An Earl For The Shy Widow

Fortunately for him, a brother officer had heard her talking to her sister about how life as the wife of an earl would suit her very well. How she liked the sound of being called Lady Longhurst and would enjoy the privileges a title brought, even if it did require marriage to him. His friend had teased him about how popular he was among the ladies now he was an earl.

Ethan had come to his senses with a jolt and only just in time, because if their relationship had gone much further, he would have been honour-bound to take Sarah to the altar. A lucky escape indeed.

Bitterness rose in his throat like gall. How had he not seen through Sarah’s smiles to the truth beneath? It was the first time any woman had trapped him with her wiles and it would also be the last. But apparently, those few weeks of so-called affection had left him feeling that something serious was lacking in his life and made him vulnerable to the first pretty lady he came across now he was back in England.

Damn it! Didn’t he have enough to keep him occupied, adjusting to his new position in life without the sort of distraction a pair of blackberry-stained lips brought? He hadn’t even known he was the heir to the Earldom until he received a letter from a lawyer hired by some busybody third cousin twice removed who had searched down every line of the family tree, going back as far as his great-great-grandfather to search him out.

Apparently, it had taken some digging to discover that his great-grandfather, the fifth son of the Earl, had been bribed to take his wife’s name in order to inherit the wealth of an old Cornish mining family. With only daughters to their name, the Trethewys had thought they were getting a nobleman, but instead Great-Grandfather Trethewy had been a ne’er-do-well gambler who had lost most of the family fortune the moment he got his hands on it. As a result, both families had cut the connection. Certainly, if Ethan’s father had known he was related to an earl, he would have used it to his advantage in some way.

Even after Ethan learned of the title, he had put off returning to England for as long as possible. The army was his life. All he had known since he was a youth. He hadn’t mentioned the inheritance to anyone, but somehow the news must have reached Sarah’s ears and she had decided to set her cap at him, and make him think she genuinely cared for him. Not once had she mentioned knowing about the title.

He’d been cut to the quick when he realised that was all she’d really cared about.

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.