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Pluck up spirits; look cheerfully upon me.

S t. Ryne frowned. Blast it! Would the accursed man never grant him a moment’s peace? For the past three days, everywhere he turned, there was Tunning. His shadowed presence was rapidly giving credence to Elizabeth’s negative impressions of the man, to say nothing of his own nagging disquiet.

His weight shifted and his leather saddle creaked as his mount sidled.

He leaned forward to pat the horse’s neck reassuringly, trying to decide if he should wait for Tunning to catch up or pretend he never saw him and canter off along the ridge.

The latter was tempting, but with a sigh he stood his ground.

This coil was of his own making, and withal Tunning was a part, he could not slip away.

Still, he did wish it was Elizabeth riding so determinedly in his direction.

Elizabeth. Lovely Bess. Now just thinking of her brought a light of humor and affection to his eyes—a light she did not deign to recognize. With awe-inspiring tenacity she persisted in the role of the proper chatelain, and to his annoyance, treated him with great deference.

At first he had devoted his time to being available to her, should she need anything.

He quickly discovered she was self-reliant and stood in no need of his assistance.

He tried then to initiate conversation, and albeit she answered civilly enough, he could neither raise a smile nor spark a fire.

For a while he searched his mind for ruses to shock her out of her bloodless attitude, only to discard them all, for ruses and games had precipitated his current dilemma.

In truth, he was a stranger living on sufferance within his own home—except with Tunning.

He did not yet know what was Tunning’s game, but it made him deuced uncomfortable.

As he was drawing a bad hand in his efforts with Elizabeth, perhaps it was time to study Tunning and unwind the coil from the nether end.

Tunning was drawing closer, his hat jammed tight on his balding head while his brown coattails flapped in the wind.

St. Ryne deliberately turned his eyes away to look out across the valley.

From the windswept ridge he could see all of Larchside.

It was no rare find; however, it had a certain practicality and comfortable feel.

His brow furrowed in thought as he studied the tenant farms from his high vantage point.

The differences in condition between the Home farm and the other farms were marked, yet from here one could see they shared the same type of lands.

None appeared to suffer from marshy pastures or rock-strewn fields.

Why was the Home farm in so much better condition?

He would like to have some time alone with that Humphries fellow, if he could ever get Tunning off his tail.

When he was about, all his people were morose and uncommunicative, allowing Tunning to butt in and answer any questions he posed.

Although the man knew his business, it did begin to appear there was havey-cavey business afoot.

He turned in his saddle toward Tunning as the man rode up the hill to his side. His horse’s sides were heaving, and St. Ryne wondered how long Tunning had ridden about before spotting him on the ridge.

“Did you want something?” St. Ryne did not bother to keep the disgust from his voice.

“Thought you might like some company, my lord,” Tunning said heartily.

St. Ryne turned away from him to look out over the property. “Did you indeed? I wonder.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I’m thinking I shall go have a talk with Humphries. For all that you say, the man is obviously doing something right. Such a fellow could be exemplary to all.”

“But, my lord?—”

The Viscount held up his hand to cut him off.

“Personally, Tunning, I don’t care what the man’s politics are, and if his oratory could cause the others to do as well, then I say, so much the better.

” He cast an eye in his estate agent’s direction.

“Frankly, I have not seen any great communicative powers displayed. When one considers it, it is very singular,” he went on musingly.

“Oh, no—hardly that, my lord,” Tunning replied bluffly. "These people know their place better than to try to hobnob with the gentry.”

A cold anger swept through St. Ryne, and for a moment he did not trust himself to speak.

The man was an insufferable snob, positively medieval.

If that was his attitude, it explained the problems plaguing the estate.

“Is that what you impart to these people? To know their place?” he asked evenly, though he was near trembling with rage.

Tunning looked questioningly at the Viscount only to encounter a blank mask. “If necessary,” he replied slowly, trying to gauge his employer’s reactions.

“Ah-h,” St. Ryne said silkily, gathering up the reins in his hands. “I believe the question now is, do you know yours?” Without awaiting a reply, he put spurs to his horse, turning his head for home.

“Bess! Bess!” St. Ryne strode rapidly into the manor, flinging his gloves on a side table.

“Shall I inform ’er ladyship you desire to speaks with ’er, milord?” a gawky, bran-faced young man asked as he assisted the Viscount in removing his greatcoat.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Peter Forney, milord. Your wife—I mean ’er ladyship, the Viscountess, she’s engaged me to be a footman ’ere.”

“Ah, Thomas’s replacement.” He heartily clapped the thin young man on the back. “Splendid. Now, just tell me where I might find the Viscountess.”

The new footman stumbled under the impact of St. Ryne’s hand, then stood up straighter. “I believe, milord, she’s consult’n with Mrs. Geddy in the kitchen.”

“Thank you,” St. Ryne acknowledged, turning to walk toward the kitchen.

As he neared the door, a sound he had never heard before assailed his ears, the sound of carefree laughter.

He hesitated, listening intently. It was Bess, and she was laughing as though she had not a care in the world.

Suddenly he wanted to witness her mirth, to see how it would transform her features and light her golden eyes.

He continued his bold swift stride in hopes of catching sight of a heretofore unknown phenomenon.

Hearing the heavy tread of boots on stone, Elizabeth turned swiftly to the sound, a half-peeled apple and a knife in her hand, a wide smile gracing her lips and sparkling in her sunshine eyes.

She wore a big apron over her leaf-green day dress, her hair carelessly knotted at the top of her head, straggling wisps framing her face.

Before her on the heavy, worn wood table was a pan half full of peeled apples and a basket containing fresh ones.

Behind her the golden autumn sun poured through the small windows set high on the wall and flooded the table with an umbrella of light.

St. Ryne’s heart constricted for all he knew he was missing, and he wished he could have this scene done in a painting by Gainsborough to save forever.

The apple slipped from her grasp, and she fumbled to catch it. “Justin! What brings you back here so early in the day?” she asked breathlessly.

“Tunning.”

“Tunning? I don’t…”

“Do you know that man is a blathering snob? Worse, perhaps, than my own mother—if that’s possible.” He reached around her to pick up a fresh apple, nodding acknowledgment of Mrs. Geddy’s presence.

Elizabeth relaxed and laughed softly, laying the knife and fruit on the table. “Haven’t I been trying to tell you something of this?”

“Umm-m,” St. Ryne mumbled, crunching on a crisp bite.

“Ought to laugh more often, you know. It is a very pretty sound. All in all, you’re a beautiful woman.

Frowns don’t become you. Some women can use a pout or frown to increase their charms, but I’m sorry to have to inform you, my love, you don’t number amongst them. ”

Incredulity swept over Elizabeth’s face. “What are you about, Justin?”

The hint of a wry smile twisted St. Ryne’s lips. “Laughter. After spending unconscionable hours in our illustrious estate agent’s company?—”

“Questionably illustrious,” corrected Elizabeth placidly.

“What? Oh, all right, questionably illustrious. I suddenly find myself possessed of a desire to hear and see you laugh.” He turned to Mrs. Geddy. “Tell me, ma’am, is it so ridiculous for a husband to wish to see his wife happy?”

“Not at all, my lord.”

“See? I have also decided you are working too hard. What are you doing with these apples?”

Elizabeth blushed. How could she explain that when she saw a bushel of apples in the larder, she had a sudden desire for an old childhood delight? There hadn’t been many happy memories from her childhood, but apple flummery was one. She looked up at him defiantly. “They’re for apple flummery.”

“With clotted cream?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth returned faintly.

“I haven’t had that since I was a boy! When will it be ready?”

Mary Geddy’s warm, cackling chuckle interrupted Elizabeth’s reply. “Now didn’t I just tell you it weren’t so foolish to hanker for a memory? ’Specially a good one. I ever lose sight of the good times God’s seen fit to bless me with, then you might as well bury me. That’s wot I always say.”

St. Ryne bowed formally to the little cook. “Mrs. Geddy, you put all the learned philosophers to shame.”

“Oh, get on with you, my lord,” she said, the red in her cheeks spreading over her face.

St. Ryne gave a shout of laughter. “Mrs. Geddy, you are a gem.”

Mrs. Geddy tsk-tsked and grabbed the pan of peeled fruit from the table.

“I’ll finish this. Now off with you both so I can see it’s ready by teatime.

” Her voice was gruff and filled with no nonsense, but Elizabeth and St. Ryne didn’t miss the gleam in her eyes.

They surreptitiously exchanged knowing looks.