fretful noise caught his attention. Stephen paused a moment, then opened the door to the corridor. The whimpering grew softer, then stopped. Was it an animal? He frowned, wondering what else had been brought into his house without permission.
As he passed down the hallway, he heard the sound coming from a bedchamber. He opened the door and inside saw a bundled shape beneath the covers. It was too small to be Emily, and as his vision adjusted to the dark, he recognised the boy he had met earlier. What was his name? Ralph? Roger? The child’s face was buried in the pillow, his small shoulders shaking.
Stephen’s throat constricted, but he did not move to comfort the child. It was as though his feet were locked in place. He was not the child’s father, nor his guardian, regardless of what Emily might claim. It was not his place to interfere. And it was better for the boy not to expect comfort or coddling from others.
His own father had taught him just such a lesson until he had learned how to suppress tears. The future heir could not cry or show any emotion. His father had beaten it out of him until Stephen had become a model of composure.
When the boy’s sobbing eased into the heavy breathing of sleep, Stephen took a step forward. He lifted the coverlet over the child, then left as silently as he had come.
The sun had not yet risen, but the sound of rain spattering against the stone house brought Emily a sense of comfort. The scullery maid Lizbeth lit the fire, and a flickering warmth permeated the room while Emily mixed the bread dough.
She knew the servants viewed her with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort. A baron’s daughter should never venture into the kitchen to work. But it was a deep need within her, to be useful. Giving orders to the household staff made her uneasy, for she had practically been a servant herself until recently.
She had done her best to keep the family together after Papa had died. Her brother Daniel’s business failings were a constant source of anxiety, but Emily had learned to suppress her criticism. None of their relatives would help them, not after—
She closed her mind, not wanting to think of the devastating scandal. She had done what she had to, bartering at the marketplace after Daniel had gambled away their finances.
He’d been grieving for his wife, a man out of his head. She’d forgiven him for it, even if it meant sacrificing her own marriage prospects.
But now she was married.
Emily kneaded the bread dough, letting its rhythm sweep away her fears and troubles. The familiar yeasty smell eased her tension, and she let the mindless task grant her time to think.
Whitmore was going to get rid of her. She was torn apart, so angry with him for his infidelity and for abandoning Daniel. And yet, she needed his protection for the children. She rested her forehead upon a floured hand. Somehow, she had to make the best of this.
Silently, the scullery maid began frying sausages for the morning meal. With a plain face and a figure the size of a barrel, Lizbeth always had a cheerful smile. Emily had liked the maid from the moment she’d met her.
‘You’ve horrified him, you know,’ Lizbeth remarked as she flipped the sausage links. ‘Mr High-and-Mighty.’
‘The Earl?’
‘No, my lady.’ Lizbeth blushed. ‘I mean Farnsworth, the butler. He’s told the master that you sent Henri packing.’
‘Good.’ Emily didn’t care if Stephen knew about her dismissing the cook. The ill-tempered man had been robbing the household blind over the past few months, claiming ridiculous costs for food. They were well rid of him.
‘And you needn’t worry about the cooking, my lady,’ Lizbeth added. ‘Mrs Deepford and myself will take care of it until the new cook arrives.’
‘Thank you, Lizbeth.’ Emily relaxed slightly. Her hasty offer to cook for the household was impossible, she knew, though she had enjoyed seeing Farnsworth’s look of horror. ‘I am sorry to have caused you both more work.’
‘Oh, no, it’s grateful we are. Henri should have been sacked long ago.’
A small part of Emily worried that she had overstepped her bounds. The Earl might not appreciate her interfering with staff members, not with her own precarious position. She needed to apologise for her cross words earlier.
‘Have you heard anything else?’ Emily asked Lizbeth. ‘From the Earl, I mean. Has he remembered anything?’
‘No, my lady. I’ve not heard that he has.’ Lizbeth cracked an egg into a bowl.
The bell sounded, and Lizbeth jumped up. ‘It’s his lordship. He’ll be wanting his breakfast tray.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Emily offered. She wanted to speak with him about the children. The heaping platter of delicious food could improve his temperament while she explained why throwing their family out into the streets would be a very bad idea.
Her stomach grumbled, but she ignored it. She had eaten a slice of toasted bread and a cup of tea, which was enough for her.
By the time she finished climbing the back staircase leading to the Earl’s bedchamber, she was out of breath. The heavy tray made her arms ache, but she pressed onwards. Knocking lightly, she heard him call, ‘Enter.’
The Earl was seated in a wingback chair, reading The Times. He wore charcoal trousers, a dark blue frockcoat, pinstriped waistcoat and a white cotton shirt. His dark cravat was tied in a simple knot without any fuss. The shadow of a beard lined his cheeks, and his intense gaze rested upon her with interest.
His hair was wet, drops of water glistening at his temples. He’d taken a bath, she realised.
A slight shiver ran through her at the thought of him sinking into a tub of water, his muscled arms resting upon the edge. She had seen for herself the hard ridges of his stomach, the reddened scar across his pectorals.
A wicked image arose, of soap sliding over those muscles, of what it would be like to touch him. What it would be like, if he lowered his body upon hers, until she yielded to him.
Like before…
An unbearable loneliness caught her. He had kissed her on the night he’d left, as though he would never let her go. Now it was as if that man had never existed.
An invisible fist struck her in the stomach, the hurt rising. When he’d arrived back at Falkirk, her first instinct had been to rush towards him, to hold him tight and thank God that he was alive.
But he didn’t know her any more. He’d broken promises and betrayed her with another woman. She couldn’t let go of that.
She blinked back the emotions threatening to spill over. Whitmore didn’t feel anything towards her any more, and she didn’t know if he ever would again.
‘Are you planning to set that down or continue staring at me?’
Her face flamed, but she managed to lower the tray. ‘Your breakfast, sire.’ She bobbed a false curtsy.
‘I would prefer “my lord”.’
Emily had meant the address as sarcasm, but clearly the Earl did
