desk sat Lord Longhurst, also in his shirtsleeves, his blonde hair tousled as if he had run his fingers through it more than once.
The servant left and closed the door behind him. His footsteps echoed on the floor outside and she could hear him whistling as he walked away. How very peculiar.
After a second’s pause, Lord Longhurst shot to his feet, reaching for a jacket slung over the back of his chair. He shrugged into it. ‘Lady Petra Davenport? Lady Petra?’
He quickly buttoned the coat. There was nothing he could do about the shirt open at the throat. She tried to keep her gaze focused on his face and not drift down to the strong column of his neck or the intriguing sight of crisply curled golden hair peeking seductively above the stark white linen.
‘How may I be of service?’ he asked.
Service? An image of a broad naked chest flickered across her mind. Good Lord, had her mind really jumped to those ways in which a man could service a woman? Was that why she missed Harry, not for himself, but for the delights of the marriage bed? Could she really be so wanton? Besides, she wasn’t very good at bed sport, as Harry had called it, or he wouldn’t have gone seeking his pleasures elsewhere. Boring, was what he’d called her. Too innocent, whatever that meant.
Sadness filled her. She should never have confronted him. Should never have expected fidelity from him. She knew better now.
She lifted her chin. ‘I brought you some jam.’
He blinked as if her words made no sense. He looked gorgeous, almost vulnerable standing there with a puzzled look on his face and his long, strong fingers covered in ink. Then he smiled and a dimple appeared in a jaw already showing signs of fair stubble. Her heart clenched.
And no wonder. He had looked magnificent up on his horse the first time they met, and like a handsome soldier at church on Sunday, but here, now, he looked like every woman’s dream of a man in need of a woman’s care.
She could even imagine running her fingers through those wavy locks to bring them to some semblance of order. How would they feel? Silky or coarse? And would he let her help him tie the cravat he had discarded on the corner of the desk? Or better yet, let her help him remove his shirt to reveal the full glory of that wide expanse of chest so tantalisingly covered with billowing linen?
Mind blank, she inhaled a deep breath.
His gaze dropped to her bosom. The room warmed. The air crackled with something that made her skin tingle. For a second, her head seemed too light for her shoulders, as if she might float away.
Would he also find her boring? The thought brought her back to earth with a bump.
Longhurst’s forehead furrowed as if he had finally figured out her words, but not their meaning. ‘Jam?’
‘From the blackberries I picked.’ Goodness, her voice sounded so small and weak she scarcely recognised it. She straightened her shoulders. ‘We made jam out of the fruit.’
She walked deeper into the room, aware of his gaze tracking her every movement as she skirted a couple of armchairs.
‘My word, you have a lot of furniture,’ she said in awed tones.
He grimaced. ‘You would not believe the half of it. I’ve moved out most of what was in here. At least now you can actually see some of the floor. The house is stuffed full of furniture and knick-knacks. It seems my predecessor liked to collect things.’
No wonder the entrance hall had been so cluttered. She reached into her basket and, like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat, drew out three jam pots one by one and placed them on the desk. ‘Blackberry and apple. The apples picked from our tree,’ she said pointedly.
He stared at the pots as if he had never seen jam before. He swallowed. ‘I see.’
Her heart beat a little faster. Too fast.
‘As an apology for purloining your blackberries,’ she added, completely unnecessarily, but it filled the silence.
His gaze rose to her face. ‘There is no need...’ He gestured at the jam.
Why could the man not just say thank you and leave it at that? ‘If you do not eat jam, then please feel free to give it to your servant.’
His blue eyes widened and then he smiled. Her stomach did a somersault. ‘I do beg your pardon, Lady Petra. Thank you for the gift.’
That smile would be the death of her when she ought to know better than to be taken in. She dipped a curtsy. ‘Then I will bid you good day.’
‘No. Wait. I mean—Would you like—’
They gazed at one another in silence for a long second or two. She seemed to have trouble drawing in a breath. ‘Would I like...?’
‘May I offer you a cup of tea before you leave?’ Longhurst finally said. ‘I am sure O’Cleary is taking good care of your horses and groom for the nonce.’
‘Oh, there are no horses or groom. I walked.’
Astonishment filled his expression. ‘You walked from Westram. It must be more than two miles distant.’
‘About that, I should think.’
He frowned.
Did he not approve of a lady going for a walk? ‘I grew up in the country, my lord. I am quite used to using my legs to get about.’
His gaze shot down her length and back up to her face and she recalled how much he had seen of her legs the last time they met. Heat scalded her cheeks and his eyes filled with awareness. Bother, they were never going to get past their first meeting. Mortified, she prepared to turn away.
‘But you will take some refreshment before you set out for home.’
It wasn’t expressed as a request, but rather as an order and she felt her hackles rise, but then again, she was thirsty after her long walk. And she had promised Marguerite to charm him out of the boughs. ‘A cup of tea would be most welcome, my lord. Thank you.’
Strangely, he looked relieved. ‘Excellent.’ He strode for the door and turned when he reached it. He gestured to a chair beside the desk. ‘Please, Lady Petra, be seated. I shall not be more than a moment or two.’
And then he was gone.
More orders. The pile of papers on the desk looked highly intimidating and important. She took a turn about the room. It was indeed full of strange items, from ill-thrown pots to finely blown glass ornaments.
Having established that she was not going to instantly obey any man’s order, she dusted off an armchair near the window with her handkerchief and perched on the edge of it.
Perhaps he was so dictatorial because he was a soldier used to commanding men on the battlefield. She sighed. She did not like to think about war and battlefields. She hated the whole thing. Poor Harry. Had she really driven him to take the King’s shilling? She still couldn’t believe she would never hear his laughter again and never be irritated by his devil-may-care ways. While she hadn’t made the wisest choice in a husband, it didn’t mean she didn’t miss him. After all, she had
