more…something lost and lonely.
He forced himself not to pity her. For God’s sakes, the woman had threatened to kill him.
At last, she gave up and set the cup down. ‘I didn’t poison this cup,’ she said with reluctance. ‘There wasn’t any arsenic to be had.’
‘Laudanum would work,’ he advised. ‘In large doses.’ Though why he was offering suggestions, he didn’t know.
‘I’ll remember that for next time.’ Colour stained her cheeks, but she didn’t smile.
‘Why did I marry you?’ he asked softly.
She picked up the tray containing the teapot and cup. ‘You should rest for a while. I’ll be happy to answer your questions. Later, that is.’
‘I want to know now. Sit down.’
She ignored him and moved towards the door. He might as well have been ordering a brick wall to sit. If the unthinkable had happened, if he really and truly had gone off and married her, one thing was certain. He had lost more than his memory.
He’d lost his mind.
Emily fled to a nearby bedchamber and set the tea tray down with shaking fingers. The Earl of Whitmore was back. And he didn’t remember a single moment of their marriage.
Damn him. Hot, choking tears slid down her cheeks, despite her best efforts to keep herself together. It was like having him back from the dead. He’d been away for so long, she’d almost started to believe that he was dead, even though there was no body.
She’d tried so hard to forget about him. Every single day of the past few months, she’d reminded herself that she’d meant nothing to her husband.
Her hand clenched, and she wept into her palm. Only a week after their wedding, he’d returned to London. He’d gone into the arms of his mistress. While she, the naive little wife, tucked away at the country estate where she wasn’t supposed to learn about her husband’s indiscretions. It made her sick, just thinking about it.
Marriages were like that, she’d heard. But she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Such a fool she had been. She’d been swept away by his charm. Her fairy tale had come true, with the handsome Earl offering to marry the impoverished maiden.
But it had been a dream, hadn’t it? He’d used her, wedding her for reasons she didn’t understand, and had all but disappeared from her life.
Now that he’d returned, her humiliation tripled. She knuckled the tears away, a chastising laugh gathering in her throat. He wasn’t worth the tears. The sooner he left Falkirk, the better.
Emily forced herself to rise from the chair, suppressing the desire to smash every piece of china on the tea tray. Self-pity wouldn’t get her anywhere. She was married to a stranger, to a man who hadn’t kept his promises.
And if he annulled the marriage, she had nowhere to go.
The sound of a shouting child broke through her reverie. Emily gathered her skirts and rushed towards the bedchamber she’d converted into a temporary nursery. Inside, her nephew Royce sprawled upon the floor, playing with tin soldiers.
‘Attack!’ he yelled, dashing a row of soldiers to the floor. The tin soldiers and a book of fairy tales were the only things he had brought with him after Daniel had died. She smiled at Royce’s boyish enthusiasm.
When he let out another battle cry, the shrill fussing of an infant interrupted. Royce’s face turned worried. ‘I didn’t mean to wake her up.’
‘It’s all right.’ Emily lifted the baby to her cheek. Her niece Victoria was barely nine months old. A soft fuzz of auburn hair covered the baby’s head. Two emerging teeth poked up from Victoria’s lower gums. The baby reached out to grab Emily’s hair.
As she extricated Victoria’s fist, Emily strengthened her resolve. Though her marriage was in shambles, she had her family. She would keep her brother’s children safe, for she had sworn it upon Daniel’s grave. Now she had to gather up the shreds of her marriage and decide what to do next.
‘Aunt Emily?’ Royce stopped playing and drew his knees up to his chest. ‘Has Papa come for us yet?’
‘No, sweeting. Not yet.’ Like the worst sort of coward, she hadn’t yet told Royce that his father was never coming back. How could she destroy her nephew’s safe world of hope? Royce would learn the truth soon enough.
She pulled Royce into an embrace with her free arm, holding both children fiercely. ‘I love you both. You know that.’
Royce squirmed. ‘I know. Can I play?’
Emily released him. The seven-year-old waged imaginary wars against the helpless tin soldiers, shouting in triumph when one soldier defeated an enemy.
She sat down in a rocking chair, holding the baby. Victoria wailed, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. Emily patted the baby’s back, wishing she could join the child in a fit of howling. She almost didn’t see the shadow of the Earl hovering at the doorway.
‘What are you doing here?’ She stood, clutching the baby as though Victoria were a shield. ‘You’re bleeding. You shouldn’t be out of bed.’
His frigid gaze stared back at her. ‘This is my house, I believe.’ Tight lines edged his mouth, revealing unspoken pain. His dark brown hair was rumpled beneath the bandage wrapped across his temple. He leaned against the door frame, thinner than she’d last seen him, but he did not betray even a fraction of weakness. A rough stubble upon his cheeks gave him a feral appearance, not at all the polished Earl she’d expected him to be.
And suddenly, she wondered if she knew him at all. Not a trace remained of the boy she’d idolised as a girl. Gone was his lazy smile and the way he had once teased her. His eyes were a cold-hearted grey, unfeeling and callous. Even in his wounded state he threatened her.
Emily took a step back, almost knocking over the rocking chair. ‘Your head took quite a blow. You’re not ready to be up and about.’
‘That would be convenient for you, wouldn’t it? If I were to stumble and bleed to death.’
She kept her composure at his harsh words. ‘Quite. But your blood would stain the carpet. There’s no reason to trouble the servants.’
‘I pay the servants.’
‘And your fortune would continue to do so after you are dead.’
Why, oh, why did spiteful words keep slipping from her mouth? She wasn’t usually such a harpy, but arguing made it easier to conceal her fear. He could make them leave.
‘I am glad to see I married such a docile model of womanhood.’ His sarcasm sharpened her already bad temper. Then his gaze narrowed on the children. ‘Who are they?’
Emily’s defences rose up. ‘Our children.’
‘I believe I would have remembered, had I fathered any children.’
‘They belong to my brother. You are their guardian.’
‘Their guardian?’
