An Earl For The Shy Widow. Ann Lethbridge
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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