An Earl For The Shy Widow. Ann Lethbridge
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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