An Earl For The Shy Widow

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.