His heart began to hammer at the unexpected sight. Eleanor’s eyes were the first thing he always noticed about her—intelligent, thoughtful, curious eyes. Then her lovely face and her luscious mouth, and then lower to her…
He stopped himself from looking lower. She was Maggie’s younger sister, probably too young for the likes of him.
“Let the girl come in and catch her breath,” his mother said. “So nice to have your company. First, my boy came last night and then this lovely sprite. Eleanor, is it?”
“Mum, this is John Angsley’s youngest sister-in-law, down from Sheffield.”
He strode past both of them, feeling as if the room had shrunk in size now that Miss Blackwood’s vibrant presence was contained in it.
Though she was no taller than an average woman and slender, as his mother had noticed, something about Eleanor reminded him of a woodland fairy from an etching he’d seen. Perhaps it was her gently pointed chin.
Today, her hair, the color of rich toffee, was in loose braids, and a little haphazardly arranged on her head. Knowing she’d done it herself without much care made him smile.
“Would you like tea?” he offered, checking to make sure the stove was stoked before settling his mother’s kettle on to boil.
“No, thank you,” Eleanor refused. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was looking for Mrs. Latbury. I must have the wrong door.”
His mother glanced at him, then back at Eleanor.
“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “Mrs. Latbury passed away about six months ago.”
He watched Eleanor’s face pale. She was a tenderhearted thing. At Turvey House, he’d seen her lift a baby bird from the ground before insisting he help her replace it in its nest. Naturally, he’d done her bidding.
“I’m terribly sorry to hear that,” Eleanor said, her voice sincere. “She was a very sweet person, especially for a cook.” Then she covered her mouth. “Oh, gracious. I shouldn’t have said that. What I meant was…,” she trailed off.
He was enchanted by her fluster. But then what about Miss Blackwood didn’t enchant him?
His mother reached over and patted Eleanor’s hand.
“We knew what you meant, dear. Cooks are notoriously tough folk. But as you say, she was a sweet one.”
After a moment of silence, Eleanor nodded, then she brightened.
“I’ve forgotten my manners. YouareMrs. O’Connor, of course. Wehavemet before, when you were up at the hall, and I do recognize you. I simply wasn’t expecting you here.”
“Plus, I squint something terrible now,” his mother confessed. “I probably resemble a raisin. Will you take tea with us, after all?”
He saw Eleanor hesitate, and her gaze flew to him. His heart seemed to thump as they made eye contact, but he nodded encouragingly. His mother loved company. He came over as often as he could from Turvey House, not even three miles away.
As their estate manager, he lived in his own home on the Cambrey property. He had tried to convince his mother to live with him, even more forcefully after she left her service as seamstress for the Angsleys, but she wouldn’t budge from their estate and loved her place at the lodge.
“Yes, tea would be very welcome,” Eleanor agreed.
Gray felt a measure of relief. It would make it easier to tell young Miss Blackwood the disturbing news he had brought from Turvey House the night before.
“I was expecting Miss Phoebe for a needlepoint lesson,” his mother explained. “Normally, I don’t go snatching people off my front step.”
Eleanor laughed softly before sitting at the small table in the room that served as kitchen and parlor, with the only other room being his mum’s small bedroom.
He liked how Eleanor didn’t put on airs. Even with two sisters having married titled gentlemen, both becoming countesses, she remained living in a modest country cottage with her mother, Lady Blackwood, widow of a penniless baron.
Moreover, though Eleanor traveled between the country estates of her two brothers-in-law, or she stayed in one of the earls’ townhouses in London, she didn’t seem to have changed her unassuming, easygoing nature one whit.
Five years ago, he’d first met a young lady with a love of horses and of the natural world, who had a sweet purity that charmed him. Artless, happy, Eleanor found pleasure in rainbows and butterflies. He remembered wondering how she would fare in London when she came out as a debutante.
As it turned out, the year before, she’d handled it with quiet aplomb. His close friendship with her middle sister’s husband, John Angsley, whom he called Cam, meant he’d heard a great deal about how Eleanor had grown bored during the Season and disgruntled in London.
Thankfully, she’d also easily seen through the masquerade of ladies and gentlemen putting on their best face, sometimes a patently false one, to gain ground on the marriage mart.
