Page 3 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

She dipped a curtsey. ‘I received your letter, my lord, and all is in readiness.’ Her faintly Scottish accent pleased his ear. It reminded him of Uncle Robert, his friend and mentor. Graydon still missed him.

‘Would you like me to show you up to your chamber?’ she asked. ‘There are drop cloths in the hallway and most of the rooms still have Holland covers over the furniture. We can remove them, if you wish, but it seems a shame to expose everything to the dust now it has all been cleaned.’

The next few weeks were going to be highly inconvenient. But, now that he had decided to oversee the project himself and ensure no more delays occurred, he was going to have to put up with it.

‘No need to bother, Mrs Spragg. I know my way.’

‘It is no bother, my lord, but as you wish. Dinner will be served at six in the breakfast room.’ She turned and glided away.

Six—of course. Country hours: dinner at six, bed by ten. He actually didn’t mind. He liked to be up early and about his business. Keeping early hours had stood him in good stead in Canada. ‘The early bird gets the worm’, Uncle Robert had always said. And Graydon had been earlier than most. Over the last seven years, he’d made a fortune from lumber for masts for the navy, first on behalf of his uncle, his mother’s brother, and then on his own behalf, when the old fellow had died and left Graydon the business. Fortune had certainly smiled on him as far as that was concerned.

Not that an earl would ever admit to being in trade—far too vulgar. It was all right to own land, and to farm it, but not all right to enter into commerce. It made no sense. But, if he was going to restore the family name to its former glory, he was going to have to abide by society’s rules.

And one of those was not to run one’s neighbours down. He stroked his chin, feeling the roughness of his beard against his fingertips where he hadn’t shaved at the posting house, preferring to get on the road early.

He would have to make amends somehow, he supposed. What had she said about the field—that it was not his? Perhaps she had not realised who he was. He had not introduced himself, had he? More bad manners. He shook his head at himself. He’d been so concerned about knocking her down, his wits had gone begging.

Then she’d managed to rouse his temper and his manners had also flown away. Devil take it. He sighed; no doubt apologies were required. For some reason, the thought of seeing the young woman again cheered him up.

At least she was a woman who stood up for herself, even if she had been in the wrong.

The church hall, a draughty barn of a stone building, echoed with the scrape of wooden chairs sliding back as the ladies on the committee rose to their feet at the conclusion of the meeting. Florence had been ten minutes late, her apologies briefly interrupting a rather heated discussion about whether a lead roof or one of slate would be most appropriate for the church.

The ladies gathered in small groups to chat before their departure. Florence moved in the direction of her friend Lilian.

‘A moment, if you please, Miss Dearing.’

Had Mrs Pole, the tall, grey-haired vicar’s wife, emphasised the word ‘miss’? Florence was pretty sure she had. Did it matter that Florence was the only unmarried lady at the meeting of Stoor Village Ladies for the Refurbishment of the Church? It certainly did not matter to her, even if Lilian had been married for three years and was expecting her second child, despite the pact she and Lilian had made never to marry.

Lilian, a tall angular blonde so very like her mother, smiled and waved around the person to whom she was speaking, indicating with a little jerk of her chin that she wanted to chat to Florence after her mother was done with her.

Florence sighed and joined the vicar’s wife. ‘Yes, Mrs Pole?’

‘Did I hear you mention when you first arrived that you had bumped into the Earl of Blackdown?’

Literally bumped into. ‘I encountered him on the way here, yes.’ An unfortunate encounter that had left her unimpressed with his manner, if not his person. She was determined not to be impressed. No matter how handsome his face, or how strong his hands. Or the way her stomach had fluttered at that brief look of concern in his dark eyes, brown eyes with pinpricks of gold. ‘Why do you ask?’

Mrs Pole rolled her lips inward, looking anxious. ‘Someone must approach him, about putting up a prize for the village fair. He must be made aware of his responsibilities. Speaking of which, neither I nor Reverend Pole has seen hide nor hair of him as yet. Most unusual that he has not seen fit to call on his vicar.’

It was the talk of the village that the newest Earl of Blackdown had been particularly elusive. But then, he hadn’t actually moved into the Hall. The house was still under construction, according to Mr Reddy, the publican of the Howling Gale, who had heard it from the labourers who occasionally called in at his public house.

Florence took a deep breath. She had to return his handkerchief, didn’t she? ‘I will mention it when I call on him tomorrow, if you wish.’ When she was not covered in muddy stains. She brushed futilely at her cloak and skirt.

Mrs Pole nodded. ‘Good, very good. Mrs Reddy, a word please…’ She bustled off.

Mrs Pole always wanted ‘a word’ and it usually resulted in someone getting some task to undertake. Mrs Pole saw it as her role to organise the village of Stoor and to keep everyone busy. What was poor Mrs Reddy in for?

Florence pushed those thoughts aside and hurried after Lilian, who had already left the hall. She caught her up a short way down the road and they walked along arm-in-arm as they had always done since they’d been girls.

‘Did you really meet the earl?’ Lilian asked as they strolled away from the hall.

‘Yes. He drove past me right where there was an enormous puddle. Talk about a dousing! He stopped and offered me his handkerchief. We exchanged a few pithy words.’

Lilian chuckled. ‘I can imagine.’ She knew Florence too well. ‘But does he know who you are?’

Florence tried to recall the exact details of that tart conversation. ‘I didn’t give him my name, if that’s what you mean. Nor did he introduce himself. Our conversation related to rights of way and speed.’

‘Oh. I see. What is he like?’