as Gallagher bowed to Gyles, then bowed to her. “My lady. I hope you enjoy your ride.”

Francesca smiled. “Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

Her gaze shifted to her husband on the words; he arched a brow at her, then came around the desk as Gallagher quit the room.

“Shall we go?”

Francesca swung back to the bookcase. “This Bible-may I borrow it? Your mother mentioned there’s a family tree in the front.”

“There is. By all means.” He pulled the heavy book out for her; his gaze drifted down her velvet skirts to her boots. “Why don’t I give this to Irving, and he can take it up to your sitting room?”

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.”