The Accidental Countess. Michelle Willingham

for it.’ A fist collided with her ear, and she bit back a cry of pain.

      When she turned around, the man was gone. Royce continued calling out to her, and Emily stumbled to her feet. With trembling hands, she wiped her face clean of the dirt.

      They’ve found us was all she could think. Daniel’s enemies, perhaps even the man who had killed him.

      She clenched her skirts, her gaze travelling down to the trampled herbs. Why did he want her brother’s ledgers? His demands made no sense. Daniel’s business investments had never been anything but failures.

      They weren’t safe here any longer. She could not allow Royce or Victoria to fall prey to her brother’s enemies. Wild thoughts of sending the children to America or even to the Orient crossed her mind.

      London. She would have to take the children to London. The Earl could protect all of them. The thought made her indignant. She hated to rely on anyone but herself. But they were less likely to be harmed if she stayed close to Whitmore.

      Her bruised heart ached at the thought of being near him. His promises had all been a lie, and now she was entangled in a marriage that was never meant to be.

      Worse was her reaction to his touch. Though he had done nothing more than hold her, it had evoked memories she’d tried to forget. Her body warmed at the thought. Skin to skin, his flesh joining with hers.

      No. Never again. She’d learned her lesson after their wedding night. It wouldn’t happen again. Resisting his advances would be easy enough if she closed her eyes and remembered every wrong he’d committed.

      Emily gritted her teeth at the thought of journeying several days in a coach. Royce would think it was a grand adventure while Victoria would wail the entire trip. A sickening knot formed in her stomach. Of course, she could take the train to London, but the very idea terrified her. She didn’t like moving at such speeds.

      She went inside and found Royce curled up on the staircase, his mouth pursed as he struggled to read a book of fairy tales he had brought from home. When he saw her, he smiled. ‘There you are. Will you read to me, Aunt Emily?’

      She wanted to say, ‘Of course’, and ruffle his hair. Instead, she shook her head. ‘Not now. I need to tell you something important. We’re going to London.’

      ‘To find Papa?’

      She shook her head, steeling her courage. The time had come to admit the truth. Why did she have to do this? Why did she have to tell him that another parent had died? It was bad enough when his mother had died in childbirth. To tell him that his father was gone quite simply broke her heart.

      She knelt down. Royce eyed her with suspicion. ‘You’re going away.’

      ‘No. That isn’t what I’ve come to say.’ She paused, trying to find the right way to tell him. There weren’t any words gentle enough to say what needed to be said.

      ‘Royce, your father is not coming back.’ She took his hands in hers.

      He bobbed his head. ‘Yes, he is. Papa promised me. He always keeps his promises.’

      ‘He can’t keep this one, Royce.’ The pain in her heart cracked and a tear escaped. ‘He died, sweeting.’

      Royce’s face never changed. It was as though she hadn’t spoken at all. He never breathed, never moved.

      ‘No. I don’t believe you.’ He pulled his hands away and picked up a tin soldier that had fallen on the braided rug. Making a shooting noise, he pretended the soldier had killed an imaginary enemy.

      ‘It’s true.’ She reached out to embrace him, but he jerked away.

      ‘No. I know he’ll come. He said he would.’

      Emily bowed her head while Royce continued to manipulate the soldier, acting as though she hadn’t spoken a word. With the tears caught deep in her throat, she squeezed his shoulder. ‘We’re leaving in the morning. Gather the things you want to take along.’

      His demeanour changed in the fraction of a moment. ‘I can’t leave. Papa knows we’re here. This is where I’m waiting for him.’

      Emily rose to her feet. ‘I am going down to the kitchen. I’ll have Mrs Deepford prepare your favourite meal tonight.’

      ‘I won’t go.’ His voice trembled, a note of anger rising.

      She did not reply, but turned her back to leave. Something small and sharp struck her on the shoulder before it clattered to the floor. Emily saw the fallen soldier Royce had thrown, but did not bend to pick it up.

      Behind her, her nephew wept softly.

      The next morning, Stephen dispatched messengers to all the parishes across the Scottish border. Though his mother insisted he was unmarried, he wasn’t sure whom to believe. At certain moments, erratic images flashed shadows upon his mind, of Emily in his embrace. He didn’t know if they were true or not. Behind her insurmountable wall of hatred lay a woman whom he’d cared about once.

      But he couldn’t believe he’d married her.

      The library door opened, and his father, James Chesterfield, Marquess of Rothburne, stood at the doorway. The Marquess studied Stephen without speaking a word. James wore black, as he always did, a streak of grey marring the temples of his dark hair. Tall, thin and ingrained in the belief that his blood was superior to everyone else’s, his father knew precisely how to command a room with a domineering presence.

      ‘Would you care to explain your actions?’ James began without prelude.

      Stephen did not rise to the bait. ‘It is good to see you again also, Father.’

      There was no welcome, no show of affection. Often, Stephen wondered whether his father had any feelings toward his children. They never talked. Since the death of Stephen’s eldest brother William many years ago, his father had behaved as if nothing were amiss. He had never spoken of the tragedy.

      The Marquess firmly believed in duty and tradition. It didn’t matter that Stephen was never meant to assume the title. He was the heir now, and as such, he was expected to embrace those expectations.

      ‘Your mother tells me you got married.’

      The unspoken words were, Without my permission.

      Stephen did not deny it, nor did he affirm his father’s accusation. ‘The choice of a wife is mine, I believe. I do not require your consent.’

      ‘You are wrong in that.’ James straightened into the posture of a military general. ‘Your responsibilities as my heir include choosing a suitable wife.’

      ‘There is nothing unsuitable about Emily Barrow. She is a baron’s daughter,’ he reminded his father.

      ‘And her family is ridden with scandal. You might as well have married a scullery maid. No one in polite society will receive her.’

      And, of course, society’s dictates were of the utmost importance. Stephen suddenly grasped a very real reason why he might have wed Emily. Marrying her was the perfect way to defy his father’s wishes. James Chesterfield could not control his choice of a wife.

      ‘Is that all?’ he asked. He stared at his father, eye to eye.

      ‘Not quite. You will see to it that no one learns of your…indiscretion, until I have investigated the means of dissolving the marriage. I hope, for your sake, that it can still be done.’ Having voiced his decree, the Marquess saw no reason to remain. He departed without another word.

      Stephen opened a cabinet and poured himself a brandy. As he warmed the glass in his hand, his fingers tightened around the stem. The Marquess seemed unaware that he could no longer dictate his son’s choices.

      He took a sip of the brandy, revelling in silent defiance. It occurred to him that it was more than past time to secure a new residence. He’d suffered long enough at Rothburne House, his future inheritance. And though