Читать книгу The Accidental Countess - Michelle Willingham - Страница 13

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.