Gyles finished the plum, then looked up at his wife. “Shall we?”

She laughed and reached for more plums.

There was a competition running to see which group could denude the first tree. Edwards was the judge. When whoops announced one group thought they’d finished, he stumped up, scrutinized the tree for any missed plums, then declared the competition won.

The successful group whooped and danced. The others cheered, then quickly returned to finish their trees, then move the ladders to the next row.

There were twenty-four plum trees in the orchard, all gnarled veterans kept in excellent condition by Edwards’s focused attention. The dray was sent rolling, groaning under the weight, to the kitchens twice before they reached the final trees.

The sun peeked out from under grey clouds, sending golden beams slanting through the trees as first one group, then another, finished their last tree. The ladders were carted away. Cook and Mrs. Cantle gathered the kitchen maids and hurried off to the house. Anticipating the fare to come, those already finished crowded around, helping those still picking.

Ten minutes later, just as the final plum was picked, Cook and Mrs. Cantle reappeared, leading a procession of maids each bearing a tray loaded with scones, freshly churned butter, and the last of the previous year’s plum jam. Four footmen followed, carting two huge urns of tea.

A cheer went up, then rose even higher as Cook led the way into the orchard. Francesca stepped off her ladder. Gyles took her hand, and they walked to meet Cook.

She bobbed a curtsy and served them. They both took a scone, buttered it, and piled it high with jam. Then Francesca turned to the waiting multitude.

Smiling, she raised the scone to them. “Thank you all-for today and tomorrow.”

“And my thanks, too.” Gyles raised his scone high. “To Lambourn!”

The rousing cheers raised the birds from the branches. With a wave, Gyles directed everyone to the trays. Exchanging a glance, he and Francesca retreated to where Mrs. Cantle was serving his mother, Henni, and Horace.

All three were liberally stained with plum juice. They were beaming.

“My dear, this has been a wonderful event.”

“We’ll have to do it next year.”

“Every year.”

Gyles checked; other than a few splatters, he’d escaped lightly. Francesca’s gown was smeared at hip and breast, where she’d forgotten and wiped her sticky fingers.

Two grooms produced flutes. As the scones were washed down, a party atmosphere took hold. Gyles and Francesca, side by side, passed through their people, thanking and being thanked.

“No need to rush in again,” Gyles told Wallace, ignoring the red juice running down the side of his dapper majordomo’s face. “Everything’s done. They deserve to enjoy themselves.”

“The evening will bring a natural end to things.” Francesca leaned on Gyles’s arm and smiled at Wallace.

He smiled back. “Indeed, ma’am. We’re on top of everything and can rest on our laurels, so to speak.”

“Enjoy our laurels,” Gyles murmured as they moved on. “Tomorrow’s for the estate, but the plums are the Castle’s harvest. This is the Castle’s celebration.” His arm slid around Francesca’s waist and tightened-he swung her into the country dance just beginning, much to the delight of the staff.

Francesca laughed and danced, following his lead, his directions. People clapped and cheered them on; they whirled until she was giddy and breathless, drunk on happiness.

“Oh!” She collapsed against Gyles when he finally drew her from the throng.

“Mama’s leaving.”

They waved to Lady Elizabeth, Henni, and Horace, then watched the three stroll away across the park. The sunlight was dimming, the last westering rays fading, yet the party in the orchard was still in full spate.

Gyles bent his head and murmured in Francesca’s ear. “I think we should leave them to it. If we stay, we’ll remind them of their duties.”

Francesca leaned back against him, folding her hands over his at her waist. “If they see us leaving, they’ll feel compelled to come inside, too.”

“In that case, it behooves us to slip away without them seeing, somewhere other than inside.”

The seductive murmur tickled her ear. She smiled. “Where do you suggest?”

They slipped away through the trees, and only Wallace saw them go. Gyles signaled him not to notice. Francesca was not surprised when, her hand in his, Gyles headed down the path zigzagging down the bluff. Down to the ledge on which the folly stood.

Her heart was light; she laughed and let him pull her along. Her world was as rosy as the western sky. She’d been right to keep a rein on her temper, to muzzle her impatience, to mute all demands-to resist the urge to push and let him come to love her in his own way, in his own time.

She’d exercised more discipline than ever in her life before, and was reaping her reward. Poised to gather in the only harvest she’d ever wanted. He was so strong, so controlled, so resistant, yet he was almost persuaded. Soon, he would be, and her dream would become reality.

There was not a single dark cloud left on her horizon.

They reached the ledge as the sun dipped and the strip of sky between the clouds and the horizon burned a hot cerise. They paused to watch; she slipped her fingers from his, slid her arm about his waist and leaned against him. His gaze left the sunset and touched her face, then lowered. His head bent; his lips grazed the whorl of her ear.

She turned. Eyes met, then she lowered her lids and stretched upward as his lips covered hers. They kissed, long, lingeringly, fighting to keep the building urgency at bay.

And not entirely succeeding.

“Come to the folly.”

His words, his arm around her, urged her feet to follow his. Their lips touched again, brushed again; they stopped again to feast.

By the time they finally reached the folly and he opened the door, desire had them firmly in its grip. Francesca smiled, feeling like a cat with a bowl of cream set before it; she led the way in, crossing to the middle of the room.

She’d been here often, drawn by the privacy and the silence, by the lingering scent of emotion. This was a place of quiet joys and shared pleasures; the past had made it so; now it was theirs. She turned and held out her arms. He closed the door, studied her, then paced slowly toward her.

His eyes were very dark; she smiled into them and reached for his cravat. His gaze lowered to her breasts; his fingers found the laces on either side of her gown.

“You’ve reorganized.”

“A little.” She’d moved his mother’s abandoned tapestry into a corner. It belonged here, but not at center stage where he would always see it. “I had Irving bring the daybed down.” With her head, she directed his attention to the large daybed beside them, placed to catch the view. “It’ll be pleasant to lie here in summer and relax.”

She let her voice convey her real meaning. His eyes lifted to hers briefly; they were turbulent, stormy. She caught only the barest flash of intention-lightning against the grey-before his fingers slipped through her open laces and skittered along her ribs.

She shrieked. Laughing, she flung away-she was ticklish, and he knew it. He stayed with her, the knowing trail of his fingers quickly reducing her to a giggling wreck. She tried to escape but found herself trapped against the daybed. “Oh, stop!” She clutched the daybed’s back for support, halfdoubled over the cushions as she tried to catch her breath.

He stopped. From behind her, he closed his arms around her, pressing close, holding her against him. Still laughing, almost sobbing, she let him draw her upright, let him mold her hips against his thighs. Let him press closer still so she could feel the strength of his erection.

“What about autumn?” The deep whisper feathered her ear. “Do you think it would be pleasant to lie here now”-he shifted his hips against her-“and relax?”

He invested the word with far more sexual nuance than she had.

“Yes.” From all she could feel, she would shortly be sobbing from quite a different cause. Anticipation streaked like silver fire down her veins. She licked her lips. “We could watch the sunset.”

She felt him look up, then he murmured, in the same devilishly dark tone, “So we could.”

He had her trapped between him and the daybed. Her gown was already loose. She felt him shrug. Turning her head, she saw his coat land on a nearby chair.

Arms clothed in soft linen closed around her, hard hands splayed across her curves. “I thought you were going to watch the sky change.”

She shifted her gaze to the horizon. He bent his head and his lips brushed her nape. Then his lips and teeth grazed the long line of her throat, and his hands moved over her.

They knew her well, those wicked, wanton hands, knew how to make her shiver, shudder, knew how to make her flower for him beneath her skirts. His touch was not delicate but possessive, each caress tending to the primitive. He made her hunger for more, made her want with a level of desperation that strangled her breath in her throat.

Her breasts were swollen and aching although he’d yet to lower the gaping gown and take them in his hands. Her nipples tingled; her stomach was a tight knot of need. He seemed to know; one hand closed possessively over her stomach, kneaded provocatively. Head back against his shoulder, she moaned and shifted her hips against him. The hand slid down; pressing her skirts between her thighs, he rubbed the side of his hand against her, slowly, deliberately, until she thought she’d go mad.