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. "Thank you."

Raising her hands, she framed his face, then leaned forward and kissed him, deliberately, sensuously yet without heat.

From beneath lowered lids, he watched her, and felt his hunger stir. Felt the barbarian rise, but for once, his appetite wasn't lust, not even desire.

Something else. Something more.

He kissed her back, and she returned the pleasure, and it was simply that-a shared moment of physical touching, caressing.

It had no purpose beyond that-the exchange of a gentle touch.

Eventually, she drew back and he let her. She smiled, happy and pleased. "So, how should we spread the news? It's only a few weeks away. Whom should we tell?"

"Harris." Gyles urged her to her feet and she rose. He stood, claimed her hand, then led her to the door. "We invite the whole village as well as the tenants, and in Lambourn, there's no better way of making a general announcement than by telling Harris."

So they told Harris, and Gyles and she were now committed to the Harvest Festival. The next day, Francesca received a letter from Charles accepting her invitation to visit at the Castle. Franni, he reported, was absolutely delighted at the prospect of visiting there again.

Francesca didn't know what to make of that. Perhaps, after all, Gyles had been right, and Franni's reaction at their wedding had simply been due to overexcitement. That suggested that Franni's gentleman was either someone else, or a figment of her imagination. Francesca could see no way of deciding, not until Franni, and Charles and Ester, arrived.

Putting the matter aside, she threw herself into preparations, both for the Harvest Festival and for her uncle's visit. She made lists, and lists of lists. One of the items on her list for today was dealing with the rejuvenation of the flower beds before the forecourt.

"It is simply unacceptable." Together with Edwards, she stood in the drive one hundred yards from the house, facing the forecourt and the empty, leaf-strewn beds along its nearest edge. "That is not an appealing vista and no fit introduction to the house."

"Mmm."

Dour and glum, Edwards stood, a great hulk beside her, and scowled at the offending mounds.

Arms folded, Francesca turned to him. "You're the head gardener. What are your suggestions?"

He glanced sideways at her, then cleared his throat.

"Flowers won't do aught. Not there. Needs trees, it does."

"Trees." Francesca glanced at the huge oaks surrounding them. "More trees."

"Aye. Pencil pines is what I'm thinking."

"Pencil pines?"

"Aye. See-" Rooting around in the leaves, Edwards found a stick. With one boot, he cleared a space on the ground. "If you see this as the house-just the front, like-as we can see it from here." He drew a rectangle to represent the house. "Then if we put three pines in each side, like this." With the stick, he drew in six pines, three on either side of the gap where the drive joined the forecourt, all in a line along the forecourt's front edge. "And stagger them in size, with the outermost the tallest, and the two flanking the drive the smallest, then-well, you can see."

He stepped back, gesturing to his sketch. Francesca bent over to study it. Slowly, she straightened, looked at the house, then back down at the sketch. "That's really quite good, Edwards."

She stepped back, narrowing her eyes, trying to imagine it. "Yes," she nodded decisively. "But there's one thing missing."

"Eh?"

"Come with me." She walked back along the drive almost to the empty beds. Stopping, she scuffed back leaves along the drive's edge, uncovering stone. "This is the base for a carved stone trough-there's a similar base on the other side of the drive. Lady Elizabeth remembers the troughs filled with flowers on her wedding day, but they were removed at some point."