An Earl For The Shy Widow

Not long after he uncovered her deceit, the same busybody third cousin, Lady Frances, had written to Wellington, asking why the General was keeping the last Longhurst Earl captive on the battlefield when he ought to be taking up his duties at home.

Wellington, damn his eyes, had insisted Ethan return to England and take up the reins of his estate. The moment Ethan had put things in order here, he intended to get back to what really mattered. War with the French.

As he galloped up the drive of Longhurst Park, a grand old house with a winding drive lined with trees, his mood darkened further. The previous Earl had left the estate in a wretched mess, as evidenced by a pile of unpaid bills his man of business had presented to Ethan with the expression of a man who saw disaster looming.

Paperwork. Ethan hated it, but he’d been battling his way through it every day since, determined to bring things into some sort of order.

At the stables, he handed Jack over to O’Cleary. The handsome black-haired Irishman narrowed his gaze on Ethan’s face. ‘What has you so hot under the collar?’

Ethan didn’t get hot under the collar. He never unleashed his temper on anyone. He was a big man and, out of control, could do a lot of damage. It was why he had decided to become a soldier in the first place. He gave O’Cleary a look that ought to make him shrivel in his boots, but only made the fellow glare back.

Ethan didn’t know when it had happened, but at some point O’Cleary had become more friend than servant. They were of a similar age and Ethan respected the man’s skill with horses, but O’Cleary’s perceptiveness and frank speaking had also earned his admiration and, yes, a sort of friendship.

Ethan sighed. ‘I met a lady on the way back. I thought she was a dairymaid or some such stealing my blackberries.’

‘Your blackberries, is it? Since when do you care about brambles?’

Since a lovely young lady with lips stained red had come to his attention. ‘She was trespassing on my land.’

‘Ah.’ He gave Jack a pat.

‘Ah, what?’

‘Who is she, then?’

‘Lady Petra Davenport. She lives in Westram.’

O’Cleary narrowed his eyes. ‘Fancy her, do you?’

Ethan glared at him. Much as he might fancy Lady Petra in passing—what man would not when she was so excessively pretty?—he certainly had no more interest in her than that. ‘You will not speak of a lady in that manner.’

O’Cleary’s black brows climbed into his hairline. ‘It is protective of this lady, you are?’

As if. The lady needed no protection from him. ‘A gentleman protects all ladies.’

‘Ah.’

Could O’Cleary be any more irritating? Possibly. If given the chance. ‘Are you going to let my horse stand there all day? Or are you going to see to his needs?’

O’Cleary grinned, his blue eyes full of laughter, saluted and walked Jack off.

Ethan stomped into the house. The memory of a pair of shapely legs had him smiling, too, until he tripped over the end of one of several rolled-up rugs. Like the rest of the house, the study was full of pieces of furniture, chairs upended on chairs, tables and consoles stacked willy-nilly. There were even stacks of ancient newspapers and journals on the floor, leaving little room to walk. The last Earl had been a jackdaw, collecting anything and everything. It was ridiculous.

He groaned. He really hated the business of being an earl. He took off his coat, rolled up his sleeves and hefted the rug that had tripped him on to his shoulder and headed for the barn.

To the devil with the paperwork, this was a task he could get his teeth into. In a few hours he might actually be able to see the floor.

* * *

Sitting in the front pew in St Bartholomew’s Church, Ethan was aware of the many curious gazes landing on him as the service wore on. As an officer, he was used to being watched by his men, but this was a different kind of observation. The gazes were not only assessing, they were hopeful. No doubt they were all hoping to meet him in the melee outside the church at the end of the service. He braced himself and polished up his most charming smile, despite that he’d prefer to go straight home.

It would not be neighbourly. And while he had no intention of staying any longer than necessary, in the army one learned to adapt to local customs.

Naturally, he’d received a call from the Vicar the day after he had arrived at Longhurst. The worthy fellow had made it very clear it was an earl’s duty to set a good example for the villagers by attending church every Sunday. Naturally, Ethan agreed. It had been no different in the army. Officers were required to set a good example in all things.

The Vicar had beamed at his assent and further pronounced that, as Earl, he would, of course, want to subscribe to the front pew that had been a tradition in his family for many years. A not-unreasonable request. Unfortunately, Ethan discovered he not only had to pay this year’s subscription but also that of the previous fifteen years, since his dear departed predecessor had refused to have anything to do with St Bartholomew’s.

He really did despise the former Earl.

Of course, he’d paid up with as much good grace as he could muster. It was what one did, despite the fact that the payment ate a large chunk of his army pay, making another visit to his man of business in Sevenoaks mandatory. While he had absolutely no hope of discovering a nice little nest egg hidden among the Earl’s papers, there were still a few tenants left on the estate and he needed to know what rents had been paid and what required collecting.

The congregation filed out and he followed. Right away, he noticed that women outnumbered the men. He frowned. Why would that be? Naturally, he also spotted one woman immediately, Lady Petra, in a particularly fetching bonnet and a fashionable gown and spencer clearly designed to bring out the blue in her eyes. Strangely, her tiny stature stood out as much as his large one. Or perhaps it was that his gaze had sought her out as one of the few people he recognised, even if theirs had been a rather unconventional meeting. He recalled the neat turn of her ankle and her dainty feet as much as he remembered her face. Would she acknowledge their acquaintance? Likely not, given her unfriendliness at their first meeting.

He waited his turn to speak to the Vicar, who greeted each person with a few brief words as they filed out into the sunshine. The man had the aesthetic look of a monk rather than a Church of England cleric. His sermon had been all fire and brimstone about the evils of drunkenness.

‘Good sermon, Vicar,’ Ethan said when it was his turn to receive a nod and a handshake.

‘It is unfortunate that those who really need to hear the words of the Lord do not open their ears.’ Reverend Beckridge smiled thinly. ‘But never mind. I am glad to see you here today, my lord. Let me introduce you around.’

‘I would particularly like to meet other landowners in these parts,’ Ethan said.

Beckridge frowned. ‘Unfortunately, the owner of the largest property, Lord Compton, attends the church in Ightham. While his estate is in this parish, the church there is closer to his abode.’ He sighed. ‘I do not blame him, I suppose, but St Bartholomew’s could use the support.’

‘I am looking to hire some farm labourers. Perhaps there is a farmer or two among the congregation?’

‘There are indeed. But you will find them also short of men. What with the war and the lure of the better-paying factories in the North... But first let me introduce you to the two widowed ladies, who recently came to Westram. Lady Petra and Lady Marguerite, Lord Westram’s sisters. In the past year, they have made quite a stir with their industry.’

Lady Petra was a widow? At such a young age?

Ethan found himself inexorably guided to the small knot of women chattering on the path leading out to the road.

At the centre of the group, Lady Petra’s bright smile lit her pretty face as if the sun had deigned to send down a ray of light especially for her, yet it became somewhat brittle as he approached, as if she was steeling herself for their inevitable meeting.

The Vicar introduced everyone, including his wife, a sharp-eyed, round-faced lady who eyed him with speculation in her gaze.

‘Lord Longhurst and I are already acquainted,’ Lady Petra said with a challenging glance. ‘We met over a basket of blackberries.’

Instead of his usual easy conversational gambits—the weather, the news—he found his mind going completely blank while he stared at her luscious mouth. He forced himself to speak. ‘We did indeed.’ It sounded unfriendly.

Her smile dimmed a little.

Lady Marguerite, a much taller lady, with auburn hair and green eyes and a plain mode of dress, looked puzzled. ‘You met over... Why, Petra, you didn’t say you had met Lord Longhurst when you went blackberry picking.’

Lady Petra smiled sweetly, too sweetly, perhaps fearing he might reveal the awkwardness of their meeting. ‘I must have forgotten.’

He winced. If she had wanted to forget, why had she mentioned it now? Women. There was no understanding them.

‘You are welcome to pick my blackberries whenever you wish, Lady Petra.’

Lady Petra raised her eyebrows, reminding him that she did not in fact believe they were his to offer. ‘How very kind of you, my lord.’ She dipped a curtsy. ‘If you will excuse us, Lord Longhurst, Vicar, we don’t wish to be late for lunch.’

While her sister looked surprised, she trailed after Lady Petra and both ladies climbed into a waiting pony and trap. He watched them drive away, one blonde, petite and pretty and dressed in flounces and ribbons, the other an elegant redhead and plainly gowned. Both attractive in very different ways.

‘Such a shame,’ the Vicar’s wife said. ‘To be widowed at such a young age.’

‘This war has taken a great many young men,’ the Vicar said.

‘I am sorry to hear it.’ What else could one say?

‘Such pretty ladies will not be single long,’ Mrs Beckridge added, somewhat pointedly staring at Ethan.

He smiled pleasantly, ignoring the hint. Sarah had been another widow left in penury by the death of her husband and looking for a replacement. She hadn’t tangled herself up in a blackberry bush in order to meet him; she’d twisted her ankle when leaving the dance floor and stumbled into him.

He wasn’t fool enough to be taken in twice by way of a pretty ankle. He would do his own choosing of a bride and Lady Petra seemed far too sharp-tongued to make a man a comfortable wife. Besides, when he married, as he would have to do, he’d choose someone solid and dependable who didn’t need him to devote his whole attention to her needs and whims. Someone he could leave in charge of things here in England while he returned to his army career. His real life.

* * *

‘You really think I should take Long Longhurst some of this jam?’ Petra looked at the prettily covered pots she and Marguerite had filled a few days before.

‘I most certainly do.’ Marguerite frowned. ‘They were his blackberries after all. It is only polite. Besides, it is not wise to risk upsetting our neighbour needlessly.’

Marguerite had not been happy upon learning the details of her meeting with Lord Longhurst.

Petra did not want to meet him again. While his smile seemed friendly enough, she had the peculiar sensation that it hid his true feelings. It seemed to set her at a distance rather than be truly welcoming. Not to mention that he was just too handsome for any lady’s peace of mind. ‘You really are making a mountain out of a molehill, Marguerite. They grow wild. He could not have said a word about it if I had picked them from the lane.’

Her sister’s eyes widened, probably because Petra had spoken with heat. ‘But you did not pick them in the lane. You trespassed on his land in order to gather them.’

Petra huffed out a breath. ‘Very well, I’ll take him a pot.’

‘Two, I think.’

‘Two? After we did all the work?’

Marguerite sighed. ‘Do as you wish. You will anyway.’

Petra stilled, pained by the accusation. Her siblings often teased her about being the baby of the family and overindulged, but she did not think they truly meant it. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

Marguerite shook her head. ‘It means nothing. I am sorry. I am feeling a little out of sorts.’

Petra gave her sister a closer look. Marguerite looked pale and tired. Instantly she regretted their argument. ‘Is your head aching, dearest?’

Marguerite rubbed a fingertip against her temple and gave her a wan smile. ‘I think there may be a storm brewing.’

Petra glanced out of the kitchen window to where Jeb was doggedly hoeing between the rows of cabbages. The sky was clear, all but a few wispy clouds, but Marguerite had always been prone to headaches before the arrival of a storm, so perhaps the weather was about to change. ‘Go and lie down. I will bring you a cold compress.’ She grinned. ‘And after that I will take Lord Longhurst two pots of our lovely jam. I promise to charm him out of the boughs.’

‘Ask him to come for afternoon tea.’

Not likely, when the man was so standoffish, though it was probably her fault. She had been rather sharp with him. And a bit dismissive at church. So what if he was an attractive man? It meant nothing to her. She could at least be civil to him. Dash it all, she really ought to mend some fences if only to declare a truce. They did not have to like each other, but they ought to be able to manage a polite friendliness.

‘Go on upstairs,’ she said, shooing her sister out of the kitchen. ‘I’ll bring you a tisane before I go.’

Marguerite gave her a grateful smile. ‘You are a dear.’

Relief filled her. She hated being at odds with Marguerite, particularly when she carried some of the blame for her sister’s sorrow. If only she hadn’t said those things to Harry and driven him away... Perhaps her family was right in saying she was too used to getting her own way. Well, she had got her own way as far as marrying the man she wanted, and look what a terrible mistake she had made. She would be very careful about what she wished for in future. She delivered Marguerite’s tea and set off to walk to Longhurst Park, making sure to take her umbrella.

The crested wrought-iron gates to Longhurst Park were open, not in invitation so much as in careless abandonment, the weeds and vines having grown so high it would take a full day of chopping and pulling to free the gates from captivity and have them working again.

The curving drive, lined by lime trees, fared no better. The gravel sprouted tufts of grass and the lawn looked more like a hayfield. As she rounded the bend, though, she was enchanted by the sight of the house. Lovely old red brick gave the place a warm homely look. As she got closer, however, she was saddened to see that a few of the windows had been boarded up and that some of the tiles on the roof were missing.

What had Longhurst been thinking in letting the house go to rack and ruin these past two years? Perhaps he didn’t care because he had estates elsewhere like her brother, who owned more than one property.

She glanced skyward and grimaced. It seemed Marguerite had been right. The clouds that had been fluffy and white when she left home were thicker and showing signs of grey.

When no one opened the front door at her approach, she pounded the knocker against the heavily carved wood and stepped back. This portico could certainly use a coat of paint.

The door swung back.

Petra blinked in surprise at the sight of a dark-haired, sullen-faced young man in his shirtsleeves and riding boots. He looked more like a groom than a footman.

‘Good day,’ she said briskly. ‘Lady Petra Davenport to see Lord Longhurst.’

His eyebrows shot up. He opened the door wider. ‘This way, ma’am.’ The brogue of Ireland coloured his voice.

He ushered her into a gloomy hall with marble pillars and a grand staircase leading up to the first floor. Footmen’s chairs lined the walls as if there ought to be a dozen men waiting to open the door. Tables and chests and cupboards were piled on top of each other in one of the corners. Very odd. The Earl must be moving things around.

Instead of asking her to wait while he enquired if his master was home, the servant led her down a corridor and to a room she guessed would be an antechamber where visitors would wait.

Only—

‘A Lady Petra Davenport to see you, my lord.’

Petra’s jaw dropped. There at the desk sat Lord Longhurst, also in his shirtsleeves, his blonde hair tousled as if he had run his fingers through it more than once.

The servant left and closed the door behind him. His footsteps echoed on the floor outside and she could hear him whistling as he walked away. How very peculiar.

After a second’s pause, Lord Longhurst shot to his feet, reaching for a jacket slung over the back of his chair. He shrugged into it. ‘Lady Petra Davenport? Lady Petra?’

He quickly buttoned the coat. There was nothing he could do about the shirt open at the throat. She tried to keep her gaze focused on his face and not drift down to the strong column of his neck or the intriguing sight of crisply curled golden hair peeking seductively above the stark white linen.

‘How may I be of service?’ he asked.

Service? An image of a broad naked chest flickered across her mind. Good Lord, had her mind really jumped to those ways in which a man could service a woman? Was that why she missed Harry, not for himself, but for the delights of the marriage bed? Could she really be so wanton? Besides, she wasn’t very good at bed sport, as Harry had called it, or he wouldn’t have gone seeking his pleasures elsewhere. Boring, was what he’d called her. Too innocent, whatever that meant.

Sadness filled her. She should never have confronted him. Should never have expected fidelity from him. She knew better now.

She lifted her chin. ‘I brought you some jam.’

He blinked as if her words made no sense. He looked gorgeous, almost vulnerable standing there with a puzzled look on his face and his long, strong fingers covered in ink. Then he smiled and a dimple appeared in a jaw already showing signs of fair stubble. Her heart clenched.

And no wonder. He had looked magnificent up on his horse the first time they met, and like a handsome soldier at church on Sunday, but here, now, he looked like every woman’s dream of a man in need of a woman’s care.

She could even imagine running her fingers through those wavy locks to bring them to some semblance of order. How would they feel? Silky or coarse? And would he let her help him tie the cravat he had discarded on the corner of the desk? Or better yet, let her help him remove his shirt to reveal the full glory of that wide expanse of chest so tantalisingly covered with billowing linen?

Mind blank, she inhaled a deep breath.

His gaze dropped to her bosom. The room warmed. The air crackled with something that made her skin tingle. For a second, her head seemed too light for her shoulders, as if she might float away.

Would he also find her boring? The thought brought her back to earth with a bump.

Longhurst’s forehead furrowed as if he had finally figured out her words, but not their meaning. ‘Jam?’

‘From the blackberries I picked.’ Goodness, her voice sounded so small and weak she scarcely recognised it. She straightened her shoulders. ‘We made jam out of the fruit.’

She walked deeper into the room, aware of his gaze tracking her every movement as she skirted a couple of armchairs.

‘My word, you have a lot of furniture,’ she said in awed tones.

He grimaced. ‘You would not believe the half of it. I’ve moved out most of what was in here. At least now you can actually see some of the floor. The house is stuffed full of furniture and knick-knacks. It seems my predecessor liked to collect things.’

No wonder the entrance hall had been so cluttered. She reached into her basket and, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, drew out three jam pots one by one and placed them on the desk. ‘Blackberry and apple. The apples picked from our tree,’ she said pointedly.

He stared at the pots as if he had never seen jam before. He swallowed. ‘I see.’

Her heart beat a little faster. Too fast.

‘As an apology for purloining your blackberries,’ she added, completely unnecessarily, but it filled the silence.

His gaze rose to her face. ‘There is no need...’ He gestured at the jam.

Why could the man not just say thank you and leave it at that? ‘If you do not eat jam, then please feel free to give it to your servant.’

His blue eyes widened and then he smiled. Her stomach did a somersault. ‘I do beg your pardon, Lady Petra. Thank you for the gift.’

That smile would be the death of her when she ought to know better than to be taken in. She dipped a curtsy. ‘Then I will bid you good day.’

‘No. Wait. I mean—Would you like—’

They gazed at one another in silence for a long second or two. She seemed to have trouble drawing in a breath. ‘Would I like...?’

‘May I offer you a cup of tea before you leave?’ Longhurst finally said. ‘I am sure O’Cleary is taking good care of your horses and groom for the nonce.’

‘Oh, there are no horses or groom. I walked.’

Astonishment filled his expression. ‘You walked from Westram. It must be more than two miles distant.’

‘About that, I should think.’

He frowned.

Did he not approve of a lady going for a walk? ‘I grew up in the country, my lord. I am quite used to using my legs to get about.’

His gaze shot down her length and back up to her face and she recalled how much he had seen of her legs the last time they met. Heat scalded her cheeks and his eyes filled with awareness. Bother, they were never going to get past their first meeting. Mortified, she prepared to turn away.

‘But you will take some refreshment before you set out for home.’

It wasn’t expressed as a request, but rather as an order and she felt her hackles rise, but then again, she was thirsty after her long walk. And she had promised Marguerite to charm him out of the boughs. ‘A cup of tea would be most welcome, my lord. Thank you.’

Strangely, he looked relieved. ‘Excellent.’ He strode for the door and turned when he reached it. He gestured to a chair beside the desk. ‘Please, Lady Petra, be seated. I shall not be more than a moment or two.’

And then he was gone.

More orders. The pile of papers on the desk looked highly intimidating and important. She took a turn about the room. It was indeed full of strange items, from ill-thrown pots to finely blown glass ornaments.

Having established that she was not going to instantly obey any man’s order, she dusted off an armchair near the window with her handkerchief and perched on the edge of it.

Perhaps he was so dictatorial because he was a soldier used to commanding men on the battlefield. She sighed. She did not like to think about war and battlefields. She hated the whole thing. Poor Harry. Had she really driven him to take the King’s shilling? She still couldn’t believe she would never hear his laughter again and never be irritated by his devil-may-care ways. While she hadn’t made the wisest choice in a husband, it didn’t mean she didn’t miss him. After all, she had known him most of her life. Her mistake had been not making sure he loved her as much as she loved him before they wed. To discover he saw it purely as a marriage of convenience had been devastating to say the least. He’d called her a silly romantic, as if it was some sort of flaw.

Well, she was a romantic and not ashamed of it either. She couldn’t be happier for Carrie and Avery, who had clearly fallen head over heels in love.

Chapter Two

When Ethan found no sign of O’Cleary in the kitchen, he put the kettle on the hob. Damnation. He’d left his cravat in the study. He dashed upstairs and, well used to dressing in haste, soon had a new cravat tied neatly at his throat.