The Accidental Countess

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.