Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (Transformation of the Shelley Sisters 1)

‘Yes.’ He moved to prop the rifle up by the window and came back to her side, apparently accepting her reluctance to confide. ‘What seemed to a boy to be simple countryside filled with streams and cliffs and coves and trees to climb now consists of nothing but problems and decisions. Do we put this field down to hay? Should that barn be replaced? Are the cattle thriving? What do I do about the fact that my father left the tenants’ cottages to rot?’

‘Why, repair them, of course. Or build new ones.’

‘There—more decisions to make.’ And then he smiled at her properly for the first time.

Meg felt her leg

s go weak with the realisation that this was the man inside, the real man, who was smiling at her. Not the one who was hurt, brooding, angry. She had desired that man, cared about him, worried for him. But this one…this one was different, this was the youth in the portrait grown to manhood. This man she felt something else for, something she had no word for, but which dizzied her mind.

All that power and strength and intelligence—and now charm. It was so unfair when all her hard-earned caution and common sense seemed to be at war with the old, romantic Meg who was stirring within her, telling her the world was well lost for…For what? Something must have shown in her eyes, for his own darkened, became questioning. Ross lifted one hand almost to her cheek, but he did not touch; he had given his word, after all, Meg thought, shaken, as she looked into the depths of that gaze.

‘How is your leg?’ She turned abruptly and the mood, and his smile, shattered. ‘Are you riding too much? What does your doctor say?’

Doctor Greenaway had called the day before. He was invited into the study for half an hour and had then left. Ross had not chosen to confide the doctor’s opinion to her.

‘That it is healing well and that I must have had a good surgeon. He rebandaged it, before you ask,’ he added, forestalling her question. ‘And I refused to be bled. I left far too much blood in France to want to shed any more just yet.’

‘And the riding? I will wager you did not ask him about that.’

‘Then you would lose. In moderation, leaving it to my own good sense.’ His mouth quirked. ‘Was that a snort, Meg?’

‘Ladies,’ she said repressively, ‘do not snort.’

‘Oh, Meg,’ He was very close now. So close. All she had to do was put out her hand. She wanted to touch him, to believe that she meant something more than a commercial exchange of sexual favours to him, that her foolish heart was not utterly misguided. ‘I promised, Meg, but I haven’t changed,’ he murmured. ‘I still—’

‘Harrumph.’ Heneage clearing his throat was magisterial. Meg just managed not to move away guiltily as the butler came into the room. She had not heard him knock, but then, upper servants in great houses did not knock, she had read once. Something else to look up in her reference book. ‘Lady Pennare, Miss Pennare and Miss Elizabeth Pennare have called. Not knowing whether you are at home to visitors, my lord, I took the liberty of seating them in the Chinese Salon.’

‘Tell them I’m out.’

‘My lord, your neighbours will all call soon, and keep calling until they find you at home. Would it not be better to deal with them sooner rather than later?’ Meg withstood the full force of angry dark eyes. One of them had to be practical and sensible; she was so tired of it being her. ‘I will go and offer them refreshments while you change.’

‘Why the devil should I change?’ he demanded. ‘They invited themselves, they can take me as they find me.’

‘They have called at a perfectly reasonable hour for social calls. And you smell of horse,’ Meg said frankly. She was aware that the butler had become glassy-eyed. Presumably no one ever spoke to his late lordship like that. Not and remained employed for very long.

‘Mrs Halgate, you are depressingly commonsensical.’

‘I strive to be, my lord. I hope I know what is right,’ she added, holding his gaze and saw he knew she had answered his unfinished sentence.

Chapter Ten

‘Good afternoon, my lady. Miss Pennare, Miss Elizabeth. I am Mrs Halgate, the housekeeper. Lord Brandon will be down directly. May I bring you refreshments? Tea, perhaps?’

Meg stood respectfully just inside the door and withstood the concerted scrutiny of three pairs of very blue eyes. The Pennare womenfolk were individually attractive; all together they were a vision of blonde curls, periwinkle eyes and exquisite dressmaking. She tried not to feel plain, brown and freckled and could only be thankful for the good quality of her gown and the starched perfection of her cap.

‘Tea, thank you, Mrs Halgate.’ Lady Pennare nodded graciously. ‘Where is Mrs Fogarty?’

‘She has retired, Lady Pennare. And moved to Truro, I understand.’

‘I see.’

Meg hoped profoundly that she did not. ‘I will bring your tea, ladies.’

As she crossed the hall Ross came down the stairs looking respectable in a corbeau-blue tail coat and cream pantaloons with Hessian boots. When he reached the bottom step she saw the fit was hardly tailor-made.

‘Well?’ he enquired, one brow lifting in sardonic acknowledgement of her scrutiny.

‘That coat does not fit very well.’ The pantaloons fitted rather too well.