Page 2 of Earl, Enemy, Husband?

Dash it all. She would not let him make her feel like a dowd. ‘I apologise for my temerity in crossing your field and using your lane.’ She could not keep the tartness from her voice. ‘I will return your handkerchief at the earliest opportunity.’

‘I believe your regret,’ he said. ‘But your apology I very much doubt. Do not worry about the handkerchief; I have many more.’

Of course he had. And all the finest linen. ‘Good day to you, my lord.’ She dipped the briefest of curtseys.

He looked ready to turn away, but hesitated. He glanced up at the sky. ‘May I offer a ride to your destination?’

Surprised, she stared at him. She had not expected such a gentlemanly offer, not from an arrogant Ingram to a woman he so obviously considered beneath him. And what…was she thinking to accept? Of course not, even if he was the most gorgeous man she had ever set eyes on. Besides, the likes of him were not for the likes of her, no matter how much she might regret it.

‘Thank you for your kind offer, but I prefer to walk.’ She turned and strode for the village. The back of her neck prickled with the odd sensation of being watched. But no; the jingle of the harness of the departing carriage set her mind at rest. Or it should have. He was an absolutely ghastly man. He could have, she should have… Perhaps the best she could hope for was that he would forget their encounter.

Dash it all. She was going to be late. She picked up her skirts and ran.

Graydon Ingram, fifth Earl of Blackdown, strode through his open front door. He gazed upwards through the scaffolding’s legs and planks to the plasterers working at the very peak of the domed and skylighted ceiling.

Almost done, by God.

‘My lord.’ James Foley, his architect, a young fair-haired gangly fellow not so very long out of his apprenticeship with one of London’s best-known firms, hurried to his side.

‘Foley,’ Graydon said. ‘I see you have made good progress since I was here last.’

Foley grinned. ‘We will be painting in here tomorrow, although we can’t paint the ceiling for a good four weeks. The plasterers will move on to the ballroom and the dining room and be done by week’s end.’

‘Four weeks!’ Graydon wanted to curse.

‘Four weeks to cure, minimum,’ Foley said firmly. ‘Unless you want the paint peeling off and landing on your head in a few months’ time.’

Graydon sighed. ‘Very well.’ These were the final touches to what had been a year-long project of renovations and refurbishment to the seventeenth-century manor house. His ancestor, the second earl, had built it on a grand scale. His grandfather, the third earl, had let it fall into disrepair and his father had finished the job. But Graydon was determined to bring it back to life. To return it to its former glory, along with renewed lustre to his family name.

He had promised himself he would. That would make Eloise realise what a mistake she had made by not waiting for him to make his fortune. Eloise, the most beautiful girl of the Season when he’d made his first bows. He had thought she favoured him, expected her to accept his offer of marriage, but she’d accepted another offer instead, from a rich, elderly man. Soon she would know she had made a mistake.

‘I am moving in today, nevertheless.’

The rest of his belongings and the servants would have to remain in Town for now. He also ought to warn his housekeeper to expect the wench he had drenched in mud to return his handkerchief, for she had said she would, and he had seen the determination in her expression. Hopefully she would have enough sense not to use his property as a shortcut any more.

Not a wench, though. His immediate impression of her being a servant, in her plain straw bonnet and grey cloak bespattered with mud, had been swiftly disabused by her haughty demeanour and lofty accent. If not a lady, then she was someone of standing in the local community.

There was a substantial property in the direction she had indicated. It marched alongside his border and the road. It was clearly marked on the map he had unearthed in the library. He tried to recall the name on that property. He had no trouble recalling her face. It was an interesting face, once wiped free of mud. Not pretty, exactly, but heart-shaped with full, rosy lips and flashing eyes that were neither dark or light, beneath a set of straight, dark eyebrows.

He’d been so struck by her forceful personality, for a moment he’d lost the ability for speech and had barely noticed her diminutive stature, her head barely rising to his shoulder.

And, when she had glared up at him, a decided chin had made her seem all the more fierce. So fierce, he’d been tempted to beg her pardon, when it was she who’d been in the wrong.

A local woman, of no interest, yet he could not seem stop seeing her face in his mind’s eye. Or feeling the curve of her waist beneath his hands.

‘The plaster in the west wing is still damp, my lord,’ Foley was saying, bringing Graydon back to his entrance hall. ‘Perhaps you won’t mind occupying a room in the east wing for the next month.’

‘My life is ruled by the state of your plaster, Foley.’

‘As is mine, my lord,’ the fellow said with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Plaster rules us all. But the kitchen is ready, and the dining room and library are at your disposal.’

‘Don’t try to take credit for those,’ Graydon said, forced to chuckle despite himself. ‘Those rooms were perfectly fine before you started, apart from needing a good cleaning.’ Well, the library needed more than cleaning, it was a disaster. His father must have had some sort of temper tantrum in there; everything was strewn everywhere. He’d taken one look and closed the door on it.

His housekeeper, Mrs Spragg, a middle-aged woman with a severe face and equally severe black dress, hovered at the side of the hall, clearly waiting to speak to him.

‘Press on then, Foley.’

He beckoned Mrs Spragg forward.