The Accidental Countess. Michelle Willingham

get any worse.’ With a clatter, she set the saucer down.

      He had little patience for her frustration. Damn it all, he was the one who’d been wounded. And each time he tried to reach back and seize the memories, it was as if they faded into smoke. What had happened to him?

       ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he responded. ‘What is your name?’

      ‘My name is Emily.’ She leaned in, her gaze penetrating. Almost as if she were waiting for him to say something.

      Hazy bits of the past shifted together. Emily Barrow. The Baron of Hollingford’s daughter. My God. He hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years. He stared hard at her, unable to believe it was true. Though her rigid posture proclaimed her as a modest woman of virtue, he remembered her throwing rocks at his carriage. And climbing trees to spy on him.

      And kissing him when he’d been an awkward, adolescent boy.

      He shook the thought away,thankful that at least some of his memories remained. ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I live here.’ With an overbright smile, she added, ‘Don’t you remember your wife?’

      Her revelation stunned him into silence. His wife? What was she talking about? He wasn’t married.

      ‘You must be joking.’ He wasn’t an impulsive man. He planned every moment of every day. Getting married to a woman he hadn’t seen in years wasn’t at all something he would do. Unless he’d gotten extremely deep in his cups one night, she had to be lying. And by God, if Emily Barrow thought to take advantage of him, she would be sorry for it.

      ‘I would never joke about something like this.’ She held out the cup of tea, but he dismissed it. He had no intention of drinking anything she gave him. His vision swam, and a rushing sound filled his ears.

      Closing his eyes, he waited for the dizziness to pass. When the world righted itself, he studied the room. Heavy blue curtains hung across the canopied bed, while bookcases overflowing with books filled another wall. The pieces of remembrance snapped together as he recognised his bedchamber within Falkirk House, one of the country estates. For the life of him he didn’t know how he’d arrived here.

      ‘How long have I been at Falkirk?’

      ‘Two days.’

      ‘And before that?’

      She shrugged. ‘You left for London a week after our wedding. I haven’t seen you since February. Why don’t you tell me where you’ve been?’

      He tried to reach for the memory, but nothing remained, not even the smallest fragment of a vision. Like a gaping hole, he’d lost a part of himself. It frustrated the hell out of him, having pieces of his life gone. He could remember most of his childhood and adolescence. He even recalled working upon a list of accounts for one of the estates in January. But after that…nothing.

      ‘What day is it?’ he asked, trying to pinpoint the last memory he had.

      ‘The twentieth of May.’

      He clenched the bedcovers. February, March, April, almost all of May…three and a half months of his life were entirely gone. He closed his eyes, trying to force himself to remember. But the harder he struggled, the worse his head ached.

      ‘Where were you?’ she asked. There was worry inside her tone, though he found it hard to believe she cared. Not after she’d threatened to poison him.

      ‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘But I certainly don’t remember getting married.’

      ‘You might not remember it, but it’s true.’

      Something was wrong, something she wasn’t telling him. There was a desperate air about her, as though she had nowhere else to go. Likely he’d caught her in the lie.

      ‘You are welcome to leave,’ he suggested. ‘Obviously my return offended you.’

      Tears glimmered in her eyes, and softly, she replied, ‘You have no idea what I’ve been through. I thought I’d never see you again.’

      She dipped the cool cloth back into the basin, wringing out the water. Then she set it upon his forehead, her hand grazing his cheek. The gesture was completely at odds with her sharp words.

      ‘You’re not my wife.’

      She crossed her arms over her chest, drawing his gaze towards her silhouette. A bit on the thin side, but the soft curve of her breasts caught his eye. The top button of her gown had come loose, revealing a forbidden glimpse of skin.

      ‘Yes, I am.’ She lowered her arms, gathering her courage as she stared at him. But her full lips parted, her shoulders rising and falling with a quickening breath. The fallen strand of golden hair rested against the black serge.

      She’d never been able to tame her hair, even as a girl. He’d helped her with hairpins on more than one occasion, to help her avoid a scolding.

      Now the task took on an intimacy, one more suited to a husband. Had he truly married her? Had he unbuttoned her gowns, tasting the silk of her skin? From the way she drew back, he didn’t think so.

      ‘I want to see a doctor,’ he said, changing the subject.

      ‘Doctor Parsons examined you last night. I’m to change your bandages and keep the wound clean. He’ll return tomorrow.’ She lifted the lip of the tea cup to his mouth again, but he didn’t drink.

      The china clattered, revealing her shaking hands. Despite her bitterness, there was a look on her face that didn’t quite match her words. He caught a glimpse of something more…something lost and lonely.

      He forced himself not to pity her. For God’s sakes, the woman had threatened to kill him.

      At last, she gave up and set the cup down. ‘I didn’t poison this cup,’ she said with reluctance. ‘There wasn’t any arsenic to be had.’

      ‘Laudanum would work,’ he advised. ‘In large doses.’ Though why he was offering suggestions, he didn’t know.

      ‘I’ll remember that for next time.’ Colour stained her cheeks, but she didn’t smile.

      ‘Why did I marry you?’ he asked softly.

      She picked up the tray containing the teapot and cup. ‘You should rest for a while. I’ll be happy to answer your questions. Later, that is.’

      ‘I want to know now. Sit down.’

      She ignored him and moved towards the door. He might as well have been ordering a brick wall to sit. If the unthinkable had happened, if he really and truly had gone off and married her, one thing was certain. He had lost more than his memory.

      He’d lost his mind.

      Emily fled to a nearby bedchamber and set the tea tray down with shaking fingers. The Earl of Whitmore was back. And he didn’t remember a single moment of their marriage.

      Damn him. Hot, choking tears slid down her cheeks, despite her best efforts to keep herself together. It was like having him back from the dead. He’d been away for so long, she’d almost started to believe that he was dead, even though there was no body.

       She’d tried so hard to forget about him. Every single day of the past few months, she’d reminded herself that she’d meant nothing to her husband.

      Her hand clenched, and she wept into her palm. Only a week after their wedding, he’d returned to London. He’d gone into the arms of his mistress. While she, the naive little wife, tucked away at the country estate where she wasn’t supposed to learn about her husband’s indiscretions. It made her sick, just thinking about it.

      Marriages were like that, she’d heard. But she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Such a fool she had been. She’d been swept away by his charm. Her fairy tale had come true, with the handsome Earl offering to marry the impoverished maiden.

      But it had