Читать книгу The Accidental Countess - Michelle Willingham - Страница 12

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.