The Accidental Countess. Michelle Willingham

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 gripped her hands together so tightly her knuckles whitened. With a light shrug she met his gaze. ‘You said you wanted to take care of me, to help our family. And like a fool, I wanted to believe you loved me.’

      He studied her a moment. She looked so lost, so vulnerable. Behind her mask of bitterness he caught a glimpse of the girl he’d once known. She’d been his best friend, long ago. And now she was his wife.

      The lost three months felt like a lifetime.

      ‘How did it happen?’ he asked. Had he courted her? Was it an impulsive move, or had he been forced into it?

      ‘It was just after St Valentine’s Day,’ she remarked with a hint of irony. ‘In Scotland. I have the marriage certificate, if you want to see it.’

      ‘Perhaps later.’ Documents of that nature could still be forged. He preferred to send a trusted servant to see the parish records.

      He suspected that he would not get an honest answer from her, not when she was desperate to protect the children’s welfare. It had to have been an arrangement between them, a bargain of sorts.

      But for her, there had been more.

      Emily tried to pull away, but he refused to let her escape. She was so fragile within his grasp, like a glass about to shatter.

      ‘Were there feelings between us?’ he asked. He leaned in so close he could feel her breath upon his face. If he moved his mouth to the side, it would graze her lips in a soft kiss. He waited for her to push at him, to curse him for touching her.

      She gave him no answer. Instead, her body seemed to conform to his. Her hands rested upon his shoulders while he idly traced a path up her spine. The years seemed to fall away until she was once again the young girl he’d practised kissing in a stable. Only now, he held a woman in his arms. A beautiful, hot-tempered woman who made him lose his sense of reason the moment he touched her.

      He didn’t kiss her, though he wanted to. There were too many unanswered questions.

      When he stepped backwards, Emily grasped her arms to shield herself. ‘Are you going to annul our marriage?’

      The fear in her eyes made him hesitate. He wanted to say yes. Instead, he answered truthfully, ‘I don’t know yet.’

      He traced the outline of her face with his thumb. ‘I am going to find out what happened to me, Emily,’ he told her. ‘Stay here until I return from London.’

      Her broken smile bothered him. ‘Where else could I go?’

      ‘Sweet Christmas.’ Christine Chesterfield, the Marchioness of Rothburne, covered her heart with her palm when she saw Stephen. He embraced his mother, and she squeezed him tightly just before her fist collided with his ear.

      ‘I should have you horsewhipped. You frightened me to death. I thought heathens had kidnapped you and taken you off to some forsaken island in the middle of nowhere.’

      Stephen rubbed his ear and managed a smile. For all he knew, his mother might have been correct concerning his whereabouts. ‘I sent word before I arrived.’

      ‘You should have contacted me long before then. You left Lord Carstairs’s ball, which made Lady Carstairs extremely cross, by the by. And then you vanished since February. Even the servants couldn’t tell me where you were.’

      Lady Rothburne guided him to sit down, and poured a cup of tea. ‘Now, you simply must tell me everything that’s happened since you left.’

      ‘There isn’t much to tell,’ he admitted. He did not possess enough memories to offer an honest accounting, so he gave her what truths he could. ‘I’ve been convalescing at Falkirk House in the country.’

      ‘You were injured?’ Immediately she reached out and patted the ear she’d boxed. ‘Forgive me, Stephen. I didn’t know. But you’re well now?’

      ‘Better. I have little memory of what happened. I came to London to look for the answers.’

      Lady Rothburne took a deep sip of the tea, and worry lines edged her mouth. ‘I don’t like the thought of some ruffian doing you harm. I shall call upon Lady Thistlewaite and ask for her assistance.’

      At the mention of his mother’s dearest friend, Stephen suppressed a groan. Lady Thistlewaite had her sources of gossip, like most women. Her methods, however, left much to be desired. He could envision it now, a stout matron knocking upon an unsuspecting man’s door with her parasol, demanding, ‘Are you the barbarian who clouted Lady Rothburne’s son upon the head?’

      ‘And,’ his mother continued, ‘I think you should attend the Yarrington musicale next week. It will take your mind off matters.’ She put on a bright smile and took his hand. ‘Your father and I insist.’

      At the mention of the Marquess, a gnawing irritation formed in his gut. ‘Mother, I really don’t think—’

      ‘Oh, pish posh. I know exactly what you need. A lovely young woman at your side, that’s what. Someone to share your troubles. And Miss Lily Hereford has missed you quite dreadfully. Why, the two of you make such a good pair. I have my heart quite set upon you marrying her. In fact—’ she leaned in close as if imparting a great secret ‘—your father and I have already begun drawing up the guest list for your wedding. Miss Hereford would make you the perfect wife, after all. She is a woman of impeccable breeding.’

      At his mother’s assertion, Stephen’s mouth tightened. ‘Married?’

      His mother laughed. ‘Well, of course, Stephen. If anyone is one of society’s most eligible bachelors, it’s you.’

      She was serious. Blood roared in his ears as his mind processed what she had said.

      It seemed Emily Barrow had lied to him after all.

       Chapter Four

       When a cake darkens before it has fully risen, the fire may be too hot. More cakes have been ruined by an inadequate flame or by one that is too fierce. It is not necessary to stoke an inferno…

      —Emily Barrow’s Cook Book

      He’d been gone for only three days, but Emily’s uneasiness grew with each passing hour. Was the Earl all right? Had his wounds healed fully?

      Stop it. She took a deep breath and knelt down on the soft lawn of Falkirk House beside the herb garden. He’s gone. That was what you wanted.

      But no matter how she tried to slip back into her former pattern of living, it wasn’t the same. With a pair of scissors, she hacked several handfuls of fresh thyme for the roasted chicken she had planned. Despondency seemed to settle over her shoulders, like a familiar burden. Normally the gardens lifted her spirits, particularly the scent of fresh herbs. And here, the large grove of arbour vitae hid her from the house in a quiet green space.

      What if the Earl never came back? Or what if he divorced her? Her throat ached with unshed tears, even as she ordered herself not to cry. He hadn’t loved her when he’d offered to marry her. And now she simply had to live with those consequences.

      A rough palm covered her mouth. She tried to scream, but her attacker’s fingers encircled her throat.

      ‘If you make a sound, I’ll snap your neck,’ he whispered. In a swift motion, he shoved