Page 5 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

And then there was that little comment he thought she had made: It’s ours. Surely he had misheard?

He soon found himself in the field in question. He could clearly see a path running diagonally from a small stand of trees, behind which must lie the house she lived in, to the stile into lane that lead to the back of Blackdown Hall. A lane the that meant he did not have to pass through the village to get to his property.

He led his horse through the gate into the field and followed the path through the long grass. There was certainly no sign of anyone using this field for anything at all, unless grass could be classified as hay.

The stand of trees proved to be a cluster of yews clearly planted to serve as a windbreak or for privacy. Beyond them, he could see a square, grey stone manor-house with a slate roof, surrounded by a low stone lichen-covered wall, broken by a gate that led into his field.

Very convenient. Well, that answered all of his questions. Whoever lived in that house had been using the field as a shortcut for many years, but that was all. There was no sign of any sort of other encroachment.

He pulled out his map. Where would he go from here?

‘Are you lost?’ a female voice said.

He glanced over at the gate. A young woman was leaning on the top rail, gazing at him with curiosity. She was round-faced, a blue-eyed girl with a straw bonnet perched upon a mop of curly brown hair. Not the woman he had met the day before. Damn it.

He almost smiled at his unruly thought.

‘Good day, miss,’ he replied, refolding his map to make it more manageable and tucking it into his jacket. ‘No, I am not lost.’

‘You look lost,’ she said.

‘Iris,’ a voice called out. ‘Who…? Oh, it is you.’ There was no pleasure in those words.

The woman from the day before appeared at the gate. She looked different today, younger, and less bedraggled. He could see that, with her hair no longer covered by a bonnet, despite her surprisingly black eyebrows her hair was light reddish-brown and her eyes were hazel bordering on green. Her high-waisted green gown emphasised the full shape of her breasts hidden from view yesterday by her cloak and the narrow waist he had felt beneath his hands. He had not forgotten the span of that waist. Indeed, he remembered it too well.

He kept his gaze fixed on her face, on those fascinatingly piercing eyes, but it was hard not to enjoy the view of that curvaceous bosom. Her husband was a lucky man.

He stilled at the stray thought. There was only one woman he had ever found alluring, and she was as unlike this woman as a swan was a pigeon.

‘I was going to bring your handkerchief back this afternoon,’ she announced tartly.

‘He is lost,’ the girl called Iris said with a giggle.

‘I am not lost,’ Graydon said, irritated by the giggle—girlish and silly.

‘This is my sister, Iris Dearing,’ the woman said, emphasising the last name, giving him a narrow-eyed glance, as if she expected it to resonate. ‘I am Miss Dearing. Iris, this is the Earl of Blackdown.’

Miss—not married then.

He bowed. ‘Good day, Miss Dearing, Miss Iris Dearing.’

Iris grinned. ‘Oh, the man who covered you in mud.’

‘By accident,’ he said.

‘And now Florence says we are not permitted to take the shortcut to the village any more.’ Miss Iris Dearing sounded accusing.

He opened his mouth, then stopped himself from speaking, unpleasantly surprised by the urge to back down. He did not want people tramping across his land as if they owned it.

He stiffened his spine. ‘According to my map, it is a private footpath.’

Miss Dearing narrowed her eyes and he became aware of how straight her eyebrows became when she frowned. And how pixie-ish her expression. And how her lips pursed as if for a kiss… He blinked.

She gave him a tight smile. ‘As you intimated yesterday. Well, that is for a future discussion. Come along, Iris. Good day, my lord.’ She took her sister by the hand and pulled her away.

The younger sister glanced over her shoulder with a shrug.

Devil take it. The woman clearly had taken him in dislike. He found himself regretting that he hadn’t been more conciliatory.