The Accidental Countess

‘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.’