plenty of business here to look after too.” Rose reprimanded sharply.
It did the trick. The playful charm was instantly muted in his eyes. Good. Life in the country was serious business these days. There’d been reports of machine-breaking in Kent and swing riots in East Anglia. Another bad harvest was all it would take for the unrest to spread here where there were more laborers than farms that could employ them.
Her hands were on her hips and she was conscious of the defiant picture she must present in her trousers and boots. “These people will expect you to look after them.”
“I’ve heard you’re doing a superior job of that.” Pembridge broke in. “They don’t need me.”
“I’m just the squire’s widow. I can bring them food baskets and hold their hands when they’re sick. But I can’t solve their real problems.”
“And I can?” Pembridge queried, putting her on the spot. If he was going to force her to spell out his duty to him then she would.
“If you can’t, then no one can. Have you wondered why so many people turned out for the funeral yesterday in the middle of the apple harvest?”
“Curiosity, I suppose, if your behavior is anything to go on.”
Rose snorted. “It takes more than curiosity and respect for protocol to drag a farmer away from his crops at harvest. They came because you’re their last hope.”
Pembridge leaned back against a tree trunk in casual repose, his legs showing to advantage in his buckskin trousers and high boots. They were as long as she’d imagined yesterday beneath his greatcoat and far better muscled than her imagination gave them credit for.
“Bravo, Mrs. Janeway. You should be an actress. Although I must admit, while your performance is inspiring, it feels rather over-dramatic.”
Rose gestured to the orchard beyond them, her agitation rising. “There hasn’t been a good harvest since 1827. Last year there was snow in October. Even if legislation in Parliament and the Enclosure Laws weren’t conspiring against the average farmer, the issue of the weather would be enough to cause these folk grave concerns. At this point, it’s not a matter of making economies to get through the winter. It’s a matter of surviving. For some of these families it’s not a foregone conclusion that they’ll make it. That’s why their children are out here working alongside them.”
“I will meet with them. I will do what I can for them to see them settled for the winter. Let that appease your conscience. But Mrs. Janeway, I do not intend to be an earl in residence. I rather doubt anyone thought I would be, whatever other expectations they had. I haven’t been here in fourteen years.”
“You’re here now.” Rose said coldly, disappointment swamping her. The disappointment was all her own. Unlike the others of Pembridge-on-the-Wye who’d given up, she’d hoped the new earl would take an active interest in the estate, that maybe he’d have some magical solution to their problems. They needed an additional source of income that could last beyond the harvest.
Pembridge gave a curt nod. “Good day, Mrs. Janeway, I seem to have let you down. That was not my intention.” He moved past her, probably wanting to get away from her company as fast as he could. No wonder. By all social standards, she’d behaved abominably. She had no right to scold a peer. But Rose had never been one to bow to social mores when right was on the line, and it was on the line now.
“You haven’t let me down, Pembridge. You’ve merely lived up to the rumors. I am at fault for stupidly wishing for more. I imagine that’s the difference between expectations and hope.”
She regretted the harsh words the moment they slipped out of her mouth. If she hadn’t alienated him already, she’d surely done so now. She barely knew him and it was unfair to make him the whipping boy for her shattered hopes.
Pembridge paused in his departure and turned back to face her. Rose squared her shoulders. She could not take back the words. She deserved whatever he said next. There was an unmistakable look of challenge on his face and she braced herself.
Chapter Four
Rose watched perplexed as Pembridge shrugged out of his coat and slowly rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, an expensive one, made of fine lawn. Men around here didn’t have such shirts except perhaps a lucky few who saved them for church. Surely he didn’t mean to work in it? If not, what did he mean to do?
A horrible thought came to her. Did he mean to spank her? She hadn’t been spanked since she was four, and she’d deserved it for talking back to the minister. You deserve it now, a little voice prompted. You never did know when to keep your thoughts to yourself.
Pembridge stepped towards her and she instinctively backed away, although a wicked thrill replaced her initial reaction at the prospect of a spanking. Her cheeks flushed at the image of her own naked buttocks on display across his lap.
He laid his jacket over a low limb of the tree; her eyes followed his every move. His hand tested the strength of the branch. “Good solid wood.”
Rose sucked in her breath. Dear lord, what was happening to her with all these heated, sordid thoughts? She hoped he didn’t have any inkling of the lust he was stirring in her beyond that which he already guessed at.
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