All About Passion (Cynster 7)

“If it’s not, we’ll be fishing them out of the pond and the fountain. That’s what always happened when the younger crew got bored.”

“Being wet at this time of year isn’t wise, so we must ensure the younger ones aren’t bored.”

“Being wet never hurt me.” Gyles steered her to his study.

“That,” she declared as she swept over the threshold, “is not what your mother said.”

They spent the rest of the day organizing their Harvest Festival-the first for twenty-eight years. Gyles recounted his memories, then they added the events mentioned by Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace.

After lunch, they called in Wallace and Irving, Mrs. Cantle and Cook. By late afternoon, they had a battle plan.

Gyles sat in an armchair and watched Francesca, the general, seated behind his desk, outline her campaign. Their troops were ranged about the room on chairs, nodding, occasionally putting in a suggestion or correction. The enthusiasm swirling about the room was palpable.

“I know where we can get the right-size barrels for the bobbing,” Irving volunteered.

Wallace nodded. “And we’ll need to speak with Harris about the ale.”

“Yes indeed.” Francesca scribbled a note. “Now, Cook-you advise we get pasties from Mrs. Duckett?”

“Aye-my bread’s as good as hers, but no one hereabouts has a hand for pastry like Duckett. And she’ll be thrilled to be doing it again, too.”

“Very good.” Francesca scribbled on, then looked up. “Now, is there anything we’ve forgotten?”

They all shook their heads. Lips twisting, Gyles volunteered, “Edwards.”

They all stilled, all exchanged glances, then Wallace cleared his throat. “If you would leave Edwards to me and Mrs. Cantle, ma’am, I believe we can sort out all the arrangements without creating any undue disturbance.”

Francesca looked down to hide her smile. “Indeed, that might be best. Very well.” Laying down her pen, she looked at them all. “That’s it-if we all do our parts, I’m sure it will be a wonderful, most memorable day.”

“Wake up, sleepyhead.”

Francesca snuggled deeper under her satin covers and tried to will away the hand curving about her shoulder, gently shaking her.

“It’s past eight and the morning’s clear,” a familiar voice murmured in her ear. “Come riding with me.”

She frowned. “We already did-didn’t we?”

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sp; He laughed, his chest to her back, rocking her. “I mean on the downs, on Regina. She must be missing your runs.”

“Oh.” Wriggling up, Francesca pushed her hair back. Gyles was lounging on her bed, already dressed but without cravat or coat. Sitting straighter, she peered past him to the window. “Is it really fine?”

“As fine as we’re going to get at this time of year.” Rising and heading for his room, he threw her a challenging look. “Come on.”

Francesca struggled out of bed. By the time Millie had appeared with her water and she’d washed and climbed into her habit, the anticipation of a rousing gallop had stirred her blood. Millie had left her crop and gloves on the bed; she swiped them up and looked about. “My cap?”

Millie’s head was buried in the wardrobe. “I know it was here with the whip and gloves, but I can’t find it.”

Francesca heard striding footsteps in the corridor, then a tap sounded on her door. “Never mind. You can hunt it out later.”

Gyles was waiting in the corridor. His gaze raked her as she emerged, then returned to her hair.

“We can’t find it at the moment.”

He waved her on, then fell in beside her, his gaze drifting again to her uncovered head. “I have to admit I’ve got used to that flirting feather.”

She threw him a grin and started down the stairs. “I don’t need a feather.”