An Earl for the Shy Widow Read online

  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 armcha
ir near the window with her handkerchief and perched on the edge of it.

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

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

  Chapter Two

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

  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.
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  ‘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.’