shivered. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes bleak. ‘Don’t make me remember this.’
He stopped, but held her hand, his fingers encircling the heavy gold ring. She behaved like an untouched woman, innocent and fresh. But she didn’t push him away, either. Her consternation made him suspect that there had once been more between them. Reluctantly, he let her go.
Her shoulders lowered with relief. Stephen donned his shirt and waistcoat, hurrying with the buttons of his frock-coat. ‘Come.’
He took her by the hand, leading her down the servants’ back staircase. ‘The coach is outside?’
She nodded. Stephen located his overcoat and an umbrella, following her. The freezing rain buffetted the umbrella, and she was forced to remain beside him to be shielded from the rain. He took her palm, and she studied the streets. ‘There. I see it.’
Stephen signalled to the coachman and within moments he helped Emily inside the vehicle. He recognised the driver from Falkirk House and was thankful that at least his wife had enough sense to bring an escort with them. After giving the coachman directions, they were on their way.
When he sat beside Emily, the young boy scowled. ‘What is he doing here?’
‘Royce,’ Emily warned.
‘I am taking you to a warm bed to sleep,’ Stephen remarked. ‘Unless you’d rather I leave you outside in the rain?’
Royce’s frown deepened, and he crossed his arms. ‘I’d rather sleep anywhere than in your house.’
Stephen was not about to tolerate such insolence. Knocking against the coach’s door, he ordered the driver to stop.
‘What are you doing?’ Emily looked horrified.
Stephen opened the door. ‘Be my guest,’ he invited the boy. The rain splattered against the coach door, the wind blowing it in their faces. At the sudden rush of cold, the infant began howling, her face pinched with surprise.
There was just enough fear, just enough uncertainty to keep Royce frozen in his seat. When he didn’t move, Stephen shut the door.
‘Understand this. I will not abide rudeness in the presence of your aunt. You will respect my authority and obey.’
The boy’s face filled with fury, but he managed a nod.
‘Good.’ Stephen signalled for the coachman to drive on. But one matter was certain—he and the boy were now clear enemies.
Chapter Five
A good wife should never purchase inferior ingredients. It is better to be frugal and save pennies wisely, in order to procure the very best cream and butter. Others judge a cook by her confections…
—Emily Barrow’s Cook Book
Stephen unlocked the door of the town house. He’d only been inside on one other occasion, when he’d decided to buy the property. It had belonged to a debt-ridden widower, Lord Brougham, who was more than happy to sell it. Though it was by no means a large residence, it was located near Mayfair in an excellent part of town.
A musty odour blanketed the hallway, and the entire house needed a good airing. Stephen rested his hand on the staircase banister, while Emily ushered the children inside.
She held the infant close to her cheek, while Royce clung to her skirts. Though she held her posture perfectly straight, her eyes were dimmed with exhaustion. How had she managed the two-day journey with no one but his coachman and the wet nurse as escorts?
‘There isn’t a nursery,’ Stephen apologised, leading them up the stairs to one of the bedchambers. ‘And obviously there are no servants at the moment.’ He ventured a rueful smile. ‘I hadn’t expected to move my belongings for another day or two. It wasn’t prepared for your unexpected arrival.’
‘It will do nicely.’ Emily ventured a smile, the first peaceful gesture he’d seen. ‘Can you help me find a place for Victoria to sleep?’
They went upstairs, and Stephen located two wingback chairs in one of the guest chambers. He pushed them together to form a bed for the baby. Victoria rubbed her eyes, fussing and arching her body.
Emily stroked the baby’s back and dropped a kiss upon her niece’s cheek. When Victoria would not quiet down, she reluctantly passed her over to Anna to nurse. Royce removed his shoes and dived into his own bed, burrowing under the coverlet as though trying to shut out the world. For a moment, Emily envied him, wishing that she could just as easily forget all that had happened.
Her husband was a stranger to her now, a man who felt nothing at all towards her. It was like a waking nightmare, to love someone and to be forgotten afterwards.
Would he expect her to share his bed tonight? She stiffened, wanting to avoid it for as long as possible. How could she share the most intimate act with him when he cared nothing for her?
Memories of his kiss, of the way he’d laid her down like a cherished bride, pulled at her heart. He’d made love to her, joining their bodies until she lost herself.
It was how she felt now. Lost.
He’d come riding into her life, and it had taken only days for him to rekindle the feelings she’d buried. Didn’t every girl want to believe in fairy tales? He’d made one happen for her.
But it had been a lie. And the only way to shield her heart was to stay as far away from him as possible.
Whitmore held out his hand to her. She forced herself to take it, even though she didn’t want to. His palm warmed hers, and he led her into the parlour, where he had lit a small fire.
The flames warmed the room, and Emily stood before the hearth, drying her clothes. Stephen sat down in a chair, watching her. His intense gaze embarrassed her.
‘Why are you staring at me?’ She held herself erect, gripping her arms until her fingers left marks on the skin.
‘I’m wondering if we really are married.’ He leaned forward to watch her. His hair still held droplets of rain, and one trickled down his cheek toward a sensual mouth. She tried not to remember the tantalising darkness of his kiss.
‘Of course we are married.’ She kept her eyes upon him, though his intense look made her skin flush.
He stood and walked behind her to close the door. Her damp clothes chafed against her skin, making her even more uncomfortable. Alone in the darkness with only the glowing coals upon the fire and a single candle, she felt more vulnerable than ever before.
‘Do you have any other living relations?’ he asked. ‘If I were not your husband, who would look after you and the children?’
‘My uncle. He lives in India.’ Tension hovered, and with every second that passed, she grew more nervous. Why was he asking this? Was he planning to send them away?
His grey eyes turned thoughtful. ‘I’ve sent word to the local parishes across the Scottish border. If you have lied to me—’
‘I haven’t.’
Despite
