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 he would have to live here again upon his father’s passing, there was no reason to endure James Chesterfield until that day came. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He’d look into the matter tomorrow.
His life was his own, and he didn’t care what his father’s preferences were.
Stephen set the brandy glass down, his mind settling back to Emily Barrow. Beneath her thin, fragile exterior was a woman with an iron will, a dangerous woman who resented him. She was using him to provide for her niece and nephew. Just as he was using her to rebel against his autocratic father. The thought sobered him.
Had Emily believed he’d loved her? Why would he lie to a woman in that way? He didn’t like to think of behaving in such a dishonourable manner. And yet, the answers lay just beyond his reach, strange pieces of a puzzle that would not fit together.
Until he had the answers, he could not force her out of his life.
Emily longed to find a pistol and shoot herself.
After travelling for days in a tiny coach, stopping only to eat meals or to sleep at an inn, Victoria had commenced to scream at the top of her tiny lungs. For hours. And hours. The wet nurse Anna had tried her best to calm the infant, but Victoria continued to sob.
Royce had joined in the chorus, whining that he wanted to go home, and threatening to run away to find his papa. Emily counted silently to fifty and reminded herself that London was not far now. It had begun to rain, the fat drops drumming against the coach in rhythm to the horses’ hooves.
When Victoria had cried herself into exhaustion and Royce’s tousled head rested in Emily’s lap, the familiar sights of London surrounded her. In the night, she could see only the murky waters of the Thames gleaming against the gaslights. Familiar dark smells infiltrated the coach, dredging up a deep, horrible fear.
I cannot do this, she thought. How could she arrive upon the Marquess’s doorstep, demanding to see her husband? But she had no choice. Falkirk House was no longer safe.
The coach slowed and drew to a halt. The driver opened the door for her. ‘Wait here,’ Emily whispered to Anna. The wet nurse nodded, cradling Victoria in her arms.
She prayed that Stephen would grant them shelter. It was long past the time for callers, and rain pounded the streets. The moonless sky brooded against the elegant stone façade of the Marquess’s residence. Tall glass windows reflected flickering shadows of the night.
Emily ignored the rain and marched up to the front door. Knocking, she reminded herself that she had to behave with the haughtiness of a Countess, whether she felt like one or not.
A footman opened the door, his eyebrows raised as though she were a rat come in off the streets. Emily returned the man’s curious glare with one of purpose. ‘Step back from the door, if you please. I do not intend to stay out in this weather.’
He blinked a moment. ‘The servants’ entrance is in the back, madam.’
‘I am hardly a servant.’ Emily stepped forward, pushing him out of the way. ‘And if my husband heard you accusing me of such, he would be most insulted.’
The footman’s expression turned curious. Emily unfastened her cloak and bonnet, offering them to the man. He did not accept the dripping garments.
‘Whom shall I say is here?’ the footman enquired, still seeming as though he intended to throw her out.
‘I am Lady Whitmore,’ Emily said, sweeping past him. ‘And the Earl is expecting our arrival.’
When lightning did not smite her into the polished hardwood floors, it was a good sign that perhaps her lie would be forgiven. Well, it wasn’t really a lie. Stephen had asked her to come to London at first; she could simply say that she’d changed her mind. Yes, that was it.
‘What is your name?’ she inquired of the footman.
‘I am Phillips,’ the footman replied. His posture was so rigid, Emily rather thought he resembled a hat rack.
‘Phillips, we have been travelling a long time. Please have our rooms prepared and ask the kitchen staff to arrange a meal for the children and myself. We should like to be served in the dining room.’ Emily completed her request by crossing her arms, deliberately giving him a view of the ruby heirloom wedding ring on her left hand.
At the sight of the ring, Phillips’s demeanour changed instantly. ‘If you would be so kind as to wait here, I shall inform Lord Whitmore of your arrival.’
Emily set her cloak down and held the bonnet, pacing as she held back her nerves. Minutes passed by, and at last she heard the sound of footsteps. The footman returned, followed by the Marquess of Rothburne. Emily clenched her bonnet so hard, her knuckles turned white.
Tall, with grey-tipped dark hair, the Marquess regarded Emily with an irritated air. His hawkish nose looked down upon her.
‘What is going on, Phillips?’ Lord Rothburne demanded.
‘I am here to see my husband.’ Emily gripped her wedding ring so hard, the metal bit into her skin.
Lord Rothburne nodded to the footman. ‘Leave us.’
Her defences rose up immediately. She could tell the Marquess planned to get rid of her. Did Stephen even know she was here? Not likely, given the smug expression of Phillips as he’d left. Panic set in, replaced by desperation. After her family’s scandal, she had no friends in London, no one to turn to. She couldn’t possibly let Lord Rothburne send them away.
‘You are not welcome here,’ he said without preamble. ‘Furthermore, you are not going to touch a penny of my son’s fortune.’
‘I don’t want his money. I don’t need it.’
The
