He pulled off the poultice and glared at her. ‘Who are you?’

She blanched. ‘You don’t remember me?’ The question held sardonic disbelief. ‘My name is Emily.’ She leaned in, her gaze penetrating. Almost as if she were waiting for him to say something.

Hazy bits of the past shifted together. Emily Barrow. My God. He hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I live here.’ With an over-bright smile, she added, ‘Don’t you remember your wife?’

Her revelation stunned him into silence. His wife? What was she talking about? He wasn’t married.

‘You must be joking.’ Stephen wasn’t an impulsive man. He planned every moment of every day. Getting married to a woman he hadn’t seen in years wasn’t at all something he would do.

She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing his gaze towards her silhouette. The soft curve of her breasts caught his eye. The top button of her gown had come loose, revealing a forbidden glimpse of skin. The fallen strand of golden hair rested against the black serge, a coil of temptation, beckoning him to touch it.

She’d never been able to tame her hair, even as a girl. He’d helped her with hairpins on more than one occasion, to help her avoid a scolding.

Now the task took on an intimacy, one more suited to a husband. Had he truly married her? Had he unbuttoned her gowns, tasting the silk of her skin…?

Michelle Willingham grew up living in places all over the world, including Germany, England and Thailand. When her parents hauled her to antiques shows in manor houses and castles, Michelle entertained herself by making up stories and pondering whether she could afford a broadsword with her allowance. She graduated summa cum laude from the University of Notre Dame, with a degree in English, and received her master’s degree in Education from George Mason University. Currently she teaches American History and English. She lives in south-eastern Virginia with her husband and children. She still doesn’t have her broadsword.

Visit her website at: www.michellewillingham.com, or e-mail her at michelle@michellewillingham.com

Previous novels by this author:

HER IRISH WARRIOR*

THE WARRIOR’S TOUCH*

HER WARRIOR KING*

HER WARRIOR SLAVE †

THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS

Also available in eBook format in Mills & Boon®Historical Undone:

THE VIKING’S FORBIDDEN LOVE-SLAVE

Look out for Michelle’s next Victorian novel, linked to THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS THE ACCIDENTAL PRINCESS Available from Mills & Boon® Historical Romance in 2010

* The MacEgan Brothers

† Prequel to The MacEgan Brothers trilogy

The Accidental Countess
Michelle Willingham

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication:

To my mother Pat, for your unfailing support, for your belief in me, and for watching the kids when I desperately needed your help. You’ve been behind me 100% from the very beginning, and I’ll always be grateful.

Acknowledgements:

With thanks to Dr Deena Obrokta, Dr Dawn Reese, and Dr T for your invaluable consultation on amnesia and post-traumatic stress syndrome. Endless thanks to my fabulous editor Joanne Grant for your amazing eye for detail and your hard work. I couldn’t do it without you!

Author Note

I have always loved antique cookbooks, and my grandmother owned over a hundred of them. I used to pore over old recipes and imagine the women who had baked pies, cookies, cakes and special meals for their families. From these recipes the character of Emily Barrow was born.

When she falls upon hard times Emily must cook for her own family, and she finds her escape in creating wonderful dishes. After she elopes with the Earl of Whitmore, Emily refuses to turn her back on her culinary pastime, no matter how inappropriate it might be for a countess.

I hope you enjoy Emily’s tale, and try out her recipe for Ginger Biscuits—I made them for my own children this past Christmas. You can find more historical recipes and behind-the-scenes information on my website: www.michellewillingham.com. I love to hear from readers, and you may e-mail me at michelle@michellewillingham.com, or write to me at: PO Box 2242 Poquoson, VA 23662, USA.

Warm wishes.

Chapter One

When selecting poultry for cooking, choose a chicken with soft yellow feet, short thick legs, and a plump breast. First, kill the chicken by wringing its neck…

—Emily Barrow’s Cook Book

Falkirk House, England—1850

Cool hands sponged his forehead. Stephen Chesterfield fought against the darkness that threatened to pull him into oblivion once more. Pain lashed his skull, ripping through him in violent waves. His mouth felt lined with cotton wool, and his body ached with vicious pain.

‘Drink,’ a woman said, lifting a cup of warm tea to his mouth. It tasted bitter, but he swallowed. ‘You’re very lucky, you know.’

Lucky? He felt as though someone had cracked his skull in two. He hadn’t even the strength to open his eyes to see who was tending him.

‘How am I lucky?’ he managed to whisper. Lucky to be alive, she’d probably say.

‘You’re lucky I haven’t got any arsenic for this tea,’ she remarked. ‘Or another poison, for that matter. Otherwise, you’d be dead by now.’ A warm poultice dropped across his forehead, scented with herbs.

‘I beg your pardon?’ His knuckles clenched around the bedcovers, and he forced his eyes open. The room blurred, and he tried to grasp his surroundings. Where was he? And who was this woman?

The creature intending to murder him had the face of an angel. Her hair, the color of warm honey, was pulled back into a loose chignon. Long strands framed a face with tired amber eyes. Despite the hideous serge mourning gown, she was rather pretty, though her cheeks were thin.

She was familiar, but her name hovered on the out-skirts of memory. Like a childhood acquaintance, or someone he’d known long ago.

‘You broke your promise. If it weren’t for you, my brother would still be alive.’ Anguish lined her voice, eroding the waspish anger. Her eyes glistened, but she kept her chin up.

She blamed him for her brother’s death? There had to be a mistake. He didn’t even know who she was, much less her brother.

He pulled off the poultice, and glared at her. ‘Who are you?’

She blanched. ‘You don’t remember me?’ The question held sardonic disbelief. ‘And here I thought this day could not get any worse.’ With a clatter, she set the saucer down.

He had little patience for her frustration. Damn it all, he was the one who’d been wounded. And each time he tried to reach back and seize the memories, it was as if they faded into smoke. What had happened to him?

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he responded. ‘What is your name?’

‘My name is Emily.’ She leaned in, her gaze penetrating. Almost as if she were waiting for him to say something.

Hazy bits of the past shifted together. Emily Barrow. The Baron of Hollingford’s daughter. My God. He hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years. He stared hard at her, unable to believe it was true. Though her rigid posture proclaimed her as a modest woman of virtue, he remembered her throwing rocks at his carriage. And climbing trees to spy on him.

And kissing him when he’d been an awkward, adolescent boy.

He shook the thought away,thankful that at least some of his memories remained. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I live here.’ With an overbright smile, she added, ‘Don’t you remember your wife?’

Her revelation stunned him into silence. His wife? What was she talking about? He wasn’t married.

‘You must be joking.’ He wasn’t an impulsive man. He planned every moment of every day. Getting married to a woman he hadn’t seen in years wasn’t at all something he would do. Unless he’d gotten extremely deep in his cups one night, she had to be lying. And by God, if Emily Barrow thought to take advantage of him, she would be sorry for it.

‘I would never joke about something like this.’ She held out the cup of tea, but he dismissed it. He had no intention of drinking anything she gave him. His vision swam, and a rushing sound filled his ears.

Closing his eyes, he waited for the dizziness to pass. When the world righted itself, he studied the room. Heavy blue curtains hung across the canopied bed, while bookcases overflowing with books filled another wall. The pieces of remembrance snapped together as he recognised his bedchamber within Falkirk House, one of the country estates. For the life of him he didn’t know how he’d arrived here.

‘How long have I been at Falkirk?’

‘Two days.’

‘And before that?’

She shrugged. ‘You left for London a week after our wedding. I haven’t seen you since February. Why don’t you tell me where you’ve been?’

He tried to reach for the memory, but nothing remained, not even the smallest fragment of a vision. Like a gaping hole, he’d lost a part of himself. It frustrated the hell out of him, having pieces of his life gone. He could remember most of his childhood and adolescence. He even recalled working upon a list of accounts for one of the estates in January. But after that…nothing.

‘What day is it?’ he asked, trying to pinpoint the last memory he had.

‘The twentieth of May.’

He clenched the bedcovers. February, March, April, almost all of May…three and a half months of his life were entirely gone. He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to remember. But the harder he struggled, the worse his head ached.

‘Where were you?’ she asked. There was worry inside her tone, though he found it hard to believe she cared. Not after she’d threatened to poison him.

‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘But I certainly don’t remember getting married.’

‘You might not remember it, but it’s true.’

Something was wrong, something she wasn’t telling him. There was a desperate air about her, as though she had nowhere else to go. Likely he’d caught her in the lie.

‘You are welcome to leave,’ he suggested. ‘Obviously my return offended you.’

Tears glimmered in her eyes, and softly, she replied, ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through. I thought I’d never see you again.’

She dipped the cool cloth back into the basin, wringing out the water. Then she set it upon his forehead, her hand grazing his cheek. The gesture was completely at odds with her sharp words.

‘You’re not my wife.’

She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing his gaze towards her silhouette. A bit on the thin side, but the soft curve of her breasts caught his eye. The top button of her gown had come loose, revealing a forbidden glimpse of skin.

‘Yes, I am.’ She lowered her arms, gathering her courage as she stared at him. But her full lips parted, her shoulders rising and falling with a quickening breath. The fallen strand of golden hair rested against the black serge.

She’d never been able to tame her hair, even as a girl. He’d helped her with hairpins on more than one occasion, to help her avoid a scolding.

Now the task took on an intimacy, one more suited to a husband. Had he truly married her? Had he unbuttoned her gowns, tasting the silk of her skin? From the way she drew back, he didn’t think so.

‘I want to see a doctor,’ he said, changing the subject.

‘Doctor Parsons examined you last night. I’m to change your bandages and keep the wound clean. He’ll return tomorrow.’ She lifted the lip of the tea cup to his mouth again, but he didn’t drink.

The china clattered, revealing her shaking hands. Despite her bitterness, there was a look on her face that didn’t quite match her words. He caught a glimpse of something more…something lost and lonely.

He forced himself not to pity her. For God’s sakes, the woman had threatened to kill him.

At last, she gave up and set the cup down. ‘I didn’t poison this cup,’ she said with reluctance. ‘There wasn’t any arsenic to be had.’

‘Laudanum would work,’ he advised. ‘In large doses.’ Though why he was offering suggestions, he didn’t know.

‘I’ll remember that for next time.’ Colour stained her cheeks, but she didn’t smile.

‘Why did I marry you?’ he asked softly.

She picked up the tray containing the teapot and cup. ‘You should rest for a while. I’ll be happy to answer your questions. Later, that is.’

‘I want to know now. Sit down.’

She ignored him and moved towards the door. He might as well have been ordering a brick wall to sit. If the unthinkable had happened, if he really and truly had gone off and married her, one thing was certain. He had lost more than his memory.

He’d lost his mind.

Emily fled to a nearby bedchamber and set the tea tray down with shaking fingers. The Earl of Whitmore was back. And he didn’t remember a single moment of their marriage.

Damn him. Hot, choking tears slid down her cheeks, despite her best efforts to keep herself together. It was like having him back from the dead. He’d been away for so long, she’d almost started to believe that he was dead, even though there was no body.

She’d tried so hard to forget about him. Every single day of the past few months, she’d reminded herself that she’d meant nothing to her husband.

Her hand clenched, and she wept into her palm. Only a week after their wedding, he’d returned to London. He’d gone into the arms of his mistress. While she, the naive little wife, tucked away at the country estate where she wasn’t supposed to learn about her husband’s indiscretions. It made her sick, just thinking about it.

Marriages were like that, she’d heard. But she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Such a fool she had been. She’d been swept away by his charm. Her fairy tale had come true, with the handsome Earl offering to marry the impoverished maiden.

But it had been a dream, hadn’t it? He’d used her, wedding her for reasons she didn’t understand, and had all but disappeared from her life.

Now that he’d returned, her humiliation tripled. She knuckled the tears away, a chastising laugh gathering in her throat. He wasn’t worth the tears. The sooner he left Falkirk, the better.

Emily forced herself to rise from the chair, suppressing the desire to smash every piece of china on the tea tray. Self-pity wouldn’t get her anywhere. She was married to a stranger, to a man who hadn’t kept his promises.

And if he annulled the marriage, she had nowhere to go.

The sound of a shouting child broke through her reverie. Emily gathered her skirts and rushed towards the bedchamber she’d converted into a temporary nursery. Inside, her nephew Royce sprawled upon the floor, playing with tin soldiers.

‘Attack!’ he yelled, dashing a row of soldiers to the floor. The tin soldiers and a book of fairy tales were the only things he had brought with him after Daniel had died. She smiled at Royce’s boyish enthusiasm.

When he let out another battle cry, the shrill fussing of an infant interrupted. Royce’s face turned worried. ‘I didn’t mean to wake her up.’

‘It’s all right.’ Emily lifted the baby to her cheek. Her niece Victoria was barely nine months old. A soft fuzz of auburn hair covered the baby’s head. Two emerging teeth poked up from Victoria’s lower gums. The baby reached out to grab Emily’s hair.

As she extricated Victoria’s fist, Emily strengthened her resolve. Though her marriage was in shambles, she had her family. She would keep her brother’s children safe, for she had sworn it upon Daniel’s grave. Now she had to gather up the shreds of her marriage and decide what to do next.

‘Aunt Emily?’ Royce stopped playing and drew his knees up to his chest. ‘Has Papa come for us yet?’

‘No, sweeting. Not yet.’ Like the worst sort of coward, she hadn’t yet told Royce that his father was never coming back. How could she destroy her nephew’s safe world of hope? Royce would learn the truth soon enough.

She pulled Royce into an embrace with her free arm, holding both children fiercely. ‘I love you both. You know that.’

Royce squirmed. ‘I know. Can I play?’

Emily released him. The seven-year-old waged imaginary wars against the helpless tin soldiers, shouting in triumph when one soldier defeated an enemy.

She sat down in a rocking chair, holding the baby. Victoria wailed, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. Emily patted the baby’s back, wishing she could join the child in a fit of howling. She almost didn’t see the shadow of the Earl hovering at the doorway.

‘What are you doing here?’ She stood, clutching the baby as though Victoria were a shield. ‘You’re bleeding. You shouldn’t be out of bed.’

His frigid gaze stared back at her. ‘This is my house, I believe.’ Tight lines edged his mouth, revealing unspoken pain. His dark brown hair was rumpled beneath the bandage wrapped across his temple. He leaned against the door frame, thinner than she’d last seen him, but he did not betray even a fraction of weakness. A rough stubble upon his cheeks gave him a feral appearance, not at all the polished Earl she’d expected him to be.

And suddenly, she wondered if she knew him at all. Not a trace remained of the boy she’d idolised as a girl. Gone was his lazy smile and the way he had once teased her. His eyes were a cold-hearted grey, unfeeling and callous. Even in his wounded state he threatened her.

Emily took a step back, almost knocking over the rocking chair. ‘Your head took quite a blow. You’re not ready to be up and about.’

‘That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it? If I were to stumble and bleed to death.’

She kept her composure at his harsh words. ‘Quite. But your blood would stain the carpet. There’s no reason to trouble the servants.’

‘I pay the servants.’

‘And your fortune would continue to do so after you are dead.’

Why, oh, why did spiteful words keep slipping from her mouth? She wasn’t usually such a harpy, but arguing made it easier to conceal her fear. He could make them leave.

‘I am glad to see I married such a docile model of womanhood.’ His sarcasm sharpened her already bad temper. Then his gaze narrowed on the children. ‘Who are they?’

Emily’s defences rose up. ‘Our children.’

‘I believe I would have remembered, had I fathered any children.’

‘They belong to my brother. You are their guardian.’

‘Their guardian?’

Emily cast him a sharp look, praying she could stop him from saying more in front of the children. It would break Royce’s heart to learn of his father’s death. ‘We will speak of Daniel later.’

‘Where is their nursemaid?’

‘I don’t want a nurse,’ Royce interrupted. ‘I want Aunt Emily.’

‘Royce, now, you see—’ Emily tried to placate him, but he refused.

‘I don’t want one!’ he shrieked, throwing a tin soldier on the floor.

Emily knew what was about to happen. ‘Here.’ She stood and thrust her niece into the Earl’s arms. He took the baby, holding Victoria at arm’s length as though she had a dreaded disease.

She knelt down beside Royce, trying to reason with him. ‘Shh, now. There, there. We won’t be getting a nurse. You needn’t worry.’

‘Papa will come soon,’ Royce said, his face determined. ‘He will take us away from here.’ With a defiant scowl towards Lord Whitmore, the boy let her comfort him.

The guilty burden grew heavier. She couldn’t keep Daniel’s death from Royce much longer.

‘Emily—’ There was a note of alarm in Whitmore’s voice. Immediately, she released Royce and went to the Earl. She took the baby just as Whitmore’s knees buckled and he collapsed against the door frame. He bit back a moan of pain, and blood darkened the bandage around his scalp.

Quickly, she placed the baby back in the cradle, ignoring Victoria’s wails of protest.

‘Help!’ she called out, hoping a servant would hear her. ‘Someone come quickly!’

She knelt beside the Earl, supporting his weight with her arms. The flicker of a smile played at his mouth.

‘So you decided not to let me die after all,’ he whispered.

His eyes closed, and she muttered, ‘The day isn’t over yet.’

Stephen was not certain how much worse his life could get. He had a so-called wife who despised him, two unexpected children, and no memory of the past three months. This last aspect was the worst, and so he had summoned the butler Farnsworth to find the answers he needed.

He struggled to sit up in bed, though the effort made him dizzy. Farnsworth arrived at last, clearing his throat to announce his presence. The butler had a fringe of greying hair around a bald spot and his cheeks were ruddy and clean shaven.

‘Tell me what happened the night I returned,’ Stephen prompted.

‘My lord, I fear there is little to tell. It happened two nights ago.’

‘Who brought me here?’

‘It was a hired coach. He didn’t know who you were. His instructions were only to deliver you to the door.’

‘Did he say who had arranged for my travel?’

‘You did, my lord. The coachman was an irritable sort, being as it was the middle of the night, and he insisted on being paid his fee immediately.’

Obviously this chain of questions was going nowhere. ‘What belongings did I have with me?’

‘Nothing. Only the clothes on your back, such as they were.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They were in tatters, my lord. Simply ghastly. They smelled of rotting fish, and I had them burned.’

Had he been taken aboard a ship? He might have learned more if the butler hadn’t incinerated his belongings.

Stephen controlled his temper and asked softly, ‘Did you check the pockets before you destroyed the garments?’

‘No, my lord. I didn’t think of that.’

Stephen ground his teeth and said, ‘Thank you, Farnsworth. That will be all.’

The butler cleared his throat and hesitated. ‘My lord, about Lady Whitmore?’

‘What is it?’

‘Well, sir, the staff and I were wondering…’ Farnsworth coughed, delaying his statement once more. Apparently there was some other detail the butler intended to share. Either that, or he was in dire need of some medicinal tea to treat the irritating cough.

Stephen clenched his fists in the coverlet. Get on with it.

‘Yes?’

‘To put it bluntly, my lord, your wife has been making several…changes.’

‘What kind of changes?’

The agitated Farnsworth fidgeted with his hands. ‘I have been a loyal servant to your household for over thirty years, my lord. I would never speak ill of the Chesterfields. But I fear she may have gone too far.’

Stephen wondered if Emily had moved a vase in the front hall six inches to the left. Or perhaps she’d poisoned the cat in a fit of vengeance.

Farnsworth’s paranoia seemed ridiculous under the circumstances. He couldn’t recall the past three months of his life, and the butler worried that his wife had gone too far?

‘What. Has. She. Done?’ he gritted out.

‘She’s sacked Cook. And—’ he lowered his voice to a whisper ‘—she says she won’t hire another. She’s planning to do all the cooking herself.’

Bloody hell. The woman really did mean to poison him.

Chapter Two

In the kitchen, a woman must keep the premises orderly and clean at all times. Husbands should also be thus managed.

—Emily Barrow’s Cook Book

Later that night, his intense headache deepened into a dull throbbing. Sleep would not come. Eyes dry and nerves raw, Stephen pushed back the coverlet. His bare feet padded across the Aubusson rug before his knee slammed into a mahogany blanket chest at the foot of the bed. Cursing, he fumbled his way towards the fireplace.

A large mirror hung above a dressing table. He could barely make out his own features in the shadows. Lighting a candle, he studied the man staring back at him. At one time, he had a well-ordered, predictable life. Now, a haggard expression gazed back at him. An angry red scar creased a jagged line across his bare chest, a knife wound he didn’t remember. The blow to his head was a recent wound, possibly from thieves or worse. Yet someone had saved his life and sent him here.

He didn’t know himself any more.

The uncertainty unnerved him. Every time he searched his memory for a fragment of the past events, his mind shut down. He didn’t remember his supposed marriage, or anything leading up to it. It was as though an invisible wall barricaded him from the truth.

He was about to retreat when his gaze narrowed on a black symbol edging the back of his neck. Turning, he tried to distinguish what it was. Though he could not see the entire design, he recognised it as a tattoo.

Why? When had he got it? Never in his life would he have considered such a thing. Now, the indelible ink marked yet another facet of the mysterious past.

He tried in vain to see more of the emblem, but from the awkward angle, he could not see the full pattern. Stephen stepped away from the mirror. He would find the answers he needed, regardless of the effort.

Emily held some of those answers. She was wary of him, and well she should be. Likely she had lied to him to protect the children, using him for a place to stay.

He simply couldn’t believe that he’d married her, even though they had been friends as children. More than that, if he were honest with himself. Like Eve, she had tantalised him with the sweetness of a first love. Then his father had found out and had forbidden him to see her again.

How had their paths crossed after so many years? And why couldn’t he remember?

A fretful noise caught his attention. Stephen paused a moment, then opened the door to the corridor. The whimpering grew softer, then stopped. Was it an animal? He frowned, wondering what else had been brought into his house without permission.

As he passed down the hallway, he heard the sound coming from a bedchamber. He opened the door and inside saw a bundled shape beneath the covers. It was too small to be Emily, and as his vision adjusted to the dark, he recognised the boy he had met earlier. What was his name? Ralph? Roger? The child’s face was buried in the pillow, his small shoulders shaking.

Stephen’s throat constricted, but he did not move to comfort the child. It was as though his feet were locked in place. He was not the child’s father, nor his guardian, regardless of what Emily might claim. It was not his place to interfere. And it was better for the boy not to expect comfort or coddling from others.

His own father had taught him just such a lesson until he had learned how to suppress tears. The future heir could not cry or show any emotion. His father had beaten it out of him until Stephen had become a model of composure.

When the boy’s sobbing eased into the heavy breathing of sleep, Stephen took a step forward. He lifted the coverlet over the child, then left as silently as he had come.

The sun had not yet risen, but the sound of rain spattering against the stone house brought Emily a sense of comfort. The scullery maid Lizbeth lit the fire, and a flickering warmth permeated the room while Emily mixed the bread dough.

She knew the servants viewed her with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort. A baron’s daughter should never venture into the kitchen to work. But it was a deep need within her, to be useful. Giving orders to the household staff made her uneasy, for she had practically been a servant herself until recently.

She had done her best to keep the family together after Papa had died. Her brother Daniel’s business failings were a constant source of anxiety, but Emily had learned to suppress her criticism. None of their relatives would help them, not after—

She closed her mind, not wanting to think of the devastating scandal. She had done what she had to, bartering at the marketplace after Daniel had gambled away their finances.

He’d been grieving for his wife, a man out of his head. She’d forgiven him for it, even if it meant sacrificing her own marriage prospects.

But now she was married.

Emily kneaded the bread dough, letting its rhythm sweep away her fears and troubles. The familiar yeasty smell eased her tension, and she let the mindless task grant her time to think.

Whitmore was going to get rid of her. She was torn apart, so angry with him for his infidelity and for abandoning Daniel. And yet, she needed his protection for the children. She rested her forehead upon a floured hand. Somehow, she had to make the best of this.

Silently, the scullery maid began frying sausages for the morning meal. With a plain face and a figure the size of a barrel, Lizbeth always had a cheerful smile. Emily had liked the maid from the moment she’d met her.

‘You’ve horrified him, you know,’ Lizbeth remarked as she flipped the sausage links. ‘Mr High-and-Mighty.’

‘The Earl?’

‘No, my lady.’ Lizbeth blushed. ‘I mean Farnsworth, the butler. He’s told the master that you sent Henri packing.’

‘Good.’ Emily didn’t care if Stephen knew about her dismissing the cook. The ill-tempered man had been robbing the household blind over the past few months, claiming ridiculous costs for food. They were well rid of him.

‘And you needn’t worry about the cooking, my lady,’ Lizbeth added. ‘Mrs Deepford and myself will take care of it until the new cook arrives.’

‘Thank you, Lizbeth.’ Emily relaxed slightly. Her hasty offer to cook for the household was impossible, she knew, though she had enjoyed seeing Farnsworth’s look of horror. ‘I am sorry to have caused you both more work.’

‘Oh, no, it’s grateful we are. Henri should have been sacked long ago.’

A small part of Emily worried that she had overstepped her bounds. The Earl might not appreciate her interfering with staff members, not with her own precarious position. She needed to apologise for her cross words earlier.

‘Have you heard anything else?’ Emily asked Lizbeth. ‘From the Earl, I mean. Has he remembered anything?’

‘No, my lady. I’ve not heard that he has.’ Lizbeth cracked an egg into a bowl.

The bell sounded, and Lizbeth jumped up. ‘It’s his lordship. He’ll be wanting his breakfast tray.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Emily offered. She wanted to speak with him about the children. The heaping platter of delicious food could improve his temperament while she explained why throwing their family out into the streets would be a very bad idea.

Her stomach grumbled, but she ignored it. She had eaten a slice of toasted bread and a cup of tea, which was enough for her.

By the time she finished climbing the back staircase leading to the Earl’s bedchamber, she was out of breath. The heavy tray made her arms ache, but she pressed onwards. Knocking lightly, she heard him call, ‘Enter.’

The Earl was seated in a wingback chair, reading The Times. He wore charcoal trousers, a dark blue frockcoat, pinstriped waistcoat and a white cotton shirt. His dark cravat was tied in a simple knot without any fuss. The shadow of a beard lined his cheeks, and his intense gaze rested upon her with interest.

His hair was wet, drops of water glistening at his temples. He’d taken a bath, she realised.

A slight shiver ran through her at the thought of him sinking into a tub of water, his muscled arms resting upon the edge. She had seen for herself the hard ridges of his stomach, the reddened scar across his pectorals.

A wicked image arose, of soap sliding over those muscles, of what it would be like to touch him. What it would be like, if he lowered his body upon hers, until she yielded to him.

Like before…

An unbearable loneliness caught her. He had kissed her on the night he’d left, as though he would never let her go. Now it was as if that man had never existed.

An invisible fist struck her in the stomach, the hurt rising. When he’d arrived back at Falkirk, her first instinct had been to rush towards him, to hold him tight and thank God that he was alive.

But he didn’t know her any more. He’d broken promises and betrayed her with another woman. She couldn’t let go of that.

She blinked back the emotions threatening to spill over. Whitmore didn’t feel anything towards her any more, and she didn’t know if he ever would again.

‘Are you planning to set that down or continue staring at me?’

Her face flamed, but she managed to lower the tray. ‘Your breakfast, sire.’ She bobbed a false curtsy.

‘I would prefer “my lord”.’

Emily had meant the address as sarcasm, but clearly the Earl did not recognise it. Her temper flared. ‘Will there be anything else? Shall I bow down before you and lick your boots?’

‘Perhaps later.’ The interest in his voice made it sound as if he didn’t mind that idea at all. She whirled and marched towards the door.

‘I am not finished with you yet,’ he said. She sent him a look filled with venom, but his attention remained on The Times. He lifted a pair of spectacles to the bridge of his nose. She had never seen them before, never knew he wore them for reading. It reminded her that this was not a man who could be easily fooled.

Proper, stiff and steadfast in his beliefs, he had become every bit the shadow of his father, the Marquess. Her nerves coiled in her stomach at the thought.

‘Would you care for tea?’ she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

He lowered the paper and regarded her. ‘Is it poisoned?’

His overbearing attitude made her consider dumping the pot over his head. ‘You won’t know that until you are dead, now, will you?’ She smiled sweetly and poured the tea into a china cup. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘I drink mine black. There’s less chance of you adding something to it.’

‘Unless I already have,’ she dared, offering him the cup. Perhaps he’d choke on it.

His expression remained neutral, and he refused to take the cup. ‘You drink first.’

‘I haven’t poisoned it,’ she insisted.

‘Drink.’

The arrogant tone of his voice annoyed her, but she obeyed. The hot tea tasted of rich spices with a heady aroma. ‘There. Are you satisfied now?’

‘Not quite.’ The Earl set the newspaper aside and gestured toward the food. ‘I want you to taste everything that is on the tray.’

‘I am not hungry.’

At those words, he sent her a look that said he knew she was lying. ‘You look as though you haven’t eaten properly in weeks. You’re too thin. I won’t have the servants believing I don’t feed my own wife. If that’s what you are.’

‘I don’t care what they think.’

‘But I do. And if you wish to remain in this household along with the children, you will heed my wishes.’

There. The threat was out. He really could make things worse for her, forcing her and the children to leave. And then where would she be? She could not support the children, nor give them a home.

Emily’s cheeks flamed, but she stabbed a sausage with a fork. She wished it were one of his more delicate parts.

She took a bite of the eggs, savouring the flavor. Oh, sweet saints above. She closed her eyes for just a second, enjoying the food. Perhaps with a bit more salt or even chopped pieces of bacon, the eggs would taste even better. Ideas for cooking recipes swarmed through her mind as she enjoyed the taste of Elysium, courtesy of His Arrogance.

The sound of a ringing bell broke through her moment. Emily opened her eyes, but the Earl gave no hint as to why he had summoned the parlour maid.

‘I did not spit in your food.’

His eyes held not a trace of humour. ‘I never said you did.’

She pushed the plate towards him, but the awkwardness continued, making her wonder what else he wanted. ‘You may eat,’ she said. ‘As you can see, I am still alive.’

He made no movement towards the food. He stared at her, his gaze questioning. His eyes were the soft grey of a London morning, his mouth firm and stoic. She had thought him to be a handsome man at one time. His features were strong, as though carved from stone.

He was a statue now. A man with no feelings, who never revealed a trace of what he was thinking.

Why had she let herself fall prey to his promises? The Earl had rescued her from a crumbling, debtridden estate. He’d sworn that he’d find her wayward brother and pay off Daniel’s debts. She had been so infatuated, she hadn’t stopped to wonder why.

A knock sounded, but instead of a maid, the disapproving eyes of Farnsworth frowned down upon her. Emily sensed the butler’s silent censure of her clothing and her mannerisms. She was supposed to behave like a Countess, not a servant. Emily straightened, though it would do nothing to change Farnsworth’s opinion of her.

‘Bring Lady Whitmore a plate of her own. And more tea,’ Whitmore added.

‘No, really—I don’t need a thing.’

His dark glare silenced her. When the butler had departed, he folded his arms across his chest. ‘We must come to terms on a few things. I give the orders, and you are to obey them.’

Did he think he was the King of England? ‘Yes, your Majesty.’

He, apparently, found no amusement in her mockery. ‘Furthermore, when Farnsworth brings up the tray, you are to eat every morsel of food.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘You wish for the children to eat, do you not?’

At his implied threat that he would refuse them food, her fury exploded. ‘You wouldn’t dare starve innocent children on your own ridiculous whims.’

‘They aren’t my children,’ he pointed out. ‘And if you want me to house them, clothe them and feed them, you will obey.’

Stephen saw the look of fear in her eyes and felt a trace of guilt for making the threat. Not too much, however. From the looks of it, Emily had not eaten a full meal in far too long. If a false implication would encourage her to eat, he had no qualms about exaggerating.

Her cheekbones stood out in a face so delicate, it could have been crystal. Her eyes were large, a haunting whisky brown. A stray tendril of golden hair rested against her cheek where a smudge of flour marred her skin.

‘They are your responsibility,’ she said.

Farnsworth returned with the tray a few minutes later. Emily ate, her eyes blazing with murder. And yet, he could see the desperation in her carefully controlled appetite.

‘I have some questions I want you to answer,’ he began. ‘Starting with our wedding day.’

She gave her full attention to the eggs, behaving as though she hadn’t heard him. Stephen reached out and took her left hand. Upon her third finger rested the family heirloom ring. A large ruby glinted from the gold band. He rubbed his finger across the stone, her fingers cool within his palm.

‘I don’t remember the marriage ceremony at all. I don’t even remember giving you this ring. For all I know, you stole it.’

She glared at him. ‘Do you want it back?’

‘Possibly.’ He stared at the ring, trying to piece the memory together. Emily struggled to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.

‘Tell me about our wedding.’

‘It snowed that day,’ she whispered. The look upon her face was of a woman lost.

‘Did we have feelings for one another?’ he asked quietly.

At that, Emily choked. She covered it with a laugh, but he could see the shadow of hurt behind her eyes. ‘You adored me. We married on impulse.’

‘I mean the real reason, Emily.’

She studied her breakfast again. ‘I don’t suppose I truly know the answer. I thought you cared for me.’ Pain silhouetted her words. ‘I was wrong.’

‘Did I compromise you?’ he asked, running his thumb over the edge of her hand. Her palms were rough, like a servant’s.

Emily jerked her hand away. ‘No. And I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.’

‘Why did you marry me?’ What was this sadness in her eyes? She kept up such strong defences, he couldn’t see past the anger to understand it.

Emily set her plate aside, ignoring the remainder of the food. ‘I had my reasons.’ Upon her face he saw veiled embarrassment. She had spoken of feelings between them. Had he ever claimed to love her?

She was pretty, as she’d always been. Outspoken, with a tongue like a razor. And if she’d married him on such a sudden whim, her impulsive behaviour hadn’t changed.

‘I must return to London,’ he said, changing the subject. He kept detailed ledgers in his study. If there were answers to be had, he would find them there. ‘As soon as I am healed, you will journey with me.’

‘No!’ She caught herself and amended, ‘That is, I’d rather not.’

The alarm in her voice alerted his suspicions. ‘Why are you so afraid of London?’

‘Your father won’t want to see us. And the children need me here.’ She fumbled with her hands as though searching for a stronger excuse.

‘I will hire a nursemaid. In fact, I have already ordered Farnsworth to procure several for you to interview. I cannot believe the man has not already done so.’

‘I hired a wet nurse for the baby. Anna takes care of both Victoria and Royce.’

‘Royce needs a tutor, as well as a nursemaid.’ When she made no reply, he switched his tactics. ‘Don’t you think my family will wonder why I haven’t brought my wife with me?’

Her cheeks turned scarlet. Her reluctance had to mean they weren’t married. He was sure of it.

But she startled him by lifting her chin. ‘I don’t care what they think. I won’t go to London with you. Not now. Not ever.’ She rose to her feet and strode from the room. The door slammed shut behind her.

She was afraid. And unless he was very much mistaken, Stephen had a grave feeling that his wife knew far more about the night he had disappeared than he’d suspected. It did not bode well for their future together.

Chapter Three

Cakes served at tea time must always be light and delectable. A hostess should smile and greet her guests with a gracious heart.

—Emily Barrow’s Cook Book

Later that morning, Dr Parsons checked the bandages and nodded his approval. ‘Your wife has done well caring for you,’ he remarked. ‘The wounds are clean, and your bruises are healing nicely. I should think you will be back on your feet within days.’

‘I intend to go to London,’ Stephen remarked. ‘Three days from now, if possible.’

‘My lord, I would advise against undue haste. If I may, I’d ask you to wait another week before you go.’

‘I do not recall anything of the accident,’ Stephen admitted. ‘Nor what happened to me during the past three months.’

‘Memory loss can occur with an accident.’ The doctor replaced the bandage, tying it off. ‘I have seen it in many patients, particularly those with traumatic incidents. Often a man’s mind will overshadow the event it does not wish to remember.’

‘When will the rest of my memories return?’ Stephen demanded.

‘To be frank, they might not. In cases such as yours, it is difficult to say. Your head wound and contusions are recent, but I doubt if they had anything to do with your memory loss.’ The doctor added, ‘I suspect that you were the victim of violence several months ago, judging from the knife wound. It may be that you won’t want to remember it. But I can say with all confidence, your headaches and pain should be gone within a few days more.’

Pain was the least of his concern. He was tempted to ask the doctor about the strange tattoo he’d found on the back of his neck, but decided against it. For all he knew, he had done something rash.

Like marry a woman he hadn’t seen in ten years.

After Dr Parsons departed, Stephen thought about his earlier conversation with Emily. He had not questioned her caring for the children, but her claim that he was now responsible for their welfare troubled him.

He decided to speak with the boy. If he could not obtain the answers from his wife, he would get them elsewhere. He summoned Farnsworth and ordered him to fetch the boy. Minutes passed, and no one came.

He waited longer, pacing across the carpet. Someone should teach the boy discipline and how to be prompt. It was never too early to learn good manners. When five more minutes passed, he opened the door to the hallway.

‘Come now.’ Farnsworth leaned down, holding out a sugar biscuit as bait. A sullen-faced lad gave the butler a defiant glare, but he took a single step forward. ‘It’s all right. Come here, please,’ the butler crooned.

‘Good God, Farnsworth. The boy isn’t a dog. Cease treating him like one.’ Stephen’s patience had reached its limit.

‘My lord, he won’t listen.’ The butler straightened, and predictably the boy disappeared behind a door.

‘I shall handle this.’ Stephen strode towards the bedchamber. When he tried the door handle, it was locked.

‘The key, if you please, Farnsworth.’

‘My lord, I am terribly sorry. I shall have to fetch it.’ The butler scrambled off, grateful to escape.

For a moment, Stephen listened outside the door while pondering his next move. Treating the boy like a child would not work. Instead, he knocked.

‘Go away!’

That was to be expected. Any proper opponent would be foolish to simply surrender. But he, of course, had the proper incentive.

‘You wish to leave my house, do you not?’

A pause. The strategy was not a move the boy had anticipated. ‘Yes.’

‘I suggest an exchange of information. You tell me what I wish to know, and I will see to your departure.’ He did not mention where, but school was a likely prospect. The boy needed an education, after all.

A longer pause.

The door clicked and opened slightly. Stephen hid his smile of victory. It would not do to upset the balance just yet. He needed answers, and he was counting upon the child’s honesty to get them.

Stephen entered the room while a pair of young suspicious eyes watched him.

‘Roland, is it?’ he began.

‘My name is Royce.’ The boy sent him a hard look and crossed his arms. ‘And I don’t like you.’

Stephen shrugged. ‘I can’t say as I like you much either.’

His response seemed to meet with Royce’s approval. The lines had been drawn, the enemy lines established.

‘Sit down.’ He gestured towards a footstool, but Royce refused. Stephan began with, ‘How long have you been living here at Falkirk?’

‘Since February.’ The boy’s attention moved to the door as though he were planning an escape.

‘Your aunt brought you here?’

The boy’s face softened at the mention of Emily, then grew defensive. ‘She sent for us, yes.’ He fidgeted, looking down at his hands. ‘You’re very tall,’ he said suddenly.

‘Do not change the subject.’ Stephen resumed his interrogation. ‘Why did your aunt marry me?’

Fear swept across Royce’s pale, thin face. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do. You’d best tell me the truth.’

The boy’s attention lowered to the floor, and he clenched his fists. ‘I want my papa.’

Stephen gentled his tone. ‘I was sorry to hear about your father.’ He reached out to the boy, but Royce bolted for the door.

Stephen caught him before he could flee. The child’s shoulders trembled, and he broke into sobs. ‘I want Papa.’ Tears ran down his cheeks, and Royce fought to free himself.

It was useless. He should have known better than to demand answers from a child.

‘What have you done?’ The door flew open, and Emily swept into the room. As soon as she saw Royce, she bent down and gathered him into her arms. ‘You’ve made him cry.’

Like a furious mother lioness, she released the full force of her wrath. ‘He’s only a boy.’

‘I asked him a few questions,’ Stephen admitted. He felt sheepish, for the idea had not been a good one.

Emily mustered a smile for Royce. ‘Go and see Lizbeth. She has a slice of cake waiting for you.’

The promise of cake was all that was needed to send the child dashing from the room. When Royce had gone, Emily unleashed her fury. ‘You are heartless. What did you say to him?’

There was true fear in her eyes, not just anger. ‘I asked him a few questions.’ He took a step closer, watching her tremble. ‘What are you so afraid of, Emily?’

‘He doesn’t know his father is dead.’

‘Why not?’

A deep weariness edged her expression. The rage grew calm as she gathered her composure. ‘It’s my fault. I couldn’t bear to hurt him. He lost his mother when Victoria was born. And now his father.’

Stephen took her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken. Her hands were warm, and he smelled the light fragrance of vanilla near her nape. Like the sugar biscuits, he realised. And he found himself wanting to draw nearer. ‘Hiding the truth won’t make it go away.’

‘And sometimes no one will believe the truth when it is spoken.’ She held his scrutiny, jerking her hand away. ‘Go to London. You’ll find the answers you seek there.’

Her icy demeanour had returned. With her honey-gold hair tucked neatly into black netting, her face scrubbed clean, she appeared a paragon of virtue. She had changed her dress into an older gown, a dull black bombazine. Its hemline was frayed and it had been remade more than once.

He grew irritated at her martyrdom and seized both wrists. Taking her left hand, he gripped her palm so that the wedding ring pressed into her skin. ‘Stop sniveling and answer my questions. What happened to your brother?’

‘His creditors killed him while you were visiting your mistress,’ she spat. ‘He bled to death.’

‘I don’t have a mistress,’ Stephen contradicted. Emily tried to break free, but he refused to let go. ‘Do you truly believe I would let a man die if I had the power to stop it?’

‘No,’ she admitted. Even so, doubts clouded her face.

He moved closer, hoping to unravel her lies. But when his hand slipped around her waist, he saw the genuine grief in her eyes. Beneath the bombazine, the heat of her skin warmed his palm. His fingers touched one of the tiny buttons upon her gown, toying with it. ‘Who told you I was with my mistress?’

‘The men who brought Daniel’s body to me.’ She tried again to pull away, but he held her captive. Regardless of the means, he would have his answers.

‘And who were they?’ His hand moved up her spine, tracing the dozens of tiny buttons until he reached one at the nape of her neck. With the flick of a thumb, he revealed a bit of skin. He wanted to gauge her reaction.

‘I—I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘I thought they were your solicitors or from your father. They were looking for you.’

Her hand clamped over his when he grazed her skin. ‘Don’t touch me.’

He ignored her, loosening another button. ‘Why not?’

‘Because you don’t mean it. You don’t want me. Any more than I want you.’

A sudden flash of memory took hold. Emily stood before the fireplace in his bedchamber at Falkirk, her hair hanging down. Her fingers moved to unbutton his frockcoat, and her face was flushed with desire.

He dropped his hand away from her when the fleeting vision faded. Where had it come from? Was it real? Had they been lovers? Frustration clawed at his mind when the emptiness returned.

He leaned in close, so his face nearly touched hers. ‘Tell me why I married you.’ With her so near, he could smell the fragrance of vanilla. Her clear eyes were confused, her cheeks pale.

She gripped her hands together so tightly her knuckles whitened. With a light shrug she met his gaze. ‘You said you wanted to take care of me, to help our family. And like a fool, I wanted to believe you loved me.’

He studied her a moment. She looked so lost, so vulnerable. Behind her mask of bitterness he caught a glimpse of the girl he’d once known. She’d been his best friend, long ago. And now she was his wife.

The lost three months felt like a lifetime.

‘How did it happen?’ he asked. Had he courted her? Was it an impulsive move, or had he been forced into it?

‘It was just after St Valentine’s Day,’ she remarked with a hint of irony. ‘In Scotland. I have the marriage certificate, if you want to see it.’

‘Perhaps later.’ Documents of that nature could still be forged. He preferred to send a trusted servant to see the parish records.

He suspected that he would not get an honest answer from her, not when she was desperate to protect the children’s welfare. It had to have been an arrangement between them, a bargain of sorts.

But for her, there had been more.

Emily tried to pull away, but he refused to let her escape. She was so fragile within his grasp, like a glass about to shatter.

‘Were there feelings between us?’ he asked. He leaned in so close he could feel her breath upon his face. If he moved his mouth to the side, it would graze her lips in a soft kiss. He waited for her to push at him, to curse him for touching her.

She gave him no answer. Instead, her body seemed to conform to his. Her hands rested upon his shoulders while he idly traced a path up her spine. The years seemed to fall away until she was once again the young girl he’d practised kissing in a stable. Only now, he held a woman in his arms. A beautiful, hot-tempered woman who made him lose his sense of reason the moment he touched her.

He didn’t kiss her, though he wanted to. There were too many unanswered questions.

When he stepped backwards, Emily grasped her arms to shield herself. ‘Are you going to annul our marriage?’

The fear in her eyes made him hesitate. He wanted to say yes. Instead, he answered truthfully, ‘I don’t know yet.’

He traced the outline of her face with his thumb. ‘I am going to find out what happened to me, Emily,’ he told her. ‘Stay here until I return from London.’

Her broken smile bothered him. ‘Where else could I go?’

‘Sweet Christmas.’ Christine Chesterfield, the Marchioness of Rothburne, covered her heart with her palm when she saw Stephen. He embraced his mother, and she squeezed him tightly just before her fist collided with his ear.

‘I should have you horsewhipped. You frightened me to death. I thought heathens had kidnapped you and taken you off to some forsaken island in the middle of nowhere.’

Stephen rubbed his ear and managed a smile. For all he knew, his mother might have been correct concerning his whereabouts. ‘I sent word before I arrived.’

‘You should have contacted me long before then. You left Lord Carstairs’s ball, which made Lady Carstairs extremely cross, by the by. And then you vanished since February. Even the servants couldn’t tell me where you were.’

Lady Rothburne guided him to sit down, and poured a cup of tea. ‘Now, you simply must tell me everything that’s happened since you left.’

‘There isn’t much to tell,’ he admitted. He did not possess enough memories to offer an honest accounting, so he gave her what truths he could. ‘I’ve been convalescing at Falkirk House in the country.’

‘You were injured?’ Immediately she reached out and patted the ear she’d boxed. ‘Forgive me, Stephen. I didn’t know. But you’re well now?’

‘Better. I have little memory of what happened. I came to London to look for the answers.’

Lady Rothburne took a deep sip of the tea, and worry lines edged her mouth. ‘I don’t like the thought of some ruffian doing you harm. I shall call upon Lady Thistlewaite and ask for her assistance.’

At the mention of his mother’s dearest friend, Stephen suppressed a groan. Lady Thistlewaite had her sources of gossip, like most women. Her methods, however, left much to be desired. He could envision it now, a stout matron knocking upon an unsuspecting man’s door with her parasol, demanding, ‘Are you the barbarian who clouted Lady Rothburne’s son upon the head?’

‘And,’ his mother continued, ‘I think you should attend the Yarrington musicale next week. It will take your mind off matters.’ She put on a bright smile and took his hand. ‘Your father and I insist.’

At the mention of the Marquess, a gnawing irritation formed in his gut. ‘Mother, I really don’t think—’

‘Oh, pish posh. I know exactly what you need. A lovely young woman at your side, that’s what. Someone to share your troubles. And Miss Lily Hereford has missed you quite dreadfully. Why, the two of you make such a good pair. I have my heart quite set upon you marrying her. In fact—’ she leaned in close as if imparting a great secret ‘—your father and I have already begun drawing up the guest list for your wedding. Miss Hereford would make you the perfect wife, after all. She is a woman of impeccable breeding.’

At his mother’s assertion, Stephen’s mouth tightened. ‘Married?’

His mother laughed. ‘Well, of course, Stephen. If anyone is one of society’s most eligible bachelors, it’s you.’

She was serious. Blood roared in his ears as his mind processed what she had said.

It seemed Emily Barrow had lied to him after all.

Chapter Four

When a cake darkens before it has fully risen, the fire may be too hot. More cakes have been ruined by an inadequate flame or by one that is too fierce. It is not necessary to stoke an inferno…

—Emily Barrow’s Cook Book

He’d been gone for only three days, but Emily’s uneasiness grew with each passing hour. Was the Earl all right? Had his wounds healed fully?

Stop it. She took a deep breath and knelt down on the soft lawn of Falkirk House beside the herb garden. He’s gone. That was what you wanted.

But no matter how she tried to slip back into her former pattern of living, it wasn’t the same. With a pair of scissors, she hacked several handfuls of fresh thyme for the roasted chicken she had planned. Despondency seemed to settle over her shoulders, like a familiar burden. Normally the gardens lifted her spirits, particularly the scent of fresh herbs. And here, the large grove of arbour vitae hid her from the house in a quiet green space.

What if the Earl never came back? Or what if he divorced her? Her throat ached with unshed tears, even as she ordered herself not to cry. He hadn’t loved her when he’d offered to marry her. And now she simply had to live with those consequences.

A rough palm covered her mouth. She tried to scream, but her attacker’s fingers encircled her throat.

‘If you make a sound, I’ll snap your neck,’ he whispered. In a swift motion, he shoved her to the ground, pressing her face against the damp earth. Emily couldn’t breathe, her heart seizing with fear.

‘You know what happened to your brother, don’t you?’

Her pulse raced at the knowledge that Daniel’s enemies had found her. She tried to nod.

‘I want his papers, ledgers of all his investments. Where are they?’

He released his grip upon her mouth.

‘I—I don’t know,’ she stammered, lifting her chin to gasp for air.

He forced her back into the dirt, his fingers squeezing her neck. ‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘Perhaps at my father’s house—’

Before she could say another word, she heard Royce calling out to her. ‘Aunt Emily!’

‘Tell no one of this,’ her enemy warned. ‘Or his children will suffer for it.’ A fist collided with her ear, and she bit back a cry of pain.

When she turned around, the man was gone. Royce continued calling out to her, and Emily stumbled to her feet. With trembling hands, she wiped her face clean of the dirt.

They’ve found us was all she could think. Daniel’s enemies, perhaps even the man who had killed him.

She clenched her skirts, her gaze travelling down to the trampled herbs. Why did he want her brother’s ledgers? His demands made no sense. Daniel’s business investments had never been anything but failures.

They weren’t safe here any longer. She could not allow Royce or Victoria to fall prey to her brother’s enemies. Wild thoughts of sending the children to America or even to the Orient crossed her mind.

London. She would have to take the children to London. The Earl could protect all of them. The thought made her indignant. She hated to rely on anyone but herself. But they were less likely to be harmed if she stayed close to Whitmore.

Her bruised heart ached at the thought of being near him. His promises had all been a lie, and now she was entangled in a marriage that was never meant to be.

Worse was her reaction to his touch. Though he had done nothing more than hold her, it had evoked memories she’d tried to forget. Her body warmed at the thought. Skin to skin, his flesh joining with hers.

No. Never again. She’d learned her lesson after their wedding night. It wouldn’t happen again. Resisting his advances would be easy enough if she closed her eyes and remembered every wrong he’d committed.

Emily gritted her teeth at the thought of journeying several days in a coach. Royce would think it was a grand adventure while Victoria would wail the entire trip. A sickening knot formed in her stomach. Of course, she could take the train to London, but the very idea terrified her. She didn’t like moving at such speeds.

She went inside and found Royce curled up on the staircase, his mouth pursed as he struggled to read a book of fairy tales he had brought from home. When he saw her, he smiled. ‘There you are. Will you read to me, Aunt Emily?’

She wanted to say, ‘Of course’, and ruffle his hair. Instead, she shook her head. ‘Not now. I need to tell you something important. We’re going to London.’

‘To find Papa?’

She shook her head, steeling her courage. The time had come to admit the truth. Why did she have to do this? Why did she have to tell him that another parent had died? It was bad enough when his mother had died in childbirth. To tell him that his father was gone quite simply broke her heart.

She knelt down. Royce eyed her with suspicion. ‘You’re going away.’

‘No. That isn’t what I’ve come to say.’ She paused, trying to find the right way to tell him. There weren’t any words gentle enough to say what needed to be said.

‘Royce, your father is not coming back.’ She took his hands in hers.

He bobbed his head. ‘Yes, he is. Papa promised me. He always keeps his promises.’

‘He can’t keep this one, Royce.’ The pain in her heart cracked and a tear escaped. ‘He died, sweeting.’

Royce’s face never changed. It was as though she hadn’t spoken at all. He never breathed, never moved.

‘No. I don’t believe you.’ He pulled his hands away and picked up a tin soldier that had fallen on the braided rug. Making a shooting noise, he pretended the soldier had killed an imaginary enemy.

‘It’s true.’ She reached out to embrace him, but he jerked away.

‘No. I know he’ll come. He said he would.’

Emily bowed her head while Royce continued to manipulate the soldier, acting as though she hadn’t spoken a word. With the tears caught deep in her throat, she squeezed his shoulder. ‘We’re leaving in the morning. Gather the things you want to take along.’

His demeanour changed in the fraction of a moment. ‘I can’t leave. Papa knows we’re here. This is where I’m waiting for him.’

Emily rose to her feet. ‘I am going down to the kitchen. I’ll have Mrs Deepford prepare your favourite meal tonight.’

‘I won’t go.’ His voice trembled, a note of anger rising.

She did not reply, but turned her back to leave. Something small and sharp struck her on the shoulder before it clattered to the floor. Emily saw the fallen soldier Royce had thrown, but did not bend to pick it up.

Behind her, her nephew wept softly.

The next morning, Stephen dispatched messengers to all the parishes across the Scottish border. Though his mother insisted he was unmarried, he wasn’t sure whom to believe. At certain moments, erratic images flashed shadows upon his mind, of Emily in his embrace. He didn’t know if they were true or not. Behind her insurmountable wall of hatred lay a woman whom he’d cared about once.

But he couldn’t believe he’d married her.

The library door opened, and his father, James Chesterfield, Marquess of Rothburne, stood at the doorway. The Marquess studied Stephen without speaking a word. James wore black, as he always did, a streak of grey marring the temples of his dark hair. Tall, thin and ingrained in the belief that his blood was superior to everyone else’s, his father knew precisely how to command a room with a domineering presence.

‘Would you care to explain your actions?’ James began without prelude.

Stephen did not rise to the bait. ‘It is good to see you again also, Father.’

There was no welcome, no show of affection. Often, Stephen wondered whether his father had any feelings toward his children. They never talked. Since the death of Stephen’s eldest brother William many years ago, his father had behaved as if nothing were amiss. He had never spoken of the tragedy.

The Marquess firmly believed in duty and tradition. It didn’t matter that Stephen was never meant to assume the title. He was the heir now, and as such, he was expected to embrace those expectations.

‘Your mother tells me you got married.’

The unspoken words were, Without my permission.

Stephen did not deny it, nor did he affirm his father’s accusation. ‘The choice of a wife is mine, I believe. I do not require your consent.’

‘You are wrong in that.’ James straightened into the posture of a military general. ‘Your responsibilities as my heir include choosing a suitable wife.’

‘There is nothing unsuitable about Emily Barrow. She is a baron’s daughter,’ he reminded his father.

‘And her family is ridden with scandal. You might as well have married a scullery maid. No one in polite society will receive her.’

And, of course, society’s dictates were of the utmost importance. Stephen suddenly grasped a very real reason why he might have wed Emily. Marrying her was the perfect way to defy his father’s wishes. James Chesterfield could not control his choice of a wife.

‘Is that all?’ he asked. He stared at his father, eye to eye.

‘Not quite. You will see to it that no one learns of your…indiscretion, until I have investigated the means of dissolving the marriage. I hope, for your sake, that it can still be done.’ Having voiced his decree, the Marquess saw no reason to remain. He departed without another word.

Stephen opened a cabinet and poured himself a brandy. As he warmed the glass in his hand, his fingers tightened around the stem. The Marquess seemed unaware that he could no longer dictate his son’s choices.

He took a sip of the brandy, revelling in silent defiance. It occurred to him that it was more than past time to secure a new residence. He’d suffered long enough at Rothburne House, his future inheritance. And though he would have to live here again upon his father’s passing, there was no reason to endure James Chesterfield until that day came. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He’d look into the matter tomorrow.

His life was his own, and he didn’t care what his father’s preferences were.

Stephen set the brandy glass down, his mind settling back to Emily Barrow. Beneath her thin, fragile exterior was a woman with an iron will, a dangerous woman who resented him. She was using him to provide for her niece and nephew. Just as he was using her to rebel against his autocratic father. The thought sobered him.

Had Emily believed he’d loved her? Why would he lie to a woman in that way? He didn’t like to think of behaving in such a dishonourable manner. And yet, the answers lay just beyond his reach, strange pieces of a puzzle that would not fit together.

Until he had the answers, he could not force her out of his life.

Emily longed to find a pistol and shoot herself.

After travelling for days in a tiny coach, stopping only to eat meals or to sleep at an inn, Victoria had commenced to scream at the top of her tiny lungs. For hours. And hours. The wet nurse Anna had tried her best to calm the infant, but Victoria continued to sob.

Royce had joined in the chorus, whining that he wanted to go home, and threatening to run away to find his papa. Emily counted silently to fifty and reminded herself that London was not far now. It had begun to rain, the fat drops drumming against the coach in rhythm to the horses’ hooves.

When Victoria had cried herself into exhaustion and Royce’s tousled head rested in Emily’s lap, the familiar sights of London surrounded her. In the night, she could see only the murky waters of the Thames gleaming against the gaslights. Familiar dark smells infiltrated the coach, dredging up a deep, horrible fear.

I cannot do this, she thought. How could she arrive upon the Marquess’s doorstep, demanding to see her husband? But she had no choice. Falkirk House was no longer safe.

The coach slowed and drew to a halt. The driver opened the door for her. ‘Wait here,’ Emily whispered to Anna. The wet nurse nodded, cradling Victoria in her arms.

She prayed that Stephen would grant them shelter. It was long past the time for callers, and rain pounded the streets. The moonless sky brooded against the elegant stone façade of the Marquess’s residence. Tall glass windows reflected flickering shadows of the night.

Emily ignored the rain and marched up to the front door. Knocking, she reminded herself that she had to behave with the haughtiness of a Countess, whether she felt like one or not.

A footman opened the door, his eyebrows raised as though she were a rat come in off the streets. Emily returned the man’s curious glare with one of purpose. ‘Step back from the door, if you please. I do not intend to stay out in this weather.’

He blinked a moment. ‘The servants’ entrance is in the back, madam.’

‘I am hardly a servant.’ Emily stepped forward, pushing him out of the way. ‘And if my husband heard you accusing me of such, he would be most insulted.’

The footman’s expression turned curious. Emily unfastened her cloak and bonnet, offering them to the man. He did not accept the dripping garments.

‘Whom shall I say is here?’ the footman enquired, still seeming as though he intended to throw her out.

‘I am Lady Whitmore,’ Emily said, sweeping past him. ‘And the Earl is expecting our arrival.’

When lightning did not smite her into the polished hardwood floors, it was a good sign that perhaps her lie would be forgiven. Well, it wasn’t really a lie. Stephen had asked her to come to London at first; she could simply say that she’d changed her mind. Yes, that was it.

‘What is your name?’ she inquired of the footman.

‘I am Phillips,’ the footman replied. His posture was so rigid, Emily rather thought he resembled a hat rack.

‘Phillips, we have been travelling a long time. Please have our rooms prepared and ask the kitchen staff to arrange a meal for the children and myself. We should like to be served in the dining room.’ Emily completed her request by crossing her arms, deliberately giving him a view of the ruby heirloom wedding ring on her left hand.

At the sight of the ring, Phillips’s demeanour changed instantly. ‘If you would be so kind as to wait here, I shall inform Lord Whitmore of your arrival.’

Emily set her cloak down and held the bonnet, pacing as she held back her nerves. Minutes passed by, and at last she heard the sound of footsteps. The footman returned, followed by the Marquess of Rothburne. Emily clenched her bonnet so hard, her knuckles turned white.

Tall, with grey-tipped dark hair, the Marquess regarded Emily with an irritated air. His hawkish nose looked down upon her.

‘What is going on, Phillips?’ Lord Rothburne demanded.

‘I am here to see my husband.’ Emily gripped her wedding ring so hard, the metal bit into her skin.

Lord Rothburne nodded to the footman. ‘Leave us.’

Her defences rose up immediately. She could tell the Marquess planned to get rid of her. Did Stephen even know she was here? Not likely, given the smug expression of Phillips as he’d left. Panic set in, replaced by desperation. After her family’s scandal, she had no friends in London, no one to turn to. She couldn’t possibly let Lord Rothburne send them away.

‘You are not welcome here,’ he said without preamble. ‘Furthermore, you are not going to touch a penny of my son’s fortune.’

‘I don’t want his money. I don’t need it.’

The Marquess glanced at Emily’s faded dress with unconcealed disdain. At his attempt to intimidate her, she stiffened. She had no choice but to fight for the children. If they went home, Daniel’s enemies would find them.

‘I want to see the Earl,’ she repeated.

Lord Rothburne folded his arms, annoyed at her defiance. ‘I do not care what you want. My son does not wish to see you again. And if you do not leave of your own accord, I shall have Phillips remove you.’

Emily was strongly tempted to call out to Whitmore, in the vain hope that her husband would somehow appear and rescue them.

With a nod from the Marquess, the footman scurried from beside the staircase and opened the front door. Outside, the rain slapped against the cobblestones. Emily had no choice but to beg. She couldn’t leave, not with the children’s future at stake.

‘Please. Just let me see him for a moment. I won’t cause any trouble.’ Outside, she could hear Victoria crying again, amid the noise of the London streets.

The Marquess said nothing, his face stony with resolution. Emily stepped backwards, and the icy rain pelted her bare skin. A moment later, Phillips tossed her the cloak, and Emily caught it before the door shut firmly.

She stared up at the illuminated windows, not caring that the rain had soaked through her thin gown and hair. Her husband hadn’t come. What had she expected?

Woodenly, she returned to the coach, not knowing what to do next. She donned the cloak and then her bonnet, tying the soaked ribbons into a bow.

‘Are we going inside, my lady?’ Anna asked, bouncing Victoria against her shoulder.

Emily reached out and stroked her niece’s head while she held back the tears that threatened. ‘No.’

She should have been prepared for this. Lord Rothburne had never approved of her childhood friendship with Stephen, a fact that apparently had not changed. Though Whitmore held the courtesy title of Earl and the power that went with it, the higher authority rested with his father.

‘What will we do?’ Anna asked.

‘I don’t know.’ The coachman was waiting for her to make a decision, but she could not think of any alternatives.

Had her husband really wanted to send her away? Or was it the Marquess’s doing? Whitmore might not know she was here.

In her mind, she conjured up the image of a handsome prince, locked in the tower. Or, in this case, the unsuspecting Earl who had left his wife and children freezing out in the cold.

Before she could stop herself, she opened the door.

‘Where are you going, my lady?’

‘Tell the driver to circle around the streets. Keep going, and don’t stop until you see me outside again.’

The sheer force of her will-power drove her to do something rash. The rain blinded her, but she pushed through it, moving toward the servants’ entrance. As she’d hoped, it was unlocked.

The kitchen staff stared at her in shock. A plump cook nearly dropped the kettle she held in her hands.

‘I won’t be but a moment,’ Emily said to them, holding up the ruby ring. ‘I’m going to collect my husband.’

Emily found the back staircase and took the steps two at a time before the startled servants could pursue her. If Stephen were here, she would find him.

Dripping wet, she steeled herself in case the Marquess appeared. He didn’t. She listened carefully at each door, moving down the hall. Not knowing her whereabouts, at last she chose a door and opened it.

A snowy-haired woman in a champagne-coloured dress sat reading. She stifled a shriek at the sight of Emily. ‘Emily Barrow, what on earth are you doing here?’

She recognised the Marchioness, Lady Rothburne. ‘I am looking for my husband.’

Lady Rothburne gaped at her. ‘Does Stephen know you are here?’

Emily shook her head, just as a footman burst in through the open door. ‘My lady, I am so sorry. She came in before we could stop her.’

‘It is all right,’ Lady Rothburne said, dismissing the footman. ‘I know Miss Barrow.’

Emily held back her sigh of relief. ‘Please forgive me, Lady Rothburne, but I am in a bit of a hurry. Which room is he in, please?’

Lady Rothburne tilted her head to one side, a curious look upon her face. ‘My husband doesn’t know you are here, does he?’

Emily didn’t want to admit the truth, so she said, ‘I must see the Earl. I would not be here, if it were not urgent.’

‘He is down the hall, second door on your left.’ Lady Rothburne eyed Emily’s sodden clothing. ‘Would you care to change your dress? I believe my daughter might have a spare gown or two. Hannah is away at school, and she would not mind.’

‘Thank you. But I won’t be long.’ Emily nodded a farewell to Lady Rothburne and peered out the door. No one was about, so she tore across the hallway. Throwing open the door, she closed it behind her. Stephen was in the midst of disrobing, his shirt fully unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders.

Upon the back of his neck was a black tattoo, similar to her brother’s. Now where had he gotten that? He hadn’t had it on their wedding night.

‘What are you doing here?’ Stephen pulled the shirt back on, a frown upon his face. ‘I thought you were going to stay at Falkirk.’

At the sight of his bare chest, she backed away. Where was his valet? Being alone with a half-dressed man was not at all wise.

He moved towards her, and Emily averted her eyes, trying not to look at his chest. Deep ridges of muscle were marred by a jagged scar several inches long. The skin had healed, but the redness remained from the knife wound.

‘I changed my mind.’ She offered no explanation, hoping he wouldn’t enquire further. He likely wouldn’t believe her, even if she told him the truth.

‘You’re soaking wet. Come over by the fire and dry off.’ He studied her hair and Emily realised that most of the pins had come out. It lay in tangled masses, half-pinned up beneath her bonnet, half-hanging about her shoulders. She tucked a stray lock behind her ear, though it did nothing for her appearance.

‘I don’t have time. The children are outside,’ she said. ‘I would have brought them with me, except your father tossed me into the streets.’

Stephen’s face tightened with anger. ‘Did he?’

It infuriated him that his wife had come to London, and James had treated her poorly. ‘I am glad you didn’t let that stop you.’

He took a step forward and removed her bonnet, then the rest of the pins holding back her hair. Freeing the dark golden locks, he finger-combed it, stroking his thumb along her jaw. Even as bedraggled as she looked, she captured his attention.

‘Stand by the hearth and warm yourself,’ he murmured. ‘I’ll send a servant to collect the children.’

‘They aren’t valises,’ she argued. ‘And your father won’t want them here.’

He didn’t particularly care what James wanted, but it was late, and he had no interest in arguing. ‘I’ll make other arrangements, then. I just purchased a town house a few miles from here. It should do well enough, although I haven’t hired a staff yet, and there aren’t many furnishings.’

He palmed the back of her nape, massaging the tension. The softness of her skin intrigued him, and he let his hand slide lower.

Her hollowed face held him spellbound. Soft full lips tantalised him, and her womanly curves made him want to remove the layers between them and touch her.

‘What—what are you doing?’ Her skin rose with goose bumps, her voice shaky. ‘Keep your hands to yourself, Whitmore.’

She was behaving like a virgin, not at all like a woman he’d married. He lowered his mouth to her shoulder, inhaling the vanilla scent of her skin.

She shivered. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes bleak. ‘Don’t make me remember this.’

He stopped, but held her hand, his fingers encircling the heavy gold ring. She behaved like an untouched woman, innocent and fresh. But she didn’t push him away, either. Her consternation made him suspect that there had once been more between them. Reluctantly, he let her go.

Her shoulders lowered with relief. Stephen donned his shirt and waistcoat, hurrying with the buttons of his frock-coat. ‘Come.’

He took her by the hand, leading her down the servants’ back staircase. ‘The coach is outside?’

She nodded. Stephen located his overcoat and an umbrella, following her. The freezing rain buffetted the umbrella, and she was forced to remain beside him to be shielded from the rain. He took her palm, and she studied the streets. ‘There. I see it.’

Stephen signalled to the coachman and within moments he helped Emily inside the vehicle. He recognised the driver from Falkirk House and was thankful that at least his wife had enough sense to bring an escort with them. After giving the coachman directions, they were on their way.

When he sat beside Emily, the young boy scowled. ‘What is he doing here?’

‘Royce,’ Emily warned.

‘I am taking you to a warm bed to sleep,’ Stephen remarked. ‘Unless you’d rather I leave you outside in the rain?’

Royce’s frown deepened, and he crossed his arms. ‘I’d rather sleep anywhere than in your house.’

Stephen was not about to tolerate such insolence. Knocking against the coach’s door, he ordered the driver to stop.

‘What are you doing?’ Emily looked horrified.

Stephen opened the door. ‘Be my guest,’ he invited the boy. The rain splattered against the coach door, the wind blowing it in their faces. At the sudden rush of cold, the infant began howling, her face pinched with surprise.

There was just enough fear, just enough uncertainty to keep Royce frozen in his seat. When he didn’t move, Stephen shut the door.

‘Understand this. I will not abide rudeness in the presence of your aunt. You will respect my authority and obey.’

The boy’s face filled with fury, but he managed a nod.

‘Good.’ Stephen signalled for the coachman to drive on. But one matter was certain—he and the boy were now clear enemies.

Chapter Five

A good wife should never purchase inferior ingredients. It is better to be frugal and save pennies wisely, in order to procure the very best cream and butter. Others judge a cook by her confections…

—Emily Barrow’s Cook Book

Stephen unlocked the door of the town house. He’d only been inside on one other occasion, when he’d decided to buy the property. It had belonged to a debt-ridden widower, Lord Brougham, who was more than happy to sell it. Though it was by no means a large residence, it was located near Mayfair in an excellent part of town.

A musty odour blanketed the hallway, and the entire house needed a good airing. Stephen rested his hand on the staircase banister, while Emily ushered the children inside.

She held the infant close to her cheek, while Royce clung to her skirts. Though she held her posture perfectly straight, her eyes were dimmed with exhaustion. How had she managed the two-day journey with no one but his coachman and the wet nurse as escorts?

‘There isn’t a nursery,’ Stephen apologised, leading them up the stairs to one of the bedchambers. ‘And obviously there are no servants at the moment.’ He ventured a rueful smile. ‘I hadn’t expected to move my belongings for another day or two. It wasn’t prepared for your unexpected arrival.’

‘It will do nicely.’ Emily ventured a smile, the first peaceful gesture he’d seen. ‘Can you help me find a place for Victoria to sleep?’

They went upstairs, and Stephen located two wingback chairs in one of the guest chambers. He pushed them together to form a bed for the baby. Victoria rubbed her eyes, fussing and arching her body.

Emily stroked the baby’s back and dropped a kiss upon her niece’s cheek. When Victoria would not quiet down, she reluctantly passed her over to Anna to nurse. Royce removed his shoes and dived into his own bed, burrowing under the coverlet as though trying to shut out the world. For a moment, Emily envied him, wishing that she could just as easily forget all that had happened.

Her husband was a stranger to her now, a man who felt nothing at all towards her. It was like a waking nightmare, to love someone and to be forgotten afterwards.

Would he expect her to share his bed tonight? She stiffened, wanting to avoid it for as long as possible. How could she share the most intimate act with him when he cared nothing for her?

Memories of his kiss, of the way he’d laid her down like a cherished bride, pulled at her heart. He’d made love to her, joining their bodies until she lost herself.

It was how she felt now. Lost.

He’d come riding into her life, and it had taken only days for him to rekindle the feelings she’d buried. Didn’t every girl want to believe in fairy tales? He’d made one happen for her.

But it had been a lie. And the only way to shield her heart was to stay as far away from him as possible.

Whitmore held out his hand to her. She forced herself to take it, even though she didn’t want to. His palm warmed hers, and he led her into the parlour, where he had lit a small fire.

The flames warmed the room, and Emily stood before the hearth, drying her clothes. Stephen sat down in a chair, watching her. His intense gaze embarrassed her.

‘Why are you staring at me?’ She held herself erect, gripping her arms until her fingers left marks on the skin.

‘I’m wondering if we really are married.’ He leaned forward to watch her. His hair still held droplets of rain, and one trickled down his cheek toward a sensual mouth. She tried not to remember the tantalising darkness of his kiss.

‘Of course we are married.’ She kept her eyes upon him, though his intense look made her skin flush.

He stood and walked behind her to close the door. Her damp clothes chafed against her skin, making her even more uncomfortable. Alone in the darkness with only the glowing coals upon the fire and a single candle, she felt more vulnerable than ever before.

‘Do you have any other living relations?’ he asked. ‘If I were not your husband, who would look after you and the children?’

‘My uncle. He lives in India.’ Tension hovered, and with every second that passed, she grew more nervous. Why was he asking this? Was he planning to send them away?

His grey eyes turned thoughtful. ‘I’ve sent word to the local parishes across the Scottish border. If you have lied to me—’

‘I haven’t.’

Despite her claims, he would not accept the truth. She doubted if even the scrawled signature upon the marriage certificate would satisfy him.

His gaze grew heated and he lifted her hand to his cheek. The rough edge of his face needled her fingers. ‘Did I share your bed?’

She fumbled for a lie, anything to keep him from touching her. ‘You left me a week after our wedding. We—we never consummated the marriage.’

‘Then it will be easy to get an annulment.’ He lifted her palm across his lips, and she fought the protests rising.

A razor of hurt slashed at her heart. She’d given herself to him, and he’d forgotten about it. The most wonderful night of her life had meant nothing to him.

‘Unless you want to share a bed with me?’ His dark voice grew compelling, seductive.

Emily closed her eyes to gather her composure. She hated the way her body came alive, the way she wanted his embrace. His mouth, hot and urgent, had haunted her ever since their wedding night. And she was deathly afraid that she would succumb to his desires.

‘If you have need of a woman, you can go to your mistress,’ she said. The very thought of the unknown woman infuriated her, for it brought back memories of Daniel’s death.

‘I’ve already told you. I don’t have one. Patricia and I haven’t been together since last autumn. And why would I need a mistress when I have a wife?’

She wavered, unsure of whether to believe him. But even if he hadn’t been with his mistress, she wasn’t about to share his bed again. Not if he was going to leave her.

‘I won’t be a wife to you. You’ll have to force me first.’

His grey eyes hardened like the barrel of a gun. ‘I would never force a woman.’ There was fury in his gaze, and Emily struggled to remain rooted where she was.

Stephen reached out and, with a single finger, brushed the tip of her breast. Instantly, her nipple hardened beneath the cold fabric. He used his finger to toy with the cockled nub and a hot aching grew, deep inside her womanhood. Her breath shuddered as he rubbed excruciating circles of heat.

Memories of loving him came flooding back. Her hands fell upon his shoulders, reaching for him.

Then abruptly he drew away. Emily could hardly breathe, her body completely aroused by just a single touch.

‘Goodnight.’ Stephen turned and walked away, leaving her behind.

She wanted to cry out in frustration, but she knew he had done it deliberately. He had intended to stimulate her senses, to make her beg him for more.

She was made of stronger stuff than the Earl could ever imagine. Let him try to make her feel passion. She would never forget the way he’d abandoned her and Daniel.

Never would she let him close to her again.

Stephen avoided Emily over the next week, only offering brief conversation now and then. They slept in separate bedrooms, and he was careful not to spend too much time with her. It would be easier to send her back, if they remained distant to one another.

But then the proof of his marriage arrived.

That morning, Stephen read the letter at least seven times, still in disbelief. Married. It was irrevocably true, every word that she’d said.

His father had invited him to a late breakfast, and Stephen brought the letter with him to Rothburne House. He picked at the toast and jam, his mind spinning.

He and Emily had wed in mid-February, a few miles past Gretna Green. His messenger had verified that he had seen the marriage recorded. Emily possessed a copy of the certificate, which she’d shown him earlier in the week. Everything was in order.

And yet he felt uneasy.

It opened up even more questions that begged for answers. Why had he married her? Had he wanted to protect her? Had he cared for her? Or had it simply been an act of defiance against his father?

There was no doubt she fired his blood, but could there have been more between them? Each time he tried to reach back, the memories of her remained clouded. Only events from ten years ago came to mind.

Emily, climbing a tree, laughing when he’d tumbled from a branch. Her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, dry leaves tangled in the ends.

The way she’d felt in his arms, so many years ago. Those memories were easy to grasp while the new ones remained veiled.

He re-read the letter another time before his younger brother entered the dining room. Though they looked alike with a similar build, Quentin’s hair had a touch of auburn in it. His brother also tended to wear more flamboyant clothing, today’s selection being a bottle-green frock-coat with a tartan waistcoat and tan trousers.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Quentin said, by way of greeting. ‘Mother said you’d returned.’

‘Father invited me for breakfast. I suppose he’s planning another lecture. He mistakenly believes that I haven’t aged beyond the tender years of six.’

‘At least you have another place to live.’ Quentin’s face tightened with distaste.

Stephen sensed the trouble behind his brother’s words. ‘In other words, you have no money.’

‘Not a bean.’

The last time he’d seen his brother, Quentin had been sent away to Thropshire, one of the lesser estates. When was it? He struggled to think.

January. It had been the end of January when Quentin had gone. Another piece snapped into place, granting him a brief sense of satisfaction.

‘When did Father allow you to come home?’ Stephen asked. Quentin’s spending habits had always been a source of contention, and the Marquess had removed his youngest son from temptation’s way.

‘Two days ago.’ Quentin helped himself to shirred eggs garnished with mushrooms. He added a large slice of ham to the plate. ‘But you’re the black sheep now, aren’t you?’

‘As it would seem. You heard nothing of my marriage, I take it?’

‘Not a word.’ Quentin set across from him and dived into the food. ‘But it won’t be long before all of London knows.’

Stephen picked at his own plate, finding it difficult to concentrate. It should have been easy, sliding back into his old life here. Instead, the void of memories distracted him. So much had changed in just a few short months.

‘What about Hannah? Is she still off at school?’ He hadn’t seen his sixteen-year-old sister since last winter.

‘She is. Mother is already scheming potential matches for her.’

The idea of any man laying hands upon his innocent sister appalled him. ‘Hannah isn’t old enough for that sort of thing. She hasn’t even had her first Season.’

‘Our mother has great plans, don’t you know. She’s still upset that you didn’t let her mastermind your own marriage.’

Stephen grimaced at the thought.

‘Is she that terrible?’ Quentin teased. ‘Your wife?’ At Stephen’s confusion, he added, ‘You’re looking rather glum.’

A mild way of putting it. Glum didn’t begin to describe his frustration and annoyance.

‘There is nothing wrong with Emily.’ Except that he had no idea why he’d married her. In the past week, he’d spent little time at his town house, and Emily seemed to be avoiding him.

He set his fork down, absently rubbing the back of his neck. The prelude to a headache edged his temples. ‘Were you there, the night I—’ He almost said disappeared, but amended it. ‘Left? Or were you still at Thropshire?’

Quentin poured himself a cup of tea. ‘I was. Mother dragged me back to London for a few days. She seemed to think you were going to announce an engagement to Miss Hereford and demanded that I be there.’ His brother smirked. ‘You certainly destroyed Father’s plans for the next Chesterfield dynasty. When Mother mentioned your marriage at dinner last night, I thought he might need smelling salts.’

It didn’t seem to matter that Stephen had never once given any indication of interest in Miss Hereford. But both of their parents had wholeheartedly embraced the prospect of matchmaking. He pitied the poor woman for what she must have endured.

‘Tell me more about what happened at Lady Carstairs’s ball,’ he said, switching back to their earlier topic.

‘You speak as though you don’t remember it.’ Quentin’s gaze narrowed.

His brother was far too perceptive.

‘I don’t.’ Stephen poured a fresh cup of tea, adding cream. ‘It’s like a cloud blocking out the past few months. I know what happened in January, and I remember waking up at Falkirk a few weeks ago. Everything in between—February, March, April, even part of May—seems to be lost. I’m trying to find out what happened.’

Quentin rubbed his beard, nodding. ‘I’ll do what I can to help. What do you want to know?’

‘Anything.’ He needed a starting place, somewhere to begin filling in the past.

‘You were looking for your wife’s brother, Lord Hollingford.’ Quentin’s face turned serious. ‘When you couldn’t find him, you left. That was the last we heard. Father sent word to all the estates, but you were nowhere. Mother worried that something terrible had happened.’

As far as Stephen was concerned, something terrible had happened. The vicious scars upon his chest weren’t imaginary wounds. And yet he had no memory of the pain. Whether they were caused by common thieves or something more sinister, he couldn’t know.

‘Someone tried to kill me,’ he admitted. ‘And I don’t know why.’

A flash of concern crossed Quentin’s face before his brother mustered a teasing smile. ‘I’ll admit, I’ve wanted to murder you a time or two. It isn’t so difficult to imagine.’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘I could be the heir to all of Father’s fortunes,’ Quentin continued, gesturing grandly at the breakfast table.

‘You are welcome to them.’ Despite Quentin’s joking claim, Stephen knew his brother far preferred the freedom of being the youngest son. He himself had known the same independence until the tender age of nine.

‘But there’s something else.’ Glancing at the door, Stephen removed his coat and loosened his shirt. ‘Would you have a look at this?’ He revealed the tattoo beneath his collar.

At the sight of the symbol, Quentin’s face grew concerned. ‘What is it?’

‘I haven’t the faintest notion. Do I look like the sort to get a tattoo?’

Quentin laughed, but there was uncertainty in it. ‘Perhaps you lost a wager.’

Stephen righted his clothing. ‘Perhaps.’ But he didn’t think so.

‘It looks like an Oriental language. Possibly Sanskrit.’

Had he travelled to India? Or had his attackers done this to him? He intended to question several sources until he learned what it meant.

Stephen turned the conversation to a more neutral topic, and his brother filled him in on the details of a particular shipping investment.

‘The profits from the cargo were stolen,’ Quentin admitted. ‘We lost a great deal of money.’

Stephen fetched a pen and paper and began taking notes. ‘What was the name of the ship?’

‘The Lady Valiant.’

At the mention of its name, he’d hoped for a flash of memory. Something that would point toward answers. Instead, there was nothing. He recalled making the investment, but nothing struck him as different from any other ship.

He began jotting down names of the investors who might have been affected by the loss. The Viscount Carstairs was one. Himself.

And Hollingford. Emily’s brother had also invested in The Lady Valiant. Somehow, he was sure of it.

‘Not another of your lists,’ Quentin protested. ‘This is a conversation, not the time for record-keeping.’

‘I prefer keeping detailed records.’

‘And thank heaven you are the one to manage the estates and not me. If I had to keep the number of lists you did, I should run screaming from the room.’

‘You would simply pay the bills and not worry about where the money came from,’ Stephen said.

‘Precisely. As long as you and Father support me, that is all that matters.’ Quentin raised his cup of tea in a mocking toast.

Stephen frowned. In two lines he estimated profits and potential losses for each ship, the numbers flooding through him. Thank God for something familiar. Orderly and logical, just as he liked them.

He sobered, thinking of how Emily had taken his orderly life apart. He’d never expected to be responsible for a wife and children. Not so soon.

‘Does anyone else know I am married?’ he asked suddenly, looking up from his list.

‘Possibly,’ Quentin replied. ‘The servants do talk. But Father wants to keep silent about it.’

If the servants knew, then it was likely that half of London knew it by now. Stephen grimaced, just imagining the gossip.

‘We’ve been invited to attend Lord Yarrington’s musicale,’ Quentin continued. ‘And I’d best warn you—Miss Hereford will be there.’

Stephen held back a curse. If he attended the musicale, he couldn’t possibly avoid Miss Hereford, despite his desire to do so. She had somehow fallen into the belief that he cared for her, after he’d done little to encourage her. He blamed his parents for leading her astray.

If he arrived with Emily at his side, it would put matters to rest, however. He tried to envision his wife in a ball gown, her fair hair twined with pearls and diamonds.

Instead, it was easier to see her with hands covered in flour, an apron tied about her waist. Tight desire wound up inside him, for he didn’t remember making love to her. Was she still a virgin? Had he known the softness of her body beneath him?

Right now, finding out the answer to these questions seemed far more important than meeting with his father and enduring another lecture.

‘If you will excuse me.’ Stephen rose and bid his brother farewell.

Before he could leave, James Chesterfield entered the dining room. The Marquess raised his hand to halt Stephen. ‘Where are you going?’

He met his father’s accusing eyes. ‘I am returning home to my wife.’

‘She cannot remain your wife for long,’ his father warned. ‘Emily Barrow is an unsuitable Countess. Her family was penniless, and after that scandal—’

‘Enough.’ Stephen’s fists curled, and he kept a firm rein upon his temper. ‘It is a legally binding marriage. You can do nothing to end it.’

He didn’t know why he was defending Emily or the impulsive move he’d made. A part of him still questioned whether he even wanted her to remain at his side. He hadn’t decided whether he wanted a wife at all.

But he’d never let his father know it.

The Marquess’s face turned crimson with fury. ‘If you persist in this farce, I shall cut off your funds.’

‘I have investments of my own.’ Stephen kept his voice deliberately calm.

‘Do not presume to introduce her into society as your wife. I am warning you. You will not like the consequences.’

‘Good day, Father.’ Stephen brushed past the Marquess, not bothering to hide his anger. James thrived upon authority and controlling others. He enjoyed arguing, which was precisely why Stephen refused to engage in it. It was his own small measure of power.

For now, he would return home to Emily. Now that he knew the truth, there were decisions to be made.

Namely, whether or not he wanted to remain married to her.

Emily strolled into Mayfair, enjoying the late morning sunshine. She had coerced two footmen into escorting her instead of her maid, preferring their protection. Stephen had left her funds to purchase whatever she might need, but the coins made her uncomfortable.

It reminded her of how much she was bound to him. He truly had rescued her family, providing for Royce and Victoria. Her throat constricted, even as she stiffened her spine.

She’d been so distraught when the men had delivered Daniel’s body. And then to learn that her husband was missing, after being seen last with his mistress…It had been too much to absorb.

She’d lived in a state of numbness, not knowing whether Stephen was alive or dead.

I won’t let myself fall under his spell again.

She’d been weak before, letting herself dream of him. She knew better now, didn’t she? He hadn’t loved her. He didn’t even remember her.

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

She gripped her reticule, pushing her mind back to the task at hand. Today she would go shopping. The children needed new clothes, and it would take her mind off her worries.

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