last thing she wanted or needed was more hurt in her life.
Besides, this outing was not about her seeing Lord Longhurst again, it was about providing food for their table.
She climbed the stile into the field. At this time of year, the birds were quieter, though there was still the odd cheep as they darted about, feasting on blackberries and grass seeds. The crisp morning air seemed to predict autumn just around the corner. The dew caught the sun’s rays and glinted as if there were diamonds scattered across the top of the grass. It would not remain long; a breeze was already ruffling the long stalks like wind upon water.
She found the mushroom ring she had spotted a few days before, and after carefully bruising one of the caps to ensure it turned pink and not yellow, she cut them off and gently placed them in her basket. The next mushroom she found was a giant puffball hiding in the stinging nettles at the foot of an elm tree. It was large enough to provide both her and Marguerite with an excellent breakfast. Careful to make sure the nettles did not touch her skin, she cut the stalk and soon it was also sitting in the bottom of her basket.
She continued up the rolling stretch of land, making her way to the brow of the low hill which ran through the centre of the field.
Because the grass was so long, most of her harvest grew against the hedge, where the vegetation thinned out. Mushroom picking was easier in woods or a pasture with short grass, but since she had promised Marguerite she would not go into the woods alone, she continued up the hill.
By the time she crested the rise, her basket was brimming with assorted mushrooms and it was time to turn back. She stretched her back and looked about. Two men with their shirts off were hacking at the grass at the far end of the field.
Apparently, Lord Longhurst had taken her advice.
She squinted against the sun’s brightness. Oh, goodness. If she was not mistaken, one of those men was His Lordship himself and the other shorter, leaner figure, Mr O’Cleary.
She frowned. With only two of them working, and at the rate they were progressing, it would take ages to mow this field. After that, they would have to pile it into hayricks to dry. It would take days to finish. Why on earth had he not hired any help?
Unable to contain her curiosity, she continued working her way along the hedgerow, picking one or two mushrooms and then glancing up to see if they had noticed her presence while pretending she had not noticed them. As she drew closer, she could see both men in all their glorious detail, though she really only had eyes for the taller blonde giant of a man.
Lord Longhurst’s chest was broad and well muscled, like a statue of a Roman god, and his arms as he swung the scythe were the most enticing sight she had ever seen. Oh, heavens, the way the muscles in his back rippled with his movement made her insides tighten in a most shocking way. She fought the strong desire to run her hands over that back and down his spine and... She could not remember ever seeing a flesh-and-blood man who could serve as a model for a Greek god. Such a gorgeous specimen of the male of the human species.
She fanned her face. What on earth was the matter with her? She could not recall ever having such wayward thoughts before. Not even when Harry was alive and still treating her as if he loved her. With Harry, she realised, she’d been all girlish giggles and eager to do anything to get his attention. With this man, her reactions were far subtler in some ways and earthier in others she simply did not understand.
Good Lord. What would Longhurst think if he knew the direction of her mind? He’d likely be as shocked as she was.
The next glance revealed His Lordship pulling his shirt over his head. A sense of disappointment gave her another shock. No, no, she wasn’t disappointed. She was pleased because he must have seen her. Yes, indeed he had because the moment he was decently covered he strode to meet her.
As he drew close she became aware of trickles of moisture working their way down from his hairline to his neck. Oh, and the way his shirt clung to his skin was positively delicious. No, no, she meant indecent.
She mentally shook her finger at this new wanton version of herself and composed her face into an expression of polite surprise. ‘Good day, Lord Longhurst. A perfect day for working in the fields, is it not?’
He smiled and her heart gave an odd little clench. Oh, she was a fool for those boyish open smiles. She always had been. But she’d also learned those smiles also hid a good deal of boyish vice. Definitely not to be trusted.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Although I have to admit, while the sun is a boon, I am grateful for the breeze.’
As was she, as a gentle waft of air carried his scent towards her, earthy sweat mingled with the fresh scent of soap. She inhaled deeply and caught him looking at her with an odd expression.
Surprised by her inability to control such reactions in herself, she swallowed and was startled to discover her mouth was quite dry. ‘I have been mushroom picking,’ she said, holding out her basket and sounding more frog-like than she would have preferred. She swallowed again. ‘Half of these are yours.’
He looked startled and peered down at the fungus. ‘Are you sure they are edible? I have heard there are many poisonous kinds.’
Did he think her an idiot? ‘I have been picking mushrooms for almost as long as I could walk. You may trust I know what I am doing.’
She and Marguerite had gone on foraging expeditions with their cook, who had taken pity on their motherless state. She’d been a dear old stick and taught them lots about the bounty to be found in the country. She’d also taught them the rudiments of cooking, never expecting it would come in useful later in their lives.
Petra liked being outdoors. Even in those days Marguerite had preferred standing at her easel creating art to tramping around the countryside in all kinds of weather. Now Petra wished she had spent more time in the kitchen, but fortunately their maid, Becky, wasn’t a bad cook and between them all they managed to put decent if simple food on the table.
His Lordship made a wry face. ‘I appreciate the offer, but I am not sure O’Cleary knows how to cook much besides boiled beef, turnips and potatoes. He’d likely ruin them.’
The way he’d burned the biscuits. A man in Lord Longhurst’s position should be able to hire a proper cook, should he not?
‘I apologise if I seem ungrateful,’ he added, likely to fill the uncomfortable silence.
She pulled her thoughts together and shook her head. ‘Not at all. I was thinking what a shame it is that you do not have a cook, that was all. You might find one at a hiring fair, there are several local ones over the next few weeks.’
‘Yes,’ he said vaguely. ‘Perhaps after we are done here, I will look into it.’ He glanced over at where O’Cleary was quenching his thirst using a long-handled dipper in a bucket they must have filled from a stream. He dipped it again and poured the water over his head.
‘It is hot, thirsty work,’ she said.
‘And we have barely made a dint in it.’
‘What about hiring some men from the village to help you?’
He shook his head. ‘The other landlords are keeping them busy. We will do as much as we can and that will have to do.’
The determination in his voice gave her pause. It seemed he did care something about his
