The Accidental Countess. Michelle Willingham

of him.

      ‘And you needn’t worry about the cooking, my lady,’ Lizbeth added. ‘Mrs Deepford and myself will take care of it until the new cook arrives.’

      ‘Thank you, Lizbeth.’ Emily relaxed slightly. Her hasty offer to cook for the household was impossible, she knew, though she had enjoyed seeing Farnsworth’s look of horror. ‘I am sorry to have caused you both more work.’

      ‘Oh, no, it’s grateful we are. Henri should have been sacked long ago.’

      A small part of Emily worried that she had overstepped her bounds. The Earl might not appreciate her interfering with staff members, not with her own precarious position. She needed to apologise for her cross words earlier.

      ‘Have you heard anything else?’ Emily asked Lizbeth. ‘From the Earl, I mean. Has he remembered anything?’

      ‘No, my lady. I’ve not heard that he has.’ Lizbeth cracked an egg into a bowl.

      The bell sounded, and Lizbeth jumped up. ‘It’s his lordship. He’ll be wanting his breakfast tray.’

      ‘I’ll take it,’ Emily offered. She wanted to speak with him about the children. The heaping platter of delicious food could improve his temperament while she explained why throwing their family out into the streets would be a very bad idea.

      Her stomach grumbled, but she ignored it. She had eaten a slice of toasted bread and a cup of tea, which was enough for her.

      By the time she finished climbing the back staircase leading to the Earl’s bedchamber, she was out of breath. The heavy tray made her arms ache, but she pressed onwards. Knocking lightly, she heard him call, ‘Enter.’

      The Earl was seated in a wingback chair, reading The Times. He wore charcoal trousers, a dark blue frockcoat, pinstriped waistcoat and a white cotton shirt. His dark cravat was tied in a simple knot without any fuss. The shadow of a beard lined his cheeks, and his intense gaze rested upon her with interest.

      His hair was wet, drops of water glistening at his temples. He’d taken a bath, she realised.

      A slight shiver ran through her at the thought of him sinking into a tub of water, his muscled arms resting upon the edge. She had seen for herself the hard ridges of his stomach, the reddened scar across his pectorals.

      A wicked image arose, of soap sliding over those muscles, of what it would be like to touch him. What it would be like, if he lowered his body upon hers, until she yielded to him.

      Like before…

      An unbearable loneliness caught her. He had kissed her on the night he’d left, as though he would never let her go. Now it was as if that man had never existed.

      An invisible fist struck her in the stomach, the hurt rising. When he’d arrived back at Falkirk, her first instinct had been to rush towards him, to hold him tight and thank God that he was alive.

      But he didn’t know her any more. He’d broken promises and betrayed her with another woman. She couldn’t let go of that.

      She blinked back the emotions threatening to spill over. Whitmore didn’t feel anything towards her any more, and she didn’t know if he ever would again.

      ‘Are you planning to set that down or continue staring at me?’

      Her face flamed, but she managed to lower the tray. ‘Your breakfast, sire.’ She bobbed a false curtsy.

      ‘I would prefer “my lord”.’

      Emily had meant the address as sarcasm, but clearly the Earl did not recognise it. Her temper flared. ‘Will there be anything else? Shall I bow down before you and lick your boots?’

      ‘Perhaps later.’ The interest in his voice made it sound as if he didn’t mind that idea at all. She whirled and marched towards the door.

      ‘I am not finished with you yet,’ he said. She sent him a look filled with venom, but his attention remained on The Times. He lifted a pair of spectacles to the bridge of his nose. She had never seen them before, never knew he wore them for reading. It reminded her that this was not a man who could be easily fooled.

      Proper, stiff and steadfast in his beliefs, he had become every bit the shadow of his father, the Marquess. Her nerves coiled in her stomach at the thought.

      ‘Would you care for tea?’ she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady.

      He lowered the paper and regarded her. ‘Is it poisoned?’

      His overbearing attitude made her consider dumping the pot over his head. ‘You won’t know that until you are dead, now, will you?’ She smiled sweetly and poured the tea into a china cup. ‘Milk and sugar?’

      ‘I drink mine black. There’s less chance of you adding something to it.’

      ‘Unless I already have,’ she dared, offering him the cup. Perhaps he’d choke on it.

      His expression remained neutral, and he refused to take the cup. ‘You drink first.’

      ‘I haven’t poisoned it,’ she insisted.

      ‘Drink.’

      The arrogant tone of his voice annoyed her, but she obeyed. The hot tea tasted of rich spices with a heady aroma. ‘There. Are you satisfied now?’

      ‘Not quite.’ The Earl set the newspaper aside and gestured toward the food. ‘I want you to taste everything that is on the tray.’

      ‘I am not hungry.’

      At those words, he sent her a look that said he knew she was lying. ‘You look as though you haven’t eaten properly in weeks. You’re too thin. I won’t have the servants believing I don’t feed my own wife. If that’s what you are.’

      ‘I don’t care what they think.’

      ‘But I do. And if you wish to remain in this household along with the children, you will heed my wishes.’

      There. The threat was out. He really could make things worse for her, forcing her and the children to leave. And then where would she be? She could not support the children, nor give them a home.

      Emily’s cheeks flamed, but she stabbed a sausage with a fork. She wished it were one of his more delicate parts.

      She took a bite of the eggs, savouring the flavor. Oh, sweet saints above. She closed her eyes for just a second, enjoying the food. Perhaps with a bit more salt or even chopped pieces of bacon, the eggs would taste even better. Ideas for cooking recipes swarmed through her mind as she enjoyed the taste of Elysium, courtesy of His Arrogance.

      The sound of a ringing bell broke through her moment. Emily opened her eyes, but the Earl gave no hint as to why he had summoned the parlour maid.

      ‘I did not spit in your food.’

      His eyes held not a trace of humour. ‘I never said you did.’

      She pushed the plate towards him, but the awkwardness continued, making her wonder what else he wanted. ‘You may eat,’ she said. ‘As you can see, I am still alive.’

      He made no movement towards the food. He stared at her, his gaze questioning. His eyes were the soft grey of a London morning, his mouth firm and stoic. She had thought him to be a handsome man at one time. His features were strong, as though carved from stone.

      He was a statue now. A man with no feelings, who never revealed a trace of what he was thinking.

      Why had she let herself fall prey to his promises? The Earl had rescued her from a crumbling, debtridden estate. He’d sworn that he’d find her wayward brother and pay off Daniel’s debts. She had been so infatuated, she hadn’t stopped to wonder why.

      A knock sounded, but instead of a maid, the disapproving eyes of Farnsworth frowned down upon her. Emily sensed the butler’s silent censure of her clothing and her mannerisms. She was supposed to behave like a Countess, not