Ann Lethbridge - An Earl For The Shy Widow

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.’