Читать книгу An Accidental Seduction - Michelle Willingham - Страница 7

Hollingford House, England 1850

Well-mannered ladies were not supposed to chop wood. They were supposed to paint with watercolors, embroider cushions and pray for the day when they landed a rich husband.

“I wouldn’t mind having that rich husband now,” Emily Barrow muttered to a fallen log as she struggled to lift the heavy axe. It was freezing outside, unusually cold for early February. The clouds brooded overhead, threatening snow. And since she had no coal and didn’t want to burn any more of the furniture, she’d decided to attempt chopping wood in the forest. It was not going well.

“Servants would be nice, too. A footman, perhaps.”

But then, she’d had to dismiss all of the household help. There simply wasn’t any money left. Her brother, Daniel, had spent most of it on the governess he’d hired to care for his two children. Which was as it should be. Emily could cook for herself, bargain for what she needed and make do with what she had. She was nearly twenty-five, a woman firmly on the shelf. There would be no husband to rescue her from this drudgery.

But she would survive, even if it meant becoming a servant herself. And that predicament wasn’t too far away, unless Daniel returned.

Emily bit her lower lip and heaved the axe skyward. With a resounding thunk, the dull metal bit into the wood. It would have been satisfying, except that now she couldn’t get the axe out of the wood.

“Stupid axe,” she muttered, pulling with all of her weight against the trunk. She let out a growl, wishing the blasted thing would let go.

Behind her, she heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Probably Mr. Barmouth from the village, come to demand payment for the flour and sugar she’d bought a week ago. Without turning around, she asked, “Could you please help me with this?”

Dove-gray gloves reached around for the axe. She lost her breath when she saw Stephen Chesterfield, the Earl of Whitmore, standing before her. Dark brown hair framed a strong jaw and steel-gray eyes. Her pulse quickened at the sight of his firm mouth.

“You’re back,” she breathed.

Immediately, she wished she could knock her head against the tree. Not a polite hello, how are you, I haven’t seen you in ten years. No, she’d blurted out the first words that came to mind.

And, good heavens, she’d just asked an Earl to soil his hands by hefting an axe.

“Miss Barrow.” Lord Whitmore grasped the handle of the axe and wrenched it free of the wood. For a moment, he stood, eyeing the blade. “Are you planning to use this against me if I give it back to you?”

“Now, why would I do that?” She tried to behave as though nothing were wrong. Her heartbeat galloped in her chest, her face burning with embarrassment.

“Because I left you and never said goodbye.” He leaned the axe against the fallen trunk.

“Oh. That.” She waved her hand, as though he hadn’t broken her heart into a thousand pieces years ago. “Well, that was then.” The Marquess of Rothburne had caught them kissing in the stables. It had been enough for him to pack his eldest son off to Eton before the summer holidays had ended. She hadn’t seen him since.

“What brings you to Hollingford House?” she asked brightly. Pretend as if nothing’s wrong.

“I am visiting Falkirk. Escaping my meddling family,” he admitted. “I hadn’t seen you in so long, I thought I’d stop to pay a call. But no one answered the door.”

“The footman must not have heard you,” she offered. Because he lived over five miles away and had been dismissed last November.

Lord Whitmore glanced again at her fallen axe. “Do you require assistance with the wood?”

A lie poured from her mouth. “No, no. It’s fine, really. I was just…trying to see if I was strong enough to lift the axe.” Not because the house was freezing cold, and she desperately needed the wood to build a fire. No, no, that had nothing to do with it.

Whitmore looked as though he wanted to argue, but instead, he tipped his hat. “I am sorry I interrupted you at an inconvenient time. Would you prefer it if I returned another day?”

“Of course not. If you’d like, I could make us some tea.” Her face reddened when she remembered that she was out of tea. “Or…if you’re too busy just now, perhaps another time.”

“Thank you, but I cannot stay long.” He glanced toward Hollingford House and frowned. “I came to invite you to a small gathering for dinner tomorrow evening at seven o’clock.”

If that were the only reason, then why hadn’t he simply sent an invitation? Earls didn’t typically pay calls, not when there were servants to do their bidding. Her suspicions deepened when he didn’t elaborate.

But she voiced a polite reply, “Dinner would be lovely. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” At the very thought of it, her stomach wrenched with hunger. Food. Oh, sweet heaven, there would be glorious food.

“What about your axe?” he inquired.

“Oh, one of the servants can bring it back,” she lied, for she had no intention whatsoever of admitting how desperate her circumstances had become. She walked with him around to the front of the house, where his gleaming black brougham waited.

“I look forward to renewing our acquaintance,” he said, tipping his hat again. His deep baritone was like rich toffee pudding, tempting her back to her past infatuation.

When his carriage reached the end of the drive, Emily walked calmly inside her brother’s house. Curse it all, she hadn’t a thing to wear. All of her expensive gowns had been sold. She had nothing but the brown cotton day dress she was wearing now, a black serge mourning gown and a threadbare blue tarlatan dress.

The tarlatan dress had been mended so many times, it was scarred with seams. But perhaps with a good shawl…

Her gaze fell upon the printed sofa in the drawing room. Sometimes desperate measures were necessary.

Stephen hadn’t slept well that night, just thinking of the crumbling Hollingford estate. Overgrown boxwood hedges and a veil of ivy shrouded the house, hiding it from the outside world. The estate was practically a graveyard, and it wasn’t fit for rats, much less Miss Emily Barrow.

Though she’d tried to pretend as if everything were all right, it was clear she’d been chopping her own wood for fuel. Her cloak had been far too thin for such cold weather, and her gloves had holes in them. Worse, she’d grown too thin, not at all like the girl he’d grown up with.

When Daniel Barrow, the Baron of Hollingford, had asked him to look in on his sister, Stephen hadn’t known things were this bad. The question was, what to do about it? Emily wasn’t the sort of woman to accept charity. And if he sent Hollingford funds, they would be gambled away at the tables.

What Emily Barrow needed was a husband. Someone who would give her a decent place to live and take care of her.

Not him. The last thing Stephen wanted was a wife. He’d had his fill of maternal badgering and his father’s guidelines on Appropriate Women to Wed. When Christine Chesterfield had presented him with a list of possible wedding guests, that had been the final straw. He’d left London without a word of warning, for fear he’d wake up one morning and find himself standing in a church, bound and gagged before the altar.

He noticed his butler Farnsworth shifting his weight from foot to foot. An envelope rested in his hands.

“It’s from my mother, isn’t it?” Stephen predicted.

The butler nodded. “I’m afraid so. And she bade me give you this, my lord. It was among your grandmother’s jewels here at Falkirk.” Farnsworth handed Stephen a velvet pouch. Inside was a ruby ring set with gold.

“Well, it didn’t take Lady Rothburne long to find me.” Were it not for the efficient train service, he’d have gotten a full week of peace, at least.

Stephen took the note and glanced at the contents. Amidst his mother’s outrage at his sudden disappearance, was also a list of reminders. Stephen was supposed to apply for his marriage license, use the suggested betrothal ring for his proposal when he returned to London, and speak to Viscount Carstairs about permission to wed his daughter.

My God, he hadn’t even asked anyone to marry him. Least of all Miss Lily Hereford, the Viscount’s daughter and his mother’s current Marital Selection of the Season.

Stephen crumpled up the note and strode over to the drawing room fireplace, dropping the list into the coals. He’d marry whomever he pleased, whenever he wanted to. Not because it was his duty to do so.

He shoved the heirloom ring into his waistcoat pocket, remembering suddenly that he hadn’t made any of the arrangements for tonight’s dinner. “Farnsworth, I am hosting a small gathering this evening for the neighbors. Inform Cook to make the necessary preparations, and see to the invitations, if you will.” After a brief pause, he amended, “Only those neighbors with married daughters, if you don’t mind.”

While the butler strode off to do his bidding, Stephen paced the length of the drawing room. The dinner party was nothing but a means of getting Miss Barrow out of Hollingford House. But he had no idea what to do with her after that. He couldn’t very well send her back to her brother, given Hollingford’s ever-present creditors and lack of funds. Perhaps he could locate an elderly aunt or cousin and send her off to be a companion.

It bothered him to see Miss Barrow this destitute. She had the same survival instincts as before, the willingness to roll up her sleeves and do what needed to be done. It appalled him to think of any woman living under those circumstances, especially a spirited one such as her.

Despite her ragged clothing and desperate circumstances, she remained as beautiful as the last day he’d seen her. Her blond hair framed a heart-shaped face with whiskey-brown eyes. The years had given her soft curves and a full mouth.

Damn it all, nothing had changed. He’d stayed away from her for so long, he’d forgotten the way she fired his blood. There was something wild about her, a recklessness that tantalized him. He’d wanted to touch her once again, to taste her bold mouth and…remember what it was like between them.

For the truth was, he still wanted her, even after all these years.

Ten years earlier

Stephen found Emily in his father’s stables that Christmas evening. She wore a faded rose gown, and her blond hair had been scraped into a topknot. Her eyes were swollen, and he couldn’t tell how long she’d been crying. A strand of straw stuck out in her hair, marring the silkiness.

Stephen moved to sit beside her on a bale of hay, still wearing black evening attire from dinner earlier. Emily’s skirts were spread out, and the gown was so many years out of fashion, it was likely one she’d inherited from her mother. The square bodice bared her skin, and the light swell of adolescent breasts pushed against the fabric. He jerked his gaze away, knowing he shouldn’t be looking at her in that way.

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just needed to have a good cry.”

“What’s happened?” He drew up a bale of hay closer to her. It didn’t occur to him to worry about propriety or being discovered alone with her. This was Emily, the girl he’d known since he was seven years old.

“It’s foolish, really. I knew there wouldn’t be any presents this morning. But Mother told us to hang up our stockings near the fireplace.” She braved a smile. “They were empty when we woke up, just as I thought they’d be.”

Stephen reached into his pocket for an orange he’d gotten in his own stocking and offered it to her.

“I don’t care about that.” Another tear slid down her cheek, and she sniffled. “But if you could have seen my mother’s face…It broke her heart that she had nothing to give us.”

He put his arm around her shoulders. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched her, but this time, Emily stiffened. “I didn’t come here for your pity.”

“I never thought that.” He peeled the orange and divided a section. Juice dripped from his fingers as he slipped it into her mouth. He’d wanted to console her, but when his fingers touched her lips, something changed. It was a ripple of intensity, an awareness that he tried to push below the surface.

The rose gown outlined firm breasts, while her slender waist swelled into rounded hips. The need to hold her, to caress the softness of her skin, evoked strange feelings inside. He shifted his coat, trying to hide his unbidden response to her. To distract himself, he tasted a slice of the orange. There was a hint of tartness beneath the juice, but it was sweet just the same. He gave Emily another piece, and after she ate it, he saw a droplet of juice upon her lips.

“Why are you looking at me that way?”

Stephen found himself leaning in, letting instinct guide him. He wanted to soothe her wounded feelings, though he was afraid she might push him away. “It’s going to be all right, Emily.”

As though coaxing a wild animal to draw closer, he cupped the softness of her cheek. He traced the fragile jaw, the delicate eyelids. She closed her eyes, as though drinking in his touch.

“Whitmore, I’m not sure you should—”

He cut off her words, kissing her. Her lips were warm, supple and smooth. He tasted the orange mingled with her tears, the worries she held deep inside. He’d meant only to offer comfort, but a moment later, her arms wound around his neck. She poured her heart into the kiss, and her innocent response shredded his control.

Stephen ran his hands down her spine, bringing her hips close. Her lean body fitted to his, and in that moment, he ignored everything he’d been taught about the ways between a man and a woman. There was nothing dignified or respectful about what he was feeling right now.

He wanted to lower her bodice, to bare the skin of her breasts. Through the thin fabric, he could see the cockled nipples, and without asking permission, he moved his hands to touch them. She let out a gasp of shock but didn’t pull away.

It should have been awkward, but instead, it was wondrous to discover that there was something more, beneath their friendship. Something forbidden.

He’d wanted to explore it further, but Emily drew back. “Don’t. I can’t breathe right now.”

Her face was bright red, and she trembled. His own breathing was shaky, and the pain of unresolved desire was making itself known. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to touch you like that.”

“Why did you?” She was holding herself far away from him, as though she didn’t trust him to keep his distance.

Right now, he wasn’t certain himself. “I don’t know.” To break up the raw nerves gathering in his stomach, he offered her the rest of the orange. Emily divided it, handing him the larger section.

For a long time, they stayed silent, not looking at each other. He was afraid that with one glance at her face, he would fall under her spell once again.

“When I was little,” Emily whispered, “I used to dream that a handsome prince would come and rescue me from my family.” She uttered a harsh laugh. “Do you think that will ever happen?”

He extended his open palm to her. She took it, holding his hand. “For your sake, I hope it does.” A part of him hoped that he might be the one to rescue her.

She ventured a smile, and he leaned in to kiss her again. The intensity of her mouth upon his drove out all knowledge of his surroundings. Sensual and giving, she’d kissed him back until his body ached for more.

He hadn’t heard anyone entering the stables, but strong arms grasped his shoulders, wrenching him away from Emily. He’d lost his balance, falling to the stable ground before he felt the crack of his father’s riding crop across his shoulders.

And after that night, he hadn’t seen her again.

Emily huddled beneath her cloak, trudging across the pasture. Years ago, her father had bred horses. Now, there was nothing left but barren land. The grass was damp with frost, and the sky was growing darker, clouded with the portent of snow.

It would take nearly an hour to walk the distance to Falkirk, and she didn’t want to be caught in the darkness.

You could have told Lord Whitmore that you didn’t have a horse. He’d have sent a carriage for you.

She knew that, in her heart. But a little walking never hurt anyone.

The snow began to fall, a veil of flakes coating the grass. The cold didn’t bother her, for the brisk walk kept her spirits high. But when the sky grew even darker, the snow drifting faster, she cast a backward glance at Hollingford House. The manor sat against the hill, a small dot in the distance. Likely by now it was safer to continue toward Falkirk than to turn back. Doggedly, she kept onward, praying that she wouldn’t lose sight of the road.

With one foot in front of the next, she followed the disappearing path. A light note of fear rose up when she realized that within a few more minutes, the road would be gone beneath a blanket of snow.

She peered hard into the distance, hoping for a glimpse of Falkirk. It couldn’t be very far now. Before her anxiety could deepen, she saw a coach approaching. She stepped to the side, intending to let it pass, but instead it came to a stop before her.