An Earl For The Shy Widow

‘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.