The Accidental Countess. Michelle Willingham

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