All About Passion (Cynster 7)

er?”

“My foreman.” Gyles glanced at her. The moment had passed. “There are various matters I need to discuss with him.”

“Of course.” Her smile was a mask. “I must have a word with Irving.” She hesitated, then added, “I suspect we’ll have a visit from Mr. Gilmartin tomorrow. I wish to tell Irving to deny me.”

Gyles met her gaze, then nodded. He turned away-then turned back. “If you encounter any problem-”

Her smile flashed. “I’m more than capable of managing a callow youth, my lord.” She turned toward the family parlor. “Worry not.”

Her words floated back to him. Gyles watched her walk away, and wondered just what it was he didn’t need to worry about.

* * *

The next day dawned as crisply beautiful as the last. Gyles spent the morning riding his lands, checking with his tenants, learning what needed attention before winter. He made sure he was back at the Castle in time for luncheon, in time to spend an hour with his wife.

“It’s such a glorious day!” She took her seat at his right-they’d agreed to dispense with the tradition that decreed they sit at either end of the table, too far apart to converse. “Jacobs told me about the track along the river. I followed it as far as the new bridge.” She smiled at him. “It looks very sturdy.”

“So I should hope.” The bill for the lumber doubtless lay waiting in his study. Gyles pushed such mundane thoughts from his mind and turned instead to enjoying the meal, and the company.

He didn’t charm her or tease her-for some reason, his usually ready tongue fell quiet in her presence. Light banter he could manage and did, but they were both aware it masked deeper feelings, the gloss over the undercurrents of their joint lives. She was more adept, more confident in this arena than he, so he let her steer the conversation, noting that she rarely let it stray to any topic that would touch too closely to them-to what lay between them.

“Mrs. Cantle said the plums are coming along wonderfully. Indeed, the orchard looks to be burgeoning.”

He listened while she reported all the little things he’d always known happened at the Castle. He’d known as a boy, but forgotten as a man. Now, seeing them through her eyes, having her bring them once more to his attention, whisked him back to childhood-and reminded him that simple pleasures didn’t cease to be as one grew older, not if one remembered to look, to see, to appreciate.

“I finally found Edwards and asked about the hedges in the Italian garden.”

Gyles’s lips twitched. “And did he reply?”

Edwards, the head gardener, was a dour Lancashireman who lived for his trees and took note of little else.

“He did-he agreed to trim them tomorrow.”

Gyles studied the twinkle in Francesca’s eye. “Did you threaten him with instant dismissal if he didn’t comply?”

“Of course not!” Her grin widened. “I merely pointed out that hedges were composed of little trees, and they were getting so scraggly… well, they might need to be pulled out if they weren’t clipped and given a new life.”

Gyles laughed.

Then the meal was over, and it was time for them to part, yet they both lingered at the table.

Francesca glanced through the window. “It’s so warm outside.” She looked at Gyles. “Are you going riding again?”

He grimaced and shook his head. “No. I have to deal with the accounts, or Gallagher will be floundering. I have to work out the prices I’ll accept for the harvest.”

“Is there much to do?”

He pushed back his chair. “Mostly checking and entering, then some arithmetic.”

She hesitated for only a heartbeat. “I could help, if you like. I used to help my parents with their accounts.”

He held her gaze but she could read nothing in his eyes. Then his lips compressed, and he shook his head and rose. “No. It’ll be easier if I do them.”

She plastered on a bright smile-too bright, too brittle. “Well!” Pushing away from the table, she rose and led the way from the room. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He hesitated, then followed her out.

If she wasn’t allowed to help with the estate’s affairs, she would go and talk with his mother. Who would probably wheedle the whole story from her and then commiserate, which would make her feel better and more able to shrug the incident aside.