The Accidental Countess. Michelle Willingham

biscuit as bait. A sullen-faced lad gave the butler a defiant glare, but he took a single step forward. ‘It’s all right. Come here, please,’ the butler crooned.

      ‘Good God, Farnsworth. The boy isn’t a dog. Cease treating him like one.’ Stephen’s patience had reached its limit.

      ‘My lord, he won’t listen.’ The butler straightened, and predictably the boy disappeared behind a door.

      ‘I shall handle this.’ Stephen strode towards the bedchamber. When he tried the door handle, it was locked.

      ‘The key, if you please, Farnsworth.’

      ‘My lord, I am terribly sorry. I shall have to fetch it.’ The butler scrambled off, grateful to escape.

      For a moment, Stephen listened outside the door while pondering his next move. Treating the boy like a child would not work. Instead, he knocked.

      ‘Go away!’

      That was to be expected. Any proper opponent would be foolish to simply surrender. But he, of course, had the proper incentive.

      ‘You wish to leave my house, do you not?’

      A pause. The strategy was not a move the boy had anticipated. ‘Yes.’

      ‘I suggest an exchange of information. You tell me what I wish to know, and I will see to your departure.’ He did not mention where, but school was a likely prospect. The boy needed an education, after all.

      A longer pause.

      The door clicked and opened slightly. Stephen hid his smile of victory. It would not do to upset the balance just yet. He needed answers, and he was counting upon the child’s honesty to get them.

      Stephen entered the room while a pair of young suspicious eyes watched him.

      ‘Roland, is it?’ he began.

      ‘My name is Royce.’ The boy sent him a hard look and crossed his arms. ‘And I don’t like you.’

      Stephen shrugged. ‘I can’t say as I like you much either.’

      His response seemed to meet with Royce’s approval. The lines had been drawn, the enemy lines established.

      ‘Sit down.’ He gestured towards a footstool, but Royce refused. Stephan began with, ‘How long have you been living here at Falkirk?’

      ‘Since February.’ The boy’s attention moved to the door as though he were planning an escape.

      ‘Your aunt brought you here?’

      The boy’s face softened at the mention of Emily, then grew defensive. ‘She sent for us, yes.’ He fidgeted, looking down at his hands. ‘You’re very tall,’ he said suddenly.

      ‘Do not change the subject.’ Stephen resumed his interrogation. ‘Why did your aunt marry me?’

      Fear swept across Royce’s pale, thin face. ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘I think you do. You’d best tell me the truth.’

      The boy’s attention lowered to the floor, and he clenched his fists. ‘I want my papa.’

      Stephen gentled his tone. ‘I was sorry to hear about your father.’ He reached out to the boy, but Royce bolted for the door.

      Stephen caught him before he could flee. The child’s shoulders trembled, and he broke into sobs. ‘I want Papa.’ Tears ran down his cheeks, and Royce fought to free himself.

      It was useless. He should have known better than to demand answers from a child.

      ‘What have you done?’ The door flew open, and Emily swept into the room. As soon as she saw Royce, she bent down and gathered him into her arms. ‘You’ve made him cry.’

      Like a furious mother lioness, she released the full force of her wrath. ‘He’s only a boy.’

      ‘I asked him a few questions,’ Stephen admitted. He felt sheepish, for the idea had not been a good one.

      Emily mustered a smile for Royce. ‘Go and see Lizbeth. She has a slice of cake waiting for you.’

      The promise of cake was all that was needed to send the child dashing from the room. When Royce had gone, Emily unleashed her fury. ‘You are heartless. What did you say to him?’

      There was true fear in her eyes, not just anger. ‘I asked him a few questions.’ He took a step closer, watching her tremble. ‘What are you so afraid of, Emily?’

      ‘He doesn’t know his father is dead.’

      ‘Why not?’

      A deep weariness edged her expression. The rage grew calm as she gathered her composure. ‘It’s my fault. I couldn’t bear to hurt him. He lost his mother when Victoria was born. And now his father.’

      Stephen took her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken. Her hands were warm, and he smelled the light fragrance of vanilla near her nape. Like the sugar biscuits, he realised. And he found himself wanting to draw nearer. ‘Hiding the truth won’t make it go away.’

      ‘And sometimes no one will believe the truth when it is spoken.’ She held his scrutiny, jerking her hand away. ‘Go to London. You’ll find the answers you seek there.’

      Her icy demeanour had returned. With her honey-gold hair tucked neatly into black netting, her face scrubbed clean, she appeared a paragon of virtue. She had changed her dress into an older gown, a dull black bombazine. Its hemline was frayed and it had been remade more than once.

      He grew irritated at her martyrdom and seized both wrists. Taking her left hand, he gripped her palm so that the wedding ring pressed into her skin. ‘Stop sniveling and answer my questions. What happened to your brother?’

      ‘His creditors killed him while you were visiting your mistress,’ she spat. ‘He bled to death.’

      ‘I don’t have a mistress,’ Stephen contradicted. Emily tried to break free, but he refused to let go. ‘Do you truly believe I would let a man die if I had the power to stop it?’

      ‘No,’ she admitted. Even so, doubts clouded her face.

      He moved closer, hoping to unravel her lies. But when his hand slipped around her waist, he saw the genuine grief in her eyes. Beneath the bombazine, the heat of her skin warmed his palm. His fingers touched one of the tiny buttons upon her gown, toying with it. ‘Who told you I was with my mistress?’

      ‘The men who brought Daniel’s body to me.’ She tried again to pull away, but he held her captive. Regardless of the means, he would have his answers.

      ‘And who were they?’ His hand moved up her spine, tracing the dozens of tiny buttons until he reached one at the nape of her neck. With the flick of a thumb, he revealed a bit of skin. He wanted to gauge her reaction.

      ‘I—I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘I thought they were your solicitors or from your father. They were looking for you.’

      Her hand clamped over his when he grazed her skin. ‘Don’t touch me.’

      He ignored her, loosening another button. ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because you don’t mean it. You don’t want me. Any more than I want you.’

       A sudden flash of memory took hold. Emily stood before the fireplace in his bedchamber at Falkirk, her hair hanging down. Her fingers moved to unbutton his frockcoat, and her face was flushed with desire.

      He dropped his hand away from her when the fleeting vision faded. Where had it come from? Was it real? Had they been lovers? Frustration clawed at his mind when the emptiness returned.

      He leaned in close, so his face nearly touched hers. ‘Tell me why I married you.’ With her so near, he could smell the fragrance of vanilla. Her clear eyes were confused, her cheeks pale.

      She