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An Earl For The Shy Widow
Ann Lethbridge
The new Earl And the lady he should resist! Part of The Widows of Westram: Having left the army to take up the title of Earl of Longhurst, Ethan feels the weight of his new responsibilities. He was brusque with the woman picking blackberries, only to find she’s his neighbour, Lady Petra, who helps him despite his gruffness. A wealthy bride would save his estate, but all he can think about is this shy, kind and penniless widow…!


The new earl
And the lady he should resist!
Part of The Widows of Westram: Having left the army to take up the title of Earl of Longhurst, Ethan feels the weight of his new responsibilities. He was brusque with the woman picking blackberries, only to find she’s his neighbor Lady Petra, who helps him despite his gruffness. A wealthy bride would save his estate, but all he can think about is this shy, kind and penniless widow!
In her youth, award-winning author ANN LETHBRIDGE reimagined the Regency romances she read—and now she loves writing her own. Now living in Canada, Ann visits Britain every year, where family members understand—or so they say—her need to poke around every antiquity within a hundred miles. Learn more about Ann or contact her at annlethbridge.com (http://www.annlethbridge.com). She loves hearing from readers.
Also by Ann Lethbridge (#u0ecbcbdd-3d44-5eaf-bcd6-f10ffc4d963c)
Secrets of the Marriage Bed
An Innocent Maid for the Duke
Rescued by the Earl’s Vows
Rakes in Disgrace miniseries
The Gamekeeper’s Lady
More Than a Mistress
Deliciously Debauched by the Rake
More Than a Lover
The Widows of Westram miniseries
A Lord for the Wallflower Widow
An Earl for the Shy Widow
And look out for the last book,
coming soon
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
An Earl for the Shy Widow
Ann Lethbridge


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-08907-4
AN EARL FOR THE SHY WIDOW
© 2019 Michèle Ann Young
Published in Great Britain 2019
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is dedicated to you,
my good friend and teacher, Sandra Atri.
Thank you for your patience and understanding,
and for making me want to go to the gym
instead of dragging my feet.
It has been a great year
and I am looking forward to the next one.
Contents
Cover (#u4f4b0765-682a-5395-905a-23787652dc8a)
Back Cover Text (#u733e64fe-6f8f-5f9c-8a41-31fbd93083db)
About the Author (#ufbfc681f-f546-595c-a7ad-b024893df9c4)
Booklist (#u3265146a-cb25-55ac-84fd-653eb12eb75c)
Title Page (#u98d19aa3-4bcb-5d64-a7dd-b9bebee23c79)
Copyright (#udb2b9e08-d934-5589-9385-61e1bc8f1651)
Dedication (#ue0ab92b9-5871-5698-b3ce-1091ccd0c4a8)
Chapter One (#ud6dccb99-0d68-557f-8ea0-43a0b07b8fe2)
Chapter Two (#u469b2b4e-01a2-5031-8505-bbdb49393594)
Chapter Three (#ucc9544da-1ccb-55ba-84df-40d730aca3cb)
Chapter Four (#u2feb94a2-c305-5371-8125-1f2a7e4f6e90)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#u0ecbcbdd-3d44-5eaf-bcd6-f10ffc4d963c)
September 1813
Autumn sunlight flooded into the tiny drawing room at Westram Cottage. Lady Petra strode to the window. Beneath a blue sky, a slight breeze stirred the leaves of a nearby oak tree and nodded the heads of the red roses along the path to the front door. A perfect afternoon for a ride, if one had a horse.
She sighed and wandered back to her chair. She picked up the embroidery she’d been working on a few moments before. A handkerchief for her brother Red, the Earl of Westram. So boring. She cast it aside and got up to straighten the portrait of her mother on the opposite wall.
‘Petra,’ her older sister, Lady Marguerite Saxby, said, ‘please stop pacing. You are making me dizzy.’
Remorseful, Petra spun around. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to disturb you.’
Auburn haired and green eyed, Marguerite was seated at the table going through her correspondence. As usual, her luxuriant tresses were pinned back severely beneath her widow’s cap. Although she returned Petra’s smile, there was sadness in her eyes. Marguerite hadn’t looked anything but sad since she was widowed.
Did Petra have that same look? She strode to the glass over the mantel and peered at her reflection. Unlike her older siblings, she took after her mother with blonde hair and blue eyes. Did she also look sad?
She closed her eyes against her reflection, unwilling to admit to sadness. Yet perhaps she could acknowledge regret. After all, it was partly her fault that she and Harry had had such a blazing row.
She had been so happy for the first few months of her marriage. It had come as a painful shock to realise that Harry, already bored with his brand-new wife, was seeking his entertainments elsewhere. If she’d been a proper tonnish wife and simply ignored his infidelities, brushed it off as something every fashionable husband did, things would have turned out very differently. But it had hurt so much, she could not remain silent. And the more she complained, the worse he behaved until, during their last argument, she’d accused him of not loving her any more. He’d shouted back that he had never loved her and had only married her because his father insisted on it.
He’d said she was a stupid little girl who had ruined his life.
The pain had left her speechless.
The next thing she knew he had stormed off to fight the French. Worse yet was him taking her brother and her brother-in-law with him. Not only had Harry broken her heart, but her stupid naivety had cost her sisters their husbands.
She turned away from the glass.
‘Do you not have mending to do?’ Marguerite asked.
‘All done.’
‘What about the garden? Doesn’t it need attention?’
Petra shook her head. ‘Every time I pick up a shovel or pull a weed, Jeb leaps in to take over. Red seems to have given him very definite ideas about what a lady should or should not do. Honestly, I miss making hats.’
‘Make one for yourself,’ Marguerite suggested.
‘It is not the same. Besides, I have more hats than I need. I feel so useless.’ Earning an income from their fledgling millinery business had been thrilling, until their brother Red had put a stop to it. He had been horrified to discover his sisters were engaging in trade.
They still received some income from the hats Marguerite designed, but the manufacturing had been handed over to the new owner when they sold the business. Ladies of quality did not enter into the world of commerce.
Marguerite scanned the next letter in her pile. ‘Carrie sends her love and says the dog Avery bought her will have a litter of puppies at the end of November, and would we like one?’
‘How adorable. Tell her yes.’
Marguerite nodded. ‘It would be good for you to have company on your walks. A dog would be just the thing.’
Petra joined her at the table to read over her shoulder. ‘She does not say what sort of breed they are? Hopefully, not too large.’
‘I will ask her when I reply. You are right. We do not want anything too big.’ She set the letter aside and picked up the next one.
Petra wandered over to the sofa and glanced down at her fingers, rubbing the calluses she’d earned from their millinery efforts. They were already disappearing.
A great many things had changed in the past few months. Their widowed sister-in-law, Carrie, was married, and happily so, while Petra and Marguerite continued to go against their brother’s wishes and maintain their independence. Neither of them wanted to marry again. Once was enough for Petra, certainly. In her experience, men promised you the moon to get what they wanted, then did exactly as they pleased. She had been little more than a child with stars in her eyes when she married Harry. How hurt she had been to discover he’d only married her because his father had wanted the connection to nobility. She certainly wasn’t going to make that sort of mistake again.
Marguerite gasped, ‘The Thrumbys have sold the business.’
‘What?’ Petra hurried to look over Marguerite’s shoulder.
‘Avery included a note with Carrie’s letter. Here, read it for yourself.’
Petra scanned the note written in a firm male hand. The Thrumbys had received an offer for the business from a Bond Street competitor and had agreed to sell. The new owner created her own hat designs, therefore Marguerite’s were no longer needed.
‘At least they will continue to employ the ladies in the village to make up the hats,’ Marguerite said, her voice full of resignation. ‘The quality of their work is exceptional.’ She gave Petra a wan smile. ‘All due to you, dearest. You taught them well.’
‘Dash it all. That is so unfair. We needed that income.’ She bit her lip at the pained look on Marguerite’s face. ‘Now what will we do? Ask Red for help, I suppose.’
Marguerite shook her head. ‘No. We will think of something. In the meantime, we will be frugal.’
They were already careful with every penny. ‘I wish I could help more.’
Marguerite pursed her lips. ‘We will have to cut back on meat... It is so expensive.’
‘Well, Red better not hear about that, or it will be all the excuse he needs to put us back on the marriage mart.’
Marguerite paled. ‘He is sure to find out eventually. I have to think of some other way to augment our income. Sometimes publishers need illustrators for their books. I will write to them and send some examples of my drawings. Perhaps I can use a nom de plume.’
Petra nodded. ‘Good idea.’ A recollection of something she’d seen on her way to the village popped into her mind. ‘Why don’t I see if I can pick some blackberries for jam? We have lots of sugar in the pantry.’
Marguerite gave her a grateful smile. ‘Excellent idea. A good supply of preserves will help us through the winter.’
It wouldn’t be enough, though. But Petra had an idea about that, too. The countryside was full of free food if one knew where to look. Blackberries were just the start.
Not too many minutes later, Petra had equipped herself with an old straw hat, a large wicker basket and covered her oldest spring muslin with an apron that had seen better days.
Outside, a light breeze cooled the warmth of the sun and she strolled along swinging her basket until she arrived at a blackberry bush hanging over the lane. The last time she noticed it, the brambles had been covered in little white flowers. Now the prickly canes were weighed down with gleaming clusters of black fruit.
Unfortunately, they were on the other side of a ditch and hanging over the top of a dense hedge far too high for her to reach.
Bother. They hadn’t looked so high when she was travelling in the trap.
The other side of the bush grew in a field belonging to the Longhurst estate. On that side, the berries were temptingly easy to reach even for a short person such as she. A wooden stile a few feet from where she was standing offered perfect access to the field and the blackberries.
Besides, who would care? No one had lived at Longhurst since she and her sisters had arrived at Westram more than a year ago. According to the locals, the new Earl was away fighting on the Peninsula and cared not a bean for the estate. In consequence, there was no one to care if she trespassed. Besides, it wasn’t as if he had planted the brambles. They were part of nature’s bounty.
After a quick glance up and down the road, she hiked up the skirts of her old blue gown and climbed over.
Wary of fierce thorns bent on ripping her clothes to shreds, she pushed into the bush using her basket as a shield. Soon it was full of shiny blackberries and becoming quite heavy. A trickle of sweat ran into her eye and she wiped it away on the corner of her apron.
She picked a berry and popped it into her mouth. Mmm...delicious. And exactly right for jam. She tasted another just to be sure.
The jingle of a bridle and the sound of a horse’s heavy breathing had her whipping around.
A tall fair-haired man with an amused expression on his handsome face gazed down at her from the back of a huge brown horse. He leaned forward and let his glance travel down her length. It lingered at her feet.
She glanced down. Heat rushed to her face at the sight of her stockings bared to her garter at the knee because her skirts had tangled with the thorns when she turned. She pulled them free.
When she looked up again, his light blue eyes were twinkling and he wore a charmingly boyish smile. The sort of smile a man knew would cause the nearest female to forgive him.
Her stomach fluttered wildly. She tried to ignore it. Harry had worn the same sort of smile when he sought her forgiveness each time that he had strayed. As an unmarried girl, she had adored that smile. As a wife, she had come to dread it. She’d learned it meant he’d made yet another conquest and was trying to jolly her along as if it meant nothing.
No, a gentleman’s smiles and promises, no matter how charming or sincere they seemed, were definitely not to be trusted. She schooled her expression into cool politeness and dipped a curtsy. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’
‘Good day to you, wench.’ His voice was deep and rich and smooth. ‘May I ask what you are about?’
Wench? Pinpricks shot across her shoulders. ‘What does it look like I am doing? I am picking blackberries.’ Dash it. She should not have responded so sharply.
‘My blackberries,’ he said with another smile.
Oh. She winced. ‘Then you must be Lord Longhurst.’
‘Indeed.’ He inclined his head slightly.
It seemed the wanderer had at last returned. ‘Well, sir, this fruit may grow on your property, but since they grew without the aid of any man or woman, it might be argued that they have no particular owner.’
He frowned. ‘Are you one of my tenants?’
He thought she was a farm labourer’s wife. Dash it all—was she supposed to wear her best gown to go blackberry picking? For a moment she was tempted to play along, but she did not know this man or his character. At first glance, he looked handsome and charming, but she knew better than to judge anyone by appearances. Or at least, she did now. Besides, it would be embarrassing when he later caught her out in her lie. ‘No, sir, I am not a tenant of yours. I am Lady Petra Davenport. I reside at Westram Cottage. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lord Longhurst.’ She bobbed a small curtsy. As a formal introduction, it would have to do.
He removed his hat and gave her another winsome smile. ‘So, we are neighbours. Please purloin as many blackberries as you desire.’
Had she not already explained they were not exactly his to offer? She smiled back sweetly. ‘As you can see, I have already helped myself to as many as I need.’ She frowned. ‘Besides, rather than galloping around the countryside and fussing about a few dozen blackberries, I should think you would rather spend your time setting your estate in order.’ She gestured to the acres of hay spread out before her.
The amusement in his face faded. Oh, dear. Why had she let her tongue run away with her when she knew she was in the wrong? If she had known he had finally taken up residence, she really would never have climbed his fence. She opened her mouth to apologise, but he forestalled her with a pleasant smile and a bow.
‘As you say, ma’am. I do indeed have a great deal of work requiring my attention. I wish you good day.’
He signalled to his horse to move on and the animal obediently took a short run at the stile. Rider and beast cleared the obstruction in magnificent form. The sound of hoof beats faded into the distance.
A bruising rider herself, she could not help but admire his skill. And he looked so good on a horse. Dashing. Oh, no. She was not going to think of him that way. She shook herself free of such musings. He was simply a new neighbour with whom she had made an acquaintance.
She stomped out of the bushes and heard the sound of tearing. Blast, she’d caught her apron and now she would have to mend it. Well, it would be something to do when she had finished making the jam.
Hopefully she would be busy enough that it would take her mind off his face and that lovely smile. Smiles like that caused nothing but trouble and heartache, yet it seemed that she had still not learned her lesson.
Good Lord, he might even be married. A man didn’t stop being charming to ladies, just because he was wed. If anyone knew that, she should.
* * *
He’d called her a wench! Mortified heat scalded the back of Ethan’s neck. How was he supposed to recognise her as a lady? Not a ribbon or a ruffle to be seen. Tangled up in a blackberry bush, her legs displayed for all to see and with deep red juice staining her full lips, she’d looked like a roundheeled lass ready for a spree.
He was lucky he hadn’t given in to the urge to kiss those luscious, ripe lips. Not something he was in the habit of doing or even thinking as a general rule, but in her case, for some reason he could not quite understand, he had been very tempted indeed. Fortunately, the lady’s tart remarks had reminded him that no matter how attractively dishevelled a woman might be, he was an officer, a gentleman and an earl with duties and responsibilities to King, country and his family name.
But there really had been something deliciously pretty and alluring about her... He winced. He had thoroughly deserved the sharp edge of her tongue when she caught him ogling the slender legs bared to his gaze. Right now, he did not need the added complication of any sort of lass, common or noble, in his life.
Honestly, though, what sort of lady went about the countryside without even a maid?
Dash it, kissing her wouldn’t have crossed his mind under normal circumstances. His army duties had kept him too busy to worry about the ladies, except for the occasional foray when he was on leave, until Sarah had begun to pay him particular attention. Her own husband had been killed, but she had remained on the Peninsula as companion to her sister, the wife of one of his fellow officers. Sarah had stirred up feelings he thought he’d long buried in response to a childhood fraught with drama. A sense that perhaps he did warrant affection from someone. His parents hadn’t thought so. They had been far too involved in themselves to pay attention to their only child.
When Sarah had entered his life almost a year ago, she’d been attentive and, well...loving, if he even understood the meaning of the word. There was no denying he’d been smitten. He should have known better than to believe a woman could actually care for him in the way he had thought Sarah did.
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.
‘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 (#u0ecbcbdd-3d44-5eaf-bcd6-f10ffc4d963c)
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.
Returning to the kitchen, he found O’Cleary setting a tray with cups and saucers. ‘Where the devil were you?’
‘Putting the carriage to. I assumed you wouldn’t send her back on Shanks’s pony. Er...my lord.’
Mollified by O’Cleary’s anticipation of his wishes, he grinned. ‘Well done.’
‘Hmm. Had you not better get back to your guest?’ He ran a discerning eye over Ethan and pulled a comb from his pocket. ‘Here. This might help.’
Ethan dragged the comb through his hair. ‘Thanks.’ He strode back to his study.
Lady Petra was gazing out of the window when he arrived. Despite the dust on her hems and the tendrils of hair escaping from their pins around her face, she looked good enough to eat.
Blast it. He had forgotten to ask O’Cleary to add biscuits to the tray. If indeed they had any. She would think him as even more of an ill-mannered brute than she must do already. Why on earth had he made such a stupid invitation?
‘Tea will be along shortly,’ he announced.
She jumped as if she had been so far away in her thoughts that she had not heard him enter despite the fact he had not been in the least bit quiet about it. Her blue eyes were filled with sadness.
He stiffened. Was it something he had said? Was she one of those females who needed treating with kid gloves? She seemed so self-sufficient, but perhaps it was all an act intended to keep a man on his toes.
Women did that. Pretended. His mother had always fussed over him, as if she loved him, but only when his father was about, to make him jealous of her attentions. Sarah had pretended she cared about him just to gain his title.
Lady Petra’s eyes widened as her gaze took him in, clearly realising he had tidied himself up. What? Did she think he had no manners? If he had been a bit rough around the edges when he first joined the army at the age of fifteen, his fellow officers had soon put him straight.
She smiled and he felt like preening at her obvious approval, when he really didn’t care if she approved of him or not. He smiled back, it was the obvious thing to do. When in doubt, smile. He’d learned that from his mother’s interactions. She’d always stalked off if he’d shown the least sign of being unhappy. Any upset had always brought heaps of coals down upon his head. His mother had told him quite plainly that she had enough trouble with his father without him adding to it.
However, Lady Petra’s smile faltered at the sight of his own. ‘I really did not intend to put you to so much trouble.’ Her voice was light, nicely modulated, music to the ears of a man mostly used to the coarse words of soldiers. Perhaps that was why he had found Sarah so alluring after twenty years of all-male company.
Twenty years. A long time. And yet he was still in his prime at thirty-five. And lucky to be alive, given how long he’d been fighting for his country. Something he’d sooner do than sit here entertaining a lady in his drawing room.
A lady far too attractive to be a soldier’s wife. A man would surely worry about leaving such a lovely woman behind when he went off to war. He forced the wayward thought aside.
‘No trouble at all, my lady. You’ll find O’Cleary is a dab hand at brewing a pot of tea.’
‘O’Cleary?’
‘My batman. Well, no longer a batman, more a valet-cum-butler-cum-groom. He let you in.’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘A man of all work, then.’
‘A good description indeed.’ He couldn’t hire any proper staff until he knew exactly how the estate stood financially. The account books had been left to keep themselves during the last few years of his cousin’s illness, as far as he could tell.
Her brow furrowed. ‘I understand you inherited the estate more than two years ago?’
His mouth tightened. ‘I did, but other, far more important matters engaged my attention.’
She looked shocked.
Could no one truly understand that he did not want this title? He was an army man through and through and here he was struggling with information about yields and labourers and bushels and baskets and... Bah! It was his duty and he would do it, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Well, he would get it licked into shape, provide it with a countess and an heir and get back to what really mattered in short order.
‘The French. The war.’
She coloured. ‘Yes, of course.’ She did not, however, sound convinced. But then she might not, considering how she had lost her husband.
O’Cleary entered with the tea tray, picked his way around the clutter and set it down on the table in front of Lady Petra with a smile and a wink. ‘The shortbreads are a bit singed. But I cut off the worst of it.’
Ethan cringed at the sight of jagged edges and burnt crumbs. ‘You will have to excuse us, Lady Petra. We are bachelors used to army tack. Take them away, O’Cleary.’ O’Cleary was still not used to the newfangled oven in the kitchen. He was more used to cooking over a campfire.
O’Cleary reached for the plate, but Lady Petra Davenport put out a hand to forestall him. ‘Thank you, Mr O’Cleary, I am sure they are fine.’
The smile she gave O’Cleary and the grin he gave her back made Ethan want to grab his batman by the collar and heave him out of the door. He blinked at the odd urge. He didn’t have a jealous bone in his body. Deliberately so. He’d learned early that it was a pointless emotion.
‘That will be all, O’Cleary,’ he said gruffly. ‘I think Lady Petra can manage from here.’
O’Cleary walked out whistling. The idiot.
The lady poured out cups of tea and added milk. ‘The village will be delighted that you have finally moved in.’
‘I am glad they are pleased.’ He picked up his cup and took a sip. Somehow, she’d got it exactly the right strength.
‘You do not like the idea?’
‘No.’ He squeezed his eyes shut briefly. Why on earth was he telling her this? But now he had said it, he could hardly call a halt to the conversation. Even he knew that was the height of rudeness. ‘I know nothing about farming or managing an estate. The army is my life.’ He sighed. ‘I am not cut out for this.’ He made a gesture to encompass the house, the land and the whole of Kent.
He’d also been a fish out of water in his father’s house, never knowing how to please the man who had sired him, never knowing whether his mother would react to her husband’s rants by blaming Ethan for whatever it was Father had decided was wrong that time. Joining the army at fifteen had been a welcome relief from the mayhem in his home. Since then he’d seen himself as a confirmed bachelor. A free spirit.
Lady Petra offered him the plate of biscuits.
He munched on one absentmindedly until he hit a burnt bit. He grimaced, glad to see she had not taken one.
‘A good bailiff should be able to help you,’ she said. Was that a note of encouragement in her voice? Surely not. She was simply making conversation.
‘Indeed. But how does one tell good from bad? Looking through my cousin’s estate diary, I have the feeling the man he employed was a charlatan.’ What was it about her that had him revealing his concerns? She would think him a terrible bore. It just wasn’t done. Unless she was deliberately trying to lure him in with kindness as Sarah had done. He inspected her expression, but could detect no ulterior motive. But then he wouldn’t, would he? Ladies were experts at hiding their real thoughts and feelings.
‘Perhaps you could ask around among your fellow peers,’ she said.
Fellow peers? Did he know any? There was the chap the Vicar had mentioned, Compton, who also served as the local magistrate living near the next village over. Perhaps he should ride over and introduce himself. Though what they would have in common, he could not imagine. ‘Good thought.’
She looked surprised and pleased.
He frowned. Had she not expected him to acknowledge her idea as helpful?
She sipped at her tea. ‘If I might offer another suggestion...’
He tensed. No doubt this was where he learned the real purpose for her visit. He did not relish making his lack of interest plain. ‘Please do.’
‘Well... If I were you, I would mow the field where we met as soon as possible. It is perfect for harvesting and if you cut it right away you may get another crop before the winter.’
Why hadn’t he thought of that? Because while his horses ate hay, and he made sure they had enough, he’d never questioned how it arrived in the stable. It was not his concern when he had a war to fight. The commissary looked after those sorts of details. ‘I will certainly look into it, thank you.’
She gave him an odd look and finished her tea. ‘And now if you will excuse me, I really should be getting home before my sister wonders what has become of me.’
Ethan glanced out of the window. ‘My carriage awaits you.’ To his surprise, the old coach looked in a lot better shape than it had looked the last time he had inspected it and with Jack between the poles it looked almost lordly.
‘Truly, my lord, I am quite happy walking.’
‘Nevertheless, Mr O’Cleary will be pleased to drive you since Jack is in need of the exercise. I have not had time to hack him out today.’
‘Very well. Since you make it impossible to refuse without seeming disobliging, I will avail myself of your kind offer, my lord.’
He blinked at the forthright speech. No beating around the bush or simpering for this lady. He liked it. He knew where he stood. Unless she was using it as a ploy? Well she would not find him easy to gull, so he would just take her words at face value until he discovered the truth.
And thank heaven she had accepted his offer of the carriage. If she had not, he would have had to walk her all the way home, using up a great deal of time which he really did not have. And yet... He glanced out of the window. A walk with a pretty widowed lady on his arm would be very pleasant indeed.
And just the sort of entanglement in which he would not allow himself to indulge.
He escorted her outside and helped her aboard. Once he had shut the door he went forward to speak to O’Cleary seated on the box. ‘No racing, not on the way there or on the way back.’ He glanced up at the sky. The clouds didn’t look particularly threatening, but one never knew for certain in England. ‘Not even if it rains.’
O’Cleary grinned, touched his hat in acknowledgement of the jibe and set Jack in motion.
Lady Petra lifted her hand in farewell as the coach swept away.
Mow the hay. It was the first helpful suggestion anyone had given him and that it had come from such a pretty lady who looked as if she would be more at home in a London drawing room than in the wilds of Kent was quite a surprise.
Although she had not looked quite so ladylike when she’d been picking his blackberries. He squashed the image that popped into his mind.
Likely someone had encouraged her to make herself useful to a bachelor earl. After all, why would the sister of an earl march about the countryside delivering jars of jam if it wasn’t to get his attention?
* * *
Two mornings after her visit to the Earl, Petra set out to collect mushrooms for the stewpot before the dew was off the grass. She had noticed a fairy ring of them, as they had called them as children, in the same hedgerow where she’d picked the blackberries. She certainly was not going with the expectation of meeting His Lordship, but if she did, she had her excuse ready. After all, while he hadn’t specifically mentioned mushrooms, he had told her to purloin all the blackberries she wanted, so why would he object to her picking mushrooms, as long as she offered him some of her bounty?
A tiny tickle of something pleasant stirred low in her body at the thought of meeting Longhurst again. The same sensation she had felt when he was staring at her bare legs. Never before had the memory of a simple glance caused such feelings.
Nor even Harry had had that sort of visceral effect on her, which was what made it so very strange.
When they first came to Westram, she had suggested to her sisters that as widows they ought to be free to take lovers. It had been her anger at Harry’s abandonment, both before and after he died, that had made her suggest such a wicked idea. An anger that had faded into regret over time. And she certainly hadn’t actually expected to have an opportunity to put such an idea into practice out here in the depths of Kent. No, the last thing she wanted or needed was more hurt in her life.
Besides, this outing was not about her seeing Lord Longhurst again, it was about providing food for their table.
She climbed the stile into the field. At this time of year, the birds were quieter, though there was still the odd cheep as they darted about, feasting on blackberries and grass seeds. The crisp morning air seemed to predict autumn just around the corner. The dew caught the sun’s rays and glinted as if there were diamonds scattered across the top of the grass. It would not remain long; a breeze was already ruffling the long stalks like wind upon water.
She found the mushroom ring she had spotted a few days before, and after carefully bruising one of the caps to ensure it turned pink and not yellow, she cut them off and gently placed them in her basket. The next mushroom she found was a giant puffball hiding in the stinging nettles at the foot of an elm tree. It was large enough to provide both her and Marguerite with an excellent breakfast. Careful to make sure the nettles did not touch her skin, she cut the stalk and soon it was also sitting in the bottom of her basket.
She continued up the rolling stretch of land, making her way to the brow of the low hill which ran through the centre of the field.
Because the grass was so long, most of her harvest grew against the hedge, where the vegetation thinned out. Mushroom picking was easier in woods or a pasture with short grass, but since she had promised Marguerite she would not go into the woods alone, she continued up the hill.
By the time she crested the rise, her basket was brimming with assorted mushrooms and it was time to turn back. She stretched her back and looked about. Two men with their shirts off were hacking at the grass at the far end of the field.
Apparently, Lord Longhurst had taken her advice.
She squinted against the sun’s brightness. Oh, goodness. If she was not mistaken, one of those men was His Lordship himself and the other shorter, leaner figure, Mr O’Cleary.
She frowned. With only two of them working, and at the rate they were progressing, it would take ages to mow this field. After that, they would have to pile it into hayricks to dry. It would take days to finish. Why on earth had he not hired any help?
Unable to contain her curiosity, she continued working her way along the hedgerow, picking one or two mushrooms and then glancing up to see if they had noticed her presence while pretending she had not noticed them. As she drew closer, she could see both men in all their glorious detail, though she really only had eyes for the taller blonde giant of a man.
Lord Longhurst’s chest was broad and well muscled, like a statue of a Roman god, and his arms as he swung the scythe were the most enticing sight she had ever seen. Oh, heavens, the way the muscles in his back rippled with his movement made her insides tighten in a most shocking way. She fought the strong desire to run her hands over that back and down his spine and... She could not remember ever seeing a flesh-and-blood man who could serve as a model for a Greek god. Such a gorgeous specimen of the male of the human species.
She fanned her face. What on earth was the matter with her? She could not recall ever having such wayward thoughts before. Not even when Harry was alive and still treating her as if he loved her. With Harry, she realised, she’d been all girlish giggles and eager to do anything to get his attention. With this man, her reactions were far subtler in some ways and earthier in others she simply did not understand.
Good Lord. What would Longhurst think if he knew the direction of her mind? He’d likely be as shocked as she was.
The next glance revealed His Lordship pulling his shirt over his head. A sense of disappointment gave her another shock. No, no, she wasn’t disappointed. She was pleased because he must have seen her. Yes, indeed he had because the moment he was decently covered he strode to meet her.
As he drew close she became aware of trickles of moisture working their way down from his hairline to his neck. Oh, and the way his shirt clung to his skin was positively delicious. No, no, she meant indecent.
She mentally shook her finger at this new wanton version of herself and composed her face into an expression of polite surprise. ‘Good day, Lord Longhurst. A perfect day for working in the fields, is it not?’
He smiled and her heart gave an odd little clench. Oh, she was a fool for those boyish open smiles. She always had been. But she’d also learned those smiles also hid a good deal of boyish vice. Definitely not to be trusted.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Although I have to admit, while the sun is a boon, I am grateful for the breeze.’
As was she, as a gentle waft of air carried his scent towards her, earthy sweat mingled with the fresh scent of soap. She inhaled deeply and caught him looking at her with an odd expression.
Surprised by her inability to control such reactions in herself, she swallowed and was startled to discover her mouth was quite dry. ‘I have been mushroom picking,’ she said, holding out her basket and sounding more frog-like than she would have preferred. She swallowed again. ‘Half of these are yours.’
He looked startled and peered down at the fungus. ‘Are you sure they are edible? I have heard there are many poisonous kinds.’
Did he think her an idiot? ‘I have been picking mushrooms for almost as long as I could walk. You may trust I know what I am doing.’
She and Marguerite had gone on foraging expeditions with their cook, who had taken pity on their motherless state. She’d been a dear old stick and taught them lots about the bounty to be found in the country. She’d also taught them the rudiments of cooking, never expecting it would come in useful later in their lives.
Petra liked being outdoors. Even in those days Marguerite had preferred standing at her easel creating art to tramping around the countryside in all kinds of weather. Now Petra wished she had spent more time in the kitchen, but fortunately their maid, Becky, wasn’t a bad cook and between them all they managed to put decent if simple food on the table.
His Lordship made a wry face. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I am not sure O’Cleary knows how to cook much besides boiled beef, turnips and potatoes. He’d likely ruin them.’
The way he’d burned the biscuits. A man in Lord Longhurst’s position should be able to hire a proper cook, should he not?
‘I apologise if I seem ungrateful,’ he added, likely to fill the uncomfortable silence.
She pulled her thoughts together and shook her head. ‘Not at all. I was thinking what a shame it is that you do not have a cook, that was all. You might find one at a hiring fair, there are several local ones over the next few weeks.’
‘Yes,’ he said vaguely. ‘Perhaps after we are done here, I will look into it.’ He glanced over at where O’Cleary was quenching his thirst using a long-handled dipper in a bucket they must have filled from a stream. He dipped it again and poured the water over his head.
‘It is hot, thirsty work,’ she said.
‘And we have barely made a dint in it.’
‘What about hiring some men from the village to help you?’
He shook his head. ‘The other landlords are keeping them busy. We will do as much as we can and that will have to do.’
The determination in his voice gave her pause. It seemed he did care something about his property.
The last time Harry had joined her brothers during a harvest, he had tossed the hay about and chased her around the stooks and generally caused much hilarity and disturbance. His carefree ways were what she had loved about him as a girl and what had been so annoying about him when they were wed.
She hesitated. ‘Would you mind if I made a suggestion?’
* * *
Another suggestion? It had been Lady Petra’s idea that he mow this field. Was she now spying on him to see if he had followed her instructions? Or was her motive something different? An excuse for her to meet and flirt with him? Before he’d left the Peninsula, his fellow officers had teased him about all the ladies who would be lying in wait for him in hopes of catching an earl. And Sarah had proved just how right they were. He would do his own choosing, thank you very much. A simple bargain between sensible people was all he needed. No pretence of stronger emotions. The very idea of the sort of destructive passions his parents had engaged in made him feel ill. He was not about to be trapped into such a hideous life by a scheming woman.
Lady Petra’s presence out in this particular field so early in the day certainly seemed highly suspect. A lady of her stature would have no need to grovel around in the fields to put food on the table. No, there must surely be some ulterior motive for her appearance today.
He needed to be careful. ‘Suggest away.’ He braced for what might next come out of her mouth.
‘You are chopping at the hay, rather than mowing it. You need to take wider, slower swings. It will go much faster and will be a lot less tiring.’
His mouth dropped open. She was now instructing him on how to use a farm implement? Given her petite form, he doubted she could even lift a scythe, let alone swing it. The damn thing was as heavy as it was awkward.
No doubt she was one of those females who liked to pretend she knew something about everything and hand out orders to large and apparently slow-witted men like himself. ‘I see.’
She coloured delightfully and for a moment he forgot his annoyance. Which irritated him even more. ‘Perhaps you would like to demonstrate, Lady Petra?’ he challenged.
‘Yes, that might be of more use than trying to explain.’
He stared at her in astonishment and followed her when she pushed through the long grass to where O’Cleary was back to plying his scythe.
She stood watching him for a moment.
‘Have you never seen anyone mow grass?’ she asked.
‘Of course I have,’ Ethan said. He certainly couldn’t wait to see what sort of hash she was going to make of this with her tiny arms and hands and in her long skirts and fancy bonnet.
She put her basket aside, lifted her skirts and tucked the hems up at the sides into the waistband of her apron, once more revealing those charming calves and finely turned ankles.
His mouth dried.
O’Cleary turned around and dropped his scythe with a low whistle.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘You’ve seen lasses working with their skirts hiked up before now.’
O’Cleary turned bright red and Ethan knew exactly what sort of work he was thinking of.
Lady Petra frowned reprovingly. ‘Dairymaids and such.’
O’Cleary lowered his gaze. ‘Yes, my lady.’
‘Give me your scythe.’
O’Cleary handed it over. It was nearly as tall as she was. ‘I usually use a smaller one,’ she said. ‘They make them in various sizes.’ She grasped the handles. ‘Stand back, please.’
She took a long slow swing at the stems at ankle height and a swathe of hay keeled over. She took a step forward and swung again and another swathe went down in defeat. In two swings she’d cut as much as he had with ten.
Clearly growing up in the city with a customs clerk for a father had not prepared him for the life of an earl with a country estate. Neither had life in the army.
‘I see what you mean,’ he said, relieving her of the scythe and handing it back to O’Cleary. ‘May I try?’ He didn’t want her exhausting herself.
‘Certainly. Before you start always make sure there is no one close by. Swung with force, the blade can do considerable damage to a human limb.’
To his nonsensical male disappointment, she stepped back, untucked her skirts and brushed them down, looking perfectly demure.
‘O’Cleary,’ Ethan growled, ‘stay well back.’
He picked up the scythe he’d been using and swung as she had done. The damn thing nearly flew out of his hands.
‘It is more about the swing than the force,’ she said.
He tried again, this time achieving a smooth half circle that was not nearly as tiring as what he had been doing before. He tried a few more swings and was surprised by how much progress he made.
‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Mr O’Cleary, it is your turn to try. Move a little to the right so you are parallel to His Lordship but well clear of his blade.’
O’Cleary touched his forelock and did as instructed. Soon he, too, was swinging in great form and moving forward steadily.
So much for his cynicism. Lady Petra really did know what she was talking about. He leaned on his implement. ‘Thank you, Lady Petra. We will have this field done in no time.’
She beamed at him and he grinned at her. Her smile faded. ‘With only the two of you it is going to take a few days, even so.’
‘It will,’ he said, unsure what he had done to wipe the smile from her face. Women, they were all the same. He just did not understand them. Indeed, he had no wish to understand them, even if they were as pretty as a picture. ‘I ought to get back to work. Thank you again.’
He hefted the scythe and joined O’Cleary, swinging his scythe in easy arcs. The next time he looked up, she was gone from view.
* * *
Over the next few hours, he and O’Cleary made amazing progress, but every now and then the vision of a tiny lady with her skirts caught up, expertly swinging a scythe, popped into his mind.
He felt like he’d been ambushed and had not yet got his troops back into proper order.

Chapter Three (#u0ecbcbdd-3d44-5eaf-bcd6-f10ffc4d963c)
Perched on an upturned bucket, Petra watch Jeb groom Patch with a critical eye. When she had lived at home, she’d had her own riding horse, Daisy, and had learned how to care for her. She enjoyed working with horses, but this was another thing Jeb had decided was too lowly to be undertaken by a lady. So, having helped Becky make the bread first thing this morning, she’d come out to watch Jeb work, mostly so she would not disturb Marguerite at her drawing.
‘How old are you, Jeb?’ she asked.
He straightened and turned to face her. ‘Sixteen, my lady.’
So young! Yet hadn’t she known exactly how her life should be at sixteen? Wife to Harry, whom she’d assumed would become a gentleman farmer.
Why had she not seen that, while Harry had enjoyed his visits to her brothers, he was not the least bit interested in the land? He’d liked the hunting and the rollicking around the neighbouring villages getting up to all sorts of tricks, which she had known nothing about. After their marriage, he had made it perfectly clear that residing in the country would be a sort of living death for him. He declared he belonged in town, where he could continue to enjoy the company of his friends and, as she discovered later, any female who happened to come into his orbit.
A pang seized her. She quelled it. She never allowed herself to think about his unfaithfulness. It was simply too demeaning.
She sighed. Red had been right in cautioning her against setting her sights on Harry, but in those days, she had been so sure of everything. Now she felt as if she knew absolutely nothing, although her stupid body seemed to be attracted to the first handsome man to cross her path since Harry died.
Which was nonsense. She hadn’t given a thought to that sort of thing before she married, so why would she need to think it about it now she was a widow? She was a lady after all, not some lowly maiden.
Jeb was staring at her. Oh, yes, he’d told her his age. She frowned. ‘That means you started working here when you were fourteen. Isn’t that rather young?’
Surprise filled his expression. ‘Why, no, my lady. Me da started work up at Longhurst Park when he was nobbut ten. Under-groom he were then. He said we were spoiled going to school and not working till we were fourteen as our ma insisted upon.’ He grinned. ‘To hear tell, it was a fine life up at the Park till the old lord up and died. The fellow that came after him was sickly and spent most of his time in London, so he had no need of the horses or the staff. I was supposed to train there when I was old enough, but it were not to be.’ He went back to currying Patch’s flank.
‘Where does your father work now?’
Jeb shrugged. ‘Died of the lung disease three years ago. Leaving Ma to raise five young ’uns on her own. God’s blessing it were when this here job came up or we might have ended up on the parish.’
Guilt assailed. Why had she not known this? But it was Red who had hired Jeb before she and her sisters had arrived in Westram. ‘I suppose your mother is helping the other ladies with the millinery now?’ She winced, as even that work wasn’t certain.
‘Nah, my lady. She cooks for a family out beyond Ightham.’ His gaze held sadness. ‘She gets home one day a month. The little ’uns miss her, but me and my older sister do the best we can with them. Suzy does a bit of lacemaking, but it be hard for her to do much with the baby an’ all.’
‘Baby?’
‘Ah, he be four now. Right little handful.’ He grinned fondly. ‘The other three help out.’
This vision of Jeb as head of a family was shocking. And for a mother to be separated from her young children! A vision of singed biscuits popped into her head. ‘Your mother is a good cook, then?’
‘Yes. Trained she did, up at the Park when she were a lass. Had to give it up when she married me da, of course, but he had a good job by then.’
A good cook. Now, that was something. ‘When will she be home next?’
Jeb rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Next week, I reckon, my lady. Sunday.’
‘Do you think she might be willing to cook for us here on that day?’
Jeb turned to look at her. ‘What, my lady?’
‘I would like to invite a guest for dinner, but we will need someone to cook for us. Your mother can take home any leftovers, and, of course, we would pay her for her time.’
His eyes lit up. ‘I’ll have my sister write and ask her, but I am sure as how she would be pleased to help out. A bit of extra never goes amiss.’
Hopefully Marguerite would not object to spending a little bit extra next week. Now if she could convince the Earl to accept her invitation, she might kill two birds with one stone by finding His Lordship a cook as well as help Jeb’s family out by having their mother live at home. The thought pleased her inordinately, even if it did mean having to entertain the Earl for dinner.
* * *
Ethan tied Jack to the fence in front of Westram Cottage. At first, he’d thought to refuse the ladies’ invitation to dine with them, but the thought of a half-decent meal, instead of O’Cleary’s stew, was far too tempting for any man, especially one who liked his food as much as Ethan did.
Besides, strangely enough, he was looking forward to seeing Lady Petra again. Which wasn’t moving the next project on his list in the right direction.
According to his man of business, who had his office in Sevenoaks, he was not entirely destitute. He’d offered the heartening news that if Ethan was careful in the management of the estate, and if he perhaps found himself a suitably wealthy bride, he should come around very nicely.
The noose tying him to this estate was growing ever tighter, but he still had hopes of returning to his army career. After much discussion, Ethan had reluctantly agreed to the man of business making discreet enquiries regarding the availability of such a bride. He had indicated his preference for a sensible woman who would understand the concept of a marriage of convenience. Preferably one who had some experience of country living and all that it entailed, so he could leave matters in her hands. There were to be no commitments or promises until Ethan had met the lady.
He marched up to the ladies’ front door and rapped the knocker. After some discussion with O’Cleary, he’d decided not to wear his uniform. Since a military man had little use for civilian clothes, his wardrobe was limited, but he did have a coat he’d bought from Weston on a whim during one of his visits to London. It wasn’t exactly evening wear, but O’Cleary had agreed it would do for dinner in the country. Though why on earth the batman thought himself an expert in the matter Ethan didn’t know.
A maid guided him to a small parlour at the front of the cottage.
The two ladies rose to their feet when he entered. He gave them his warmest smile and bowed. ‘Good day, ladies.’
They dipped their heads in unison.
‘Please be seated, Lord Longhurst,’ Lady Marguerite said. She glanced at the servant. ‘That will be all, thank you, Becky. May I offer you some sherry, Lord Longhurst?’
‘Thank you.’
He took his glass when she poured one for each of them. Both ladies perched on the sofa. He sat opposite in the armchair and raised his glass. ‘To your very good health.’
‘Your health,’ they replied.
He took an appreciative sip of his drink. The sherry was of excellent quality.
A silence descended. Ethan dragged out his party manners. ‘What a snug house you ladies have.’
‘Thank you,’ Lady Petra said. ‘We like it very much.’
‘There is one thing I do not quite understand,’ he said, recalling some earlier musings. ‘The village has your family name and yet your family does not own any property in these parts, apart from this cottage.’
‘It is quite a long story,’ Lady Marguerite said. ‘But it is not an unusual one. It dates back to Oliver Cromwell’s rule.’
‘Do not tell me your family once owned Longhurst Park?’ Blast, he had not anticipated that when he asked the question, though he should have. He really ought to find out more about this branch of his family’s history. He just hadn’t thought it important before now.
‘Oh, no,’ Lady Petra said. She chuckled. ‘Actually, it is Lord Compton who is the usurper.’ Her amusement lit her blue eyes like sunlight dancing on water. He found himself enchanted. He suppressed the sensation. He had seen that sort of conspiratorial amusement on his mother’s face. It had been a lie then and was likely one now, too. Ladies’ smiles were not to be trusted, even if they were pretty and enticing.
‘Petra, you really should not say such things,’ Lady Marguerite said. ‘It is all water under the bridge. While Compton Manor, then known as Bedwell Hall, did belong to our family, our ancestors supported the idea of a republic. After the Restoration, we lost the title and the land. Charles the Second bequeathed Bedwell to the Comptons, all except this cottage, which was occupied by an elderly lady who had maintained her loyalty to the King.’
‘A very stubborn old lady apparently.’ Once more Lady Petra’s eyes twinkled. ‘My family says I take after her.’
Lady Marguerite shook her head fondly at her sister. ‘You are not stubborn, my dear, unless you do not get your own way.’
Both ladies laughed. Once again Ethan was struck by the younger sister’s angelic beauty. Her laughter was a sweet light sound and her eyes gleamed with mischief. She was the sort of woman who stood out in a crowd and drew every man’s eye when she smiled. The sort of woman who would lead a less sensible man a merry dance.
His suspicions about her having an ulterior motive returned in full force. He really should have declined this invitation. He certainly did not want to create any false impressions or hopes.
Lady Marguerite continued the story. ‘It wasn’t until the Stewarts were gone that our family wormed their way back into the good graces of the royals and were granted the property in Gloucestershire. Danesbury is where Westram has his seat now.’
‘Yet you choose to live here in Kent?’
‘Yes,’ Lady Marguerite said, lifting her chin as if she expected him to take issue with her words. ‘We like our independence.’
Lady Petra nodded her agreement.
Perhaps he was misjudging her motives after all.
The maid peeped in. ‘Lady Marguerite, I am to tell you dinner is served.’
‘Thank you, Becky,’ she said, standing.
‘May I?’ Ethan offered both ladies an arm. He escorted them into a small dining room overlooking the garden at the back of the house. The French doors were wide open, admitting a light breeze along with the scent of roses.
He seated the ladies and then took a chair. ‘Your garden is beautiful,’ he said.
‘That is Petra’s doing,’ Lady Marguerite said. ‘She has a talent for making things grow.’
Lady Petra smiled. ‘I have always had an interest in plants. How about you, Lord Longhurst?’
He grimaced. ‘I enjoy eating what the land produces, my lady, but my knowledge beyond that is severely limited. But not for long, I hope.’
The little maid carried in an assortment of dishes, including a magnificent roast of beef, assorted vegetables and puddings.
Having carved the roast and made sure each lady’s plate was full, Ethan got down to eating his own meal with a will. Food like this had not been coming his way recently.
The conversation, led by Lady Marguerite, revolved around the weather, the need for a church roof and some information about other families in the neighbourhood.
Finally, Ethan, put down his knife and fork. ‘That was the best meal I have had in months, if not years.’
Lady Marguerite looked pleased. ‘Surely you exaggerate, my lord.’
‘Not at all. Everything was cooked to perfection. Your chef is to be complimented.’
‘Actually, she is not our cook,’ Lady Petra said. ‘We hired her for the day.’
He frowned. ‘Do cooks hire themselves out by the day?’
‘Not as a general rule, but she is looking for a permanent post near to Westram. We do not need a full-time cook, unfortunately.’
Everyone needed a full-time cook if they could afford one. Again, his irritation at Westram’s niggardliness with his sisters raised its head. But it was none of his business. Indeed, he had no idea why he would care.
‘Perhaps you would like to hire her,’ Lady Petra suggested idly. Too idly. He narrowed his eyes on her face. Why was she so interested in his household arrangements? The sort of arrangements that would normally be within a wife’s purview. Was she seeing herself in that role? No doubt she thought an earl would be a very good catch.
Even so, the thought of having meals like this on a regular basis was so tempting as to make Ethan’s mouth water.
‘Are you sure I would not be depriving you of her services, if I hired her?’
‘Oh, no,’ Lady Petra said airily. ‘Becky manages our everyday needs and, since we rarely entertain, we do not have need of a cook. Mrs Stone comes highly recommended. Indeed, she used to work at Longhurst Park years ago, so she should fit right in. And it would mean she could live at home with her family.’
The lady did protest too much. He frowned. ‘Did you invite me to dinner so I might be convinced to hire this woman?’
Lady Marguerite looked embarrassed.
‘Is it so terrible?’ Lady Petra asked. ‘Is it not our duty to help our neighbours and friends? Besides, what better way to know if she will suit than to sample her skills?’
She looked a little disgruntled. What? Had she not expected him to see through her ploy? Was she like so many others, including his father, who thought him lacking in intelligence because of his size?
Indeed, he also felt a little disgruntled. He had thought—well, perhaps vaguely hoped—she had invited him because she valued his company, but it seemed that it had been an attempt to manipulate him into hiring a cook. A very fine cook, to be sure, but he did not intend to be manipulated by any woman ever again, especially after his lucky escape from Sarah.
The maid entered with a tray containing desserts. A fruit compote, an apple pie and a lemon mousse. Everyone served themselves. Ethan partook of the pie and a little of the mousse.
Any idea of resistance immediately disappeared. Mentally he shook his head at what he knew would next be coming out of his mouth. Complete and utter surrender. ‘Ask the cook to report for duty as soon as she is able.’
Both ladies seemed happy with his pronouncement, Lady Petra exceedingly so, blast the woman. O’Cleary would be delighted in the extreme. Ethan, however, could not quite shake his earlier sense of being ambushed once again.
From now on it would be best if he avoided Lady Petra completely.

Chapter Four (#u0ecbcbdd-3d44-5eaf-bcd6-f10ffc4d963c)
As was their usual wont on a Thursday, Petra and Marguerite walked to the village of Westram. Their first stop was the post office.
‘Quite a few letters for you today, Lady Marguerite,’ Mr Barker, the postmaster, said. ‘And one for you, Lady Petra. Franked, they are.’ He beamed, his red wrinkled cheeks looking like apples left too long in the sun.
All the letters had been franked by Westram or by Lord Avery’s father—a duke, no less. Their connections to the nobility seemed to thrill Mr Barker, as if somehow the more noble the frank, the higher it lifted those who lived in the village.
‘Thank you, Barker,’ Marguerite said, stuffing the letters into her reticule after a glance at the sender’s name and address.
‘One is from Lord Westram,’ Mr Barker said. ‘Will he be visiting you any time soon?’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ Marguerite said, handing over her outgoing letters and opening her purse.
Perhaps Lord Longhurst will be good enough to frank them for you?’ he said, gesturing to the window with his chin.
Across the road, Lord Longhurst was talking to the Vicar’s wife, Mrs Beckridge. ‘That will not be necessary,’ Marguerite said.
Marguerite hated asking anyone for anything. She was determined they would be completely independent. While she had not said anything at the time, she had been quite disturbed when their sister-in-law, Carrie, married so soon after they moved to Westram. Disappointed, Petra had thought, though Marguerite had hidden it well. It had certainly made their task of living independently a little more difficult, despite the fact that Carrie’s new husband did all in his power to assist.
Their mail dealt with, they went back out into the street. Mrs Beckridge waved them over. Petra would have preferred to ignore her, since she tended to pry. Also, the thought of meeting the Earl made her feel hot and cold by turns. There was something about the man that fascinated her, she had discovered at dinner the other evening, and the strength of those feelings made her uncomfortable. However, since Marguerite was already crossing the street, she could hardly put her head down and walk the other way.
‘Lady Marguerite, Lady Petra,’ Mrs Beckridge gushed. ‘How lovely to see you.’
Longhurst bowed. ‘A pleasure, Lady Marguerite, Lady Petra.’
Petra curtsied. ‘Lord Longhurst.’
‘I was right at this moment telling His Lordship about the gypsies who have taken up residence in Crabb’s Wood at the edge of his land. I am sure you ladies will agree with me when I say something really should be done about them.’ She made the pronouncement in a voice of doom as if predicting the end of the world.
‘What sort of something?’ Petra asked.
‘Why, chase them off, of course. We don’t need the likes of them around here, stealing babies and washing off the line.’
Marguerite frowned. ‘Whose baby did they steal?’
‘No one’s as yet,’ the Vicar’s wife admitted. ‘But as I mentioned to my dear husband this very morning, it would be preferable not to give them the chance.’
‘Utter rubbish,’ Marguerite said with a shake of her head.
‘The Vicar thinks I should chase them off, does he?’ Longhurst asked.
‘Well, it is your land they are sitting on. Disgraceful people. Next, they will be knocking on doors selling charms for warts or lucky heather. Most un-Christian behaviour.’
‘A gypsy band used to camp near Danesbury when we were children,’ Marguerite said.
‘Our papa always hired them to help with the harvest,’ Petra added. ‘It was why they came back year after year. We certainly never had any trouble with them. Why not offer them the job of cutting your hay, Lord Longhurst? I wouldn’t be surprised if a previous earl used their services and that’s why they set up camp on your land.’
Mrs Beckridge made a sound of disapproval. ‘Not with my husband’s approval, I assure you, Lord Longhurst.’
‘What an excellent solution, Lady Petra,’ Lord Longhurst said. ‘When I enquired at the Green Man, I was told there was not a man hereabouts in need of gainful employment. I will ride over there tomorrow and see if I can hire them on.’
Petra looked up at the sky. Mare’s tails were riding high above them. ‘I would go today if I were you. The weather is about to change. You may have only a day or so before it rains.’
He looked startled. ‘You can tell that?’
‘Really, my lord,’ Mrs Beckridge said. ‘Do not encourage them to remain in the district. Please, send them to the right about, as my husband would say. We do not need their sort around here.’
‘Your husband does not have several fields of hay in need of mowing and no men to help,’ the Earl said with a pleasant smile.
Petra could not help herself. She beamed at him.
He recoiled slightly, as if he did not welcome her approval of what was a very sensible response to the Vicar’s wife.
Mrs Beckridge shook her head. ‘Far be it from me to dictate your actions, my lord, but were my husband here he would say the same thing.’
‘I am sure he would,’ Longhurst said. He bowed. ‘If you will excuse me, ladies.’
All three ladies watched him stroll away. Petra had never seen anyone stand up so well to Mrs Beckridge’s forceful personality. Perhaps he did not yet understand the lady’s position and reputation in the village. No doubt he would when the Vicar heaped coals of fire on his head at the church service on Sunday. It would be interesting to see how he reacted to that.
‘Why are you so set against these gypsies?’ Marguerite asked Mrs Beckridge. ‘I certainly have not heard of any abductions or theft associated with them.’
‘Not yet, you haven’t,’ Mrs Beckridge said sullenly. She pressed her lips together. ‘Likely, I should not make mention of this, but I fear I must warn you.’
‘Of?’
Mrs Beckridge glanced about her and then drew closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘One of them tells fortunes.’
Marguerite shook her head at the lady. ‘It is only a bit of entertainment, Mrs Beckridge. No one truly believes in it.’
Mrs Beckridge sniffed. ‘People around here believe all sorts of blasphemous nonsense. All I can say is do not let yourselves be taken in.’ She nodded her head and stalked off.
Marguerite sighed. ‘More fire and brimstone to look forward to on Sunday. I should have kept my opinions to myself.’
‘Perhaps she ought to have been a little less forceful in hers,’ Petra said.
Marguerite chuckled. ‘Every time I see the woman she rubs me the wrong way. If she said “Up”, I would likely say “Down”. I think your suggestion was the best. Give them some gainful work and leave them in peace. It is all anybody wants. Come along, I need to buy some bread.’
It would be interesting to see if the Earl actually went against the Vicar’s wife and offered the gypsies work. They were people who really understood the land and who worked hard. And if they occasionally poached a rabbit, well, why not? The rabbits didn’t belong to anyone any more than the blackberries did, even if the law said otherwise.
* * *
When Petra came in from the garden after a satisfactory hour of pulling weeds without any interference from Jeb, she found Marguerite in the hallway tying on her bonnet. ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Oxted. We are almost out of candles and the stall at the market there is cheaper than our shop in the village.’

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