The Accidental Countess. Michelle Willingham

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 a servant. Emily straightened, though it would do nothing to change Farnsworth’s opinion of her.

      ‘Bring Lady Whitmore a plate of her own. And more tea,’ Whitmore added.

      ‘No, really—I don’t need a thing.’

      His dark glare silenced her. When the butler had departed, he folded his arms across his chest. ‘We must come to terms on a few things. I give the orders, and you are to obey them.’

      Did he think he was the King of England? ‘Yes, your Majesty.’

      He, apparently, found no amusement in her mockery. ‘Furthermore, when Farnsworth brings up the tray, you are to eat every morsel of food.’

      ‘And if I don’t?’

      ‘You wish for the children to eat, do you not?’

      At his implied threat that he would refuse them food, her fury exploded. ‘You wouldn’t dare starve innocent children on your own ridiculous whims.’

      ‘They aren’t my children,’ he pointed out. ‘And if you want me to house them, clothe them and feed them, you will obey.’

      Stephen saw the look of fear in her eyes and felt a trace of guilt for making the threat. Not too much, however. From the looks of it, Emily had not eaten a full meal in far too long. If a false implication would encourage her to eat, he had no qualms about exaggerating.

      Her cheekbones stood out in a face so delicate, it could have been crystal. Her eyes were large, a haunting whisky brown. A stray tendril of golden hair rested against her cheek where a smudge of flour marred her skin.

      ‘They are your responsibility,’ she said.

      Farnsworth returned with the tray a few minutes later. Emily ate, her eyes blazing with murder. And yet, he could see the desperation in her carefully controlled appetite.

      ‘I have some questions I want you to answer,’ he began. ‘Starting with our wedding day.’

      She gave her full attention to the eggs, behaving as though she hadn’t heard him. Stephen reached out and took her left hand. Upon her third finger rested the family heirloom ring. A large ruby glinted from the gold band. He rubbed his finger across the stone, her fingers cool within his palm.

      ‘I don’t remember the marriage ceremony at all. I don’t even remember giving you this ring. For all I know, you stole it.’

      She glared at him. ‘Do you want it back?’

      ‘Possibly.’ He stared at the ring, trying to piece the memory together. Emily struggled to pull her hand away, but he held it fast.

      ‘Tell me about our wedding.’

      ‘It snowed that day,’ she whispered. The look upon her face was of a woman lost.

      ‘Did we have feelings for one another?’ he asked quietly.

      At that, Emily choked. She covered it with a laugh, but he could see the shadow of hurt behind her eyes. ‘You adored me. We married on impulse.’

      ‘I mean the real reason, Emily.’

      She studied her breakfast again. ‘I don’t suppose I truly know the answer. I thought you cared for me.’ Pain silhouetted her words. ‘I was wrong.’

      ‘Did I compromise you?’ he asked, running his thumb over the edge of her hand. Her palms were rough, like a servant’s.

      Emily jerked her hand away. ‘No. And I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.’

      ‘Why did you marry me?’ What was this sadness in her eyes? She kept up such strong defences, he couldn’t see past the anger to understand it.

      Emily set her plate aside, ignoring the remainder of the food. ‘I had my reasons.’ Upon her face he saw veiled embarrassment. She had spoken of feelings between them. Had he ever claimed to love her?

      She was pretty, as she’d always been. Outspoken, with a tongue like a razor. And if she’d married him on such a sudden whim, her impulsive behaviour hadn’t changed.

      ‘I must return to London,’ he said, changing the subject. He kept detailed ledgers in his study. If there were answers to be had, he would find them there. ‘As soon as I am healed, you will journey with me.’

      ‘No!’ She caught herself and amended, ‘That is, I’d rather not.’

      The alarm in her voice alerted his suspicions. ‘Why are you so afraid of London?’

      ‘Your father won’t want to see us. And the children need me here.’ She fumbled with her hands as though searching for a stronger excuse.

      ‘I will hire a nursemaid. In fact, I have already ordered Farnsworth to procure several for you to interview. I cannot believe the man has not already done so.’

      ‘I hired a wet nurse for the baby. Anna takes care of both Victoria and Royce.’

      ‘Royce needs a tutor, as well as a nursemaid.’ When she made no reply, he switched his tactics. ‘Don’t you think my family will wonder why I haven’t brought my wife with me?’

      Her cheeks turned scarlet. Her reluctance had to mean they weren’t married. He was sure of it.

      But she startled him by lifting her chin. ‘I don’t care what they think. I won’t go to London with you. Not now. Not ever.’ She rose to her feet and strode from the room. The door slammed shut behind her.

      She was afraid. And unless he was very much mistaken, Stephen had a grave feeling that his wife knew far more about the night he had disappeared than he’d suspected. It did not bode well for their future together.

       Chapter Three

       Cakes served at tea time must always be light and delectable. A hostess should smile and greet her guests with a gracious heart.

      —Emily Barrow’s Cook Book

      Later that morning, Dr Parsons checked the bandages and nodded his approval. ‘Your wife has done well caring for you,’ he remarked. ‘The wounds are clean, and your bruises are healing nicely. I should think you will be back on your feet within days.’

      ‘I intend to go to London,’ Stephen remarked. ‘Three days from now, if possible.’

      ‘My lord, I would advise against undue haste. If I may, I’d ask you to wait another week before you go.’

      ‘I do not recall anything of the accident,’ Stephen admitted. ‘Nor what happened to me during the past three months.’

      ‘Memory loss can occur with an accident.’ The doctor replaced the bandage, tying it off. ‘I have seen it in many patients, particularly those with traumatic incidents. Often a man’s mind will overshadow the event it does not wish to remember.’

      ‘When will the rest of my memories return?’ Stephen demanded.

      ‘To be frank, they might not. In cases such as yours, it is difficult to say. Your head wound and contusions are recent, but I doubt if they had anything to do with your memory loss.’ The doctor added, ‘I suspect that you were the victim of violence several months ago, judging from the knife wound. It may be that you won’t want to remember it. But I can say with all confidence, your headaches and pain should be gone within