An Earl For The Shy Widow. Ann Lethbridge
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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