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“You’d better be. I need yer help for a while yet. We need to load the apples from the first tumps into the barrow.”

“Now?”

“Well, Lord Dunsbourne ain’t payin’ you to stand around and gab.”

Weston reached for the barrow’s handles. “All right, then, which way?”

Henry chuckled. Likely, he knew he would be the one who would push when the barrow was full of apples. For now, however, he appeared happy to give the boy his chance as he took the lead through the trees. Emily and Miss Glover gathered the baskets, and with a friendly wave, they set off for the house, leaving Phoebe to walk to the cart shed alone.

It was a familiar walk. Somehow, she had fallen into the habit of taking a break each afternoon to stretch her legs and her back. And without fail, her feet had taken her to the cart shed. If she’d arrived early enough, she’d showered Molly with attention, but most often, by the time she arrived, Oliver was preparing to take the horse to the stables to rest and Phoebe spent a few minutes talking to Lord Dunsbourne. Neither of them had spoken of their time together at the river, and not since he’d noticed the cut on her hand had he stopped what he was doing to talk to her. But every once in a while, Phoebe would catch a look in his eyes that made her heart beat a little faster and cause her to wonder if he thought on those incidents as often as she did.

Phoebe had enjoyed learning the various phases of the cider-making process as she watched him work. While he’d loaded apples into the mill, tested the pulp, and filled the press, they’d shared stories from their youth, including some of the baron’s exploits at school and Phoebe’s games of make-believe in the nursery. They had confessed to their favorite foods—pasties for Lord Dunsbourne and gingerbread for Phoebe—and their least favorite foods—gooseberry fool for Lord Dunsbourne and mushrooms for Phoebe. The baron had chuckled over her account of the string of toe injuries she had endured beneath the feet of her partners at her first ball and had made Phoebe laugh when he’d told of his debut attempt at rowing beneath a low-arched bridge on the river in Cambridge. In short, a friendship had grown between them, and Phoebe knew quite well that this part of her apple picking adventure would be what she would miss the most in the days to come.

“Afternoon, Miss Hadford.” Oliver spotted her as she entered the shed. He was already untying Molly’s harness.

“Good afternoon, Oliver.” She moved closer and rubbed her gloved hand over the horse’s nose. “Good afternoon, Molly. Are you ready for a rest?”

“She is that, miss.”

“When you have finished with Molly, will you make Aria ready for me?”

“Yes, miss.”

Lord Dunsbourne paused in his cranking on the wheel of the press. “You are leaving early today.”

Phoebe smiled. “We have picked our last apple.”

The baron walked away from the press, rubbing his hands down the side of his breeches. “Truly. They are all down?”

“Every last one.”

He smiled, and Phoebe’s breath caught. He was truly the most handsome man she had ever encountered. “I defy anyone to find a better orchard crew.”

She laughed. “We would have been lost without Weston’s acrobatics in the trees. The boy cannot be stopped.”

“Where is he now?”

“Loading up the next tump of apples. He and Henry will be here before you know it.”

“I’ll take Molly to the stables and be back with Aria right away,” Oliver said. “I can take care of the barrow when it comes, m’ lord.”

Lord Dunsbourne nodded his approval, and Oliver led Molly out of the shed. The clip-clop of her hooves followed them across the yard.

“You will not be back, then,” Lord Dunsbourne said.

Phoebe shook her head. “We heard word from my father yesterday. He will return home tomorrow and is bringing a guest. My mother will wish me to be there for that.” She offered him a glimpse of her regret. “I will miss it here.”

“And we shall miss you.” He cleared his throat. “I shall miss you.”

Phoebe took a step toward him. There was something she had to ask. She was taking a huge risk—she knew that—but she did not know when she would have an opportunity to be alone with him again. She could only pray that one pointed question would not unravel the friendship they had developed.

“Lord Dunsbourne, you are not the scoundrel people believe you to be. Why do you not refute it? Why do you not allow others to see you the way I have come to see you?”

If possible, his brown eyes darkened. “How do you see me?”

“As an honorable gentleman who works hard and who genuinely cares about others.”

His eyes held hers a moment longer, and then he released a long breath and turned away, gazing off through the open doors to the orchard beyond.