Page 8 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

Miss Dearing’s eyes widened. ‘No. There are no more.’

‘And brothers?’ Was he to be beset by some spotty lad who wanted to hunt, shoot and fish on his property? The Dearings held land on the other side of the main road to the house, according to his map and explorations, a very small amount of land devoted to sheep.

‘No brothers,’ Miss Dearing said.

Good.

She started.

Damn it, had he said that out loud? That was what came of long Canadian winters when one didn’t see a person for weeks on end—one talked to one’s self. A very bad habit.

‘Please, be seated.’ He gestured to the chairs beside the fireplace on the other side of the room from his desk. It was here he sat in the evenings, being the most comfortable spot in the house at present.

Primrose floated across the room to sit on the sofa. Miss Dearing strode to sit beside her. He sat opposite the pair. ‘I presume you came to return my handkerchief?’ He held out a hand.

Miss Dearing’s expressive eyebrows shot up. She blushed, a very pretty blush, he decided, and rummaged in her reticule. She handed over his handkerchief, washed and ironed into a crisp square.

He set it down on the table between them. A silence fell. ‘Thank you,’ he said, realising what was wanted.

‘You are welcome.’

‘Well, if that is all…’ He began to rise.

Miss Dearing offered him that rather tight smile of hers. ‘There was something else.’

Miss Primrose batted her eyelashes at him. ‘What a lot of work you have done on the house. It looks so different from the last time I was here.’

He stilled. ‘When were you last here?’

‘Oh,’ she said with a bright smile. ‘I do not mean inside, of course. I have never been inside your house, since no one has lived her for years, but outside—the portico and the brickwork, the ivy all pulled down. We have been used to coming up here to pick up fallen apples and—’

Her sister coughed, stopping the girl mid-sentence.

Primrose laughed lightly. ‘Oh dear. Should I not have said that? We were not the only ones, you know. It was a shame to see the fruit going to waste, rotting away on the ground.’

Primrose was a delightfully charming, unaffected girl. An extraordinarily beautiful girl. It was impossible not to warm to her when offered that lovely smile.

Her sister on the other hand looked anxious. As if she feared he would throw them out for trespass or something. It was not up to him to ease her worry, even if he felt the need. And yet…

‘Well, there will not be any more rotting fruit, so you need not trouble about it,’ he said. ‘Now if—?’

‘We were wondering,’ the older sister said as if he had not started to speak, ‘That is, people in the area are wondering if, when the house is finished, you were planning some sort of gathering for your neighbours—so they can see all the wonderful improvements you have made—as a way to get to know them? It would be a good idea. After all, the Ingrams are major landowners in the county.’

This time she gave him a warm smile, her plush lips curving upwards. A smile that made his heart beat faster and sent tingles through his blood. Devil take it, he must be coming down with the ague or something equally unpleasant.

‘You know, it is ages since the young ladies hereabouts danced at a ball, isn’t it, Primrose?’

‘Why, I don’t believe I have actually ever been to a ball,’ Primrose said. ‘We have had the odd country dance in the upper rooms at the inn, but a ball would be a wondrous thing.’ Her eyes shone at the thought, giving her countenance an ethereal look.

So that was their scheme, was it? They were trying to manipulate him. He had not expected that of the elder Miss Dearing. Disappointment hit him hard. Someone in his employ must have talked about his plans.

He kept his expression cool. ‘If I was planning a ball, I would not be inviting a group of people I do not know.’

Apparently unfazed by his coldness, Miss Dearing lifted that wonderfully strong chin and looked him in the eye with a martial light in her pretty hazel ones.

‘You do not need to worry about not knowing anyone. I can introduce you to all the important people. You ought to plan your ball for the summer. Everyone has time then. Oh, and by the way, the vicar’s wife is anxious that you call upon her and the vicar as soon as possible. She wishes to talk to you about the church roof and the village fete.’

‘If wishes were horses…’ he said pointedly, and rose to his feet to usher her out.