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P ain stabbed her heart, and Emmeline didn’t believe she would ever breathe again without feeling it.

Or a raw, sore throat. She’d done more crying today than she had in the six years since she’d buried Aiden.

It didn’t matter that Andrew told her it was a fake engagement and that it would be over soon, that they could soon get on with their lives.

Unending agony in her heart told her otherwise.

Until that day came when he was free again, she would live in constant anguish, fear, and panic for their future.

When he’d told her he loved her for the first time today, it almost undid her.

She wanted to beg him to run away to Gretna Green with her, and to hell with Lady Beatrice and her scandal.

After all, it was her fault... well, her mother’s really.

And Andrew had done nothing wrong to get dragged into this because the countess was simply a conniving, scheming, hateful woman.

One who could not be trusted. She wanted her daughter to marry the Duke of Blackstone, and Emmeline knew, deep down inside, there was no way she would sit back and let this engagement slip through her fingers, fake or not.

With every fiber of her being, Emmeline knew that Andrew was in great danger of indeed marrying Lady Beatrice.

He thought he was in control and could handle things, but she worried he was being deceived.

Trusting Hartford, even if his intentions were honest, did not factor in his wife and her underhanded ways.

Andrew had never faced a determined Marriage Mart Mama and didn’t know how ruthless they could be.

Also, who was to say the earl wouldn’t fall prey to the scheme himself and finally indulge his wife and help trick Andrew into a real marriage?

According to Andrew, Lady Beatrice appeared innocent in all this, but perhaps it was just one more ploy to catch him off-guard.

Before he knew what was up or down, he could be married.

Andrew was an intelligent man. However, he had a soft side and the ingrained desire to do all that was right and honorable.

No one had taken advantage of that side of him until the Countess of Hartford.

Somehow, she had seen inside him to the goodness she could manipulate.

As strong as he was, Emmeline’s heart and mind worried.

The hour was late, yet she wandered the dark halls of her townhouse carrying a lantern.

Dressed in her nightclothes and bare feet, she silently repeated her steps over and over until she found herself back inside her chambers, where she paced the floor for what felt like hours.

Exhaustion descended on her, and she crawled beneath the coverlet, finally drifting off into a fitful sleep.

The following morning, Andrew sent a note and a beautiful bouquet of red roses, begging her forgiveness for not paying a visit to her that day.

It didn’t do much to improve her mood, and the tiredness that crept in from lack of sleep the previous night only made her mood worse.

Her day was spent lounging on her chaise longue in her room because she wasn’t fit for even her mother’s company.

*

Morning came quickly after another restless night’s sleep. It was one of two days that week she would travel into the dangerous rookeries of London to deliver goods. Mitchel was due anytime to pick her up, and her maid was still fussing with her hair.

“Amanda, stop. My hair is fine. I’m only going into St. Giles. No need to have it look worthy of a ballroom.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Forgive me. I’m not myself these past two mornings.”

“I would think not with what is going on with the duke.”

Standing now, her hair presentable, she faced Amanda and said, “Is there much gossip?”

“Some. Most are feeling bad for you and cross at His Grace.”

“I’m going to confide something to you, Amanda, but it must remain within this household. The engagement between Lady Beatrice and His Grace is a ruse. Lady Beatrice will call it off once a husband is found for her to alleviate her ruination.”

“That is the best news ever.” Amanda hugged her quickly. “I always knew His Grace was a good man.”

Before Emmeline hurried down the stairs, she put on a plain black cloak, hat, and gloves and waited in the entryway. When she heard the carriage stop before her house, she bid Harrison good day as he opened the door for her.

“Be safe, miss.”

“Always, Harrison. Always,” she said as she descended the stairs to the street where Mitchel awaited with a hand out to help her inside the carriage.

“Mrs. Bishop is under the weather, and Flynn has other duties. It’s just us today. Duchess Greenville apologizes for the inconvenience.”

“Thank you, Mitchel,” she said as he raised the stairs and closed the door.

When she was settled, she knocked on the roof, and as always, Mitchel started the carriage forward with an easy jolt.

Not for the first time, she wondered about Mitchel’s and Flynn’s lives.

She didn’t even know their family name and had only recently discovered they were brothers.

They were always disguised, their true identities well-guarded, but they were educated, perhaps even titled or second or third sons.

Maybe tradesmen or barristers. Maybe one day, she would find out what they had to hide.

Until then, she was thankful for them. It wasn’t easy getting volunteers for their cause.

Well, they had many volunteers to assemble the baskets and procure donations, but not many were willing to travel into the slums. A handful was all they had.

And they had lost Lilly since her marriage.

Perhaps in time, Langford would allow her to assist in the deliveries again.

If he was so worried about Lilly’s safety, he could always escort her, which he’d said he would do at one time.

A conversation to be had soon in the future.

The floor and the bench opposite her were covered in goods to be delivered.

Since more and more people relied on their donations, instead of giving directly to homes as they used to, they sometimes parked at the corner of a main thoroughfare and a side street, and the needy came to them.

When the carriage arrived at their destination, many women with and without children were lined up awaiting their arrival.

As Emmeline’s eyes landed on them from within the confines of the coach, her heart sank but her resolve lifted, and her problems seemed trifling compared to theirs.

Dirty, malnourished, some of their clothing no more than rags, these poor souls born into poverty through no fault of their own with no hope of ever getting out and bettering themselves tore at her insides, and tears pooled in her eyes.

Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself to get through the day. These people needed what she brought.

The door opened to Mitchel with his hand out, and she stepped onto the side of the road. “Stand here. I will hand you the donations,” Mitchel said as he reached into the carriage, picking up a basket overflowing with goods and handing it to her. “It’s heavy.”

“Thank you, Mitchel, for everything,” she said as she signaled the first person in line to come forth. She handed her bundle off to a young mother, clutching the hand of a toddler with huge blue eyes staring up at her.

“Thank ye, ma’am.”

And so it went on until the last goods were gone, and Emmeline’s heart hurt at seeing the several anxious faces who would go away empty-handed this day. “Please come back on Thursday. Come early.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a small boy across the street looking at her.

His clothing hung off his frame. As she went to step inside the coach, she noticed a loaf of bread had fallen onto the floor.

She picked it up. “I’ll be right back,” she said to Mitchel as she looked up and down the street and crossed to the boy. “Take this. It is all I have left.”

As she turned to cross back, a large, black carriage and matching four tore out of nowhere and nearly ran her down. If it weren’t for the stranger who knocked her out of the way and to the ground, his unyielding body still covering hers now, she would be injured or worse.

“Emmeline,” her rescuer said in a deep, concerned voice she knew all too well. “Are you all right? Does anything hurt?”

“Andrew. Please let me up, I can’t breathe.”

He climbed off her, held out his hand, and helped her to her feet. Mitchel was at their side, looking worried. “I saw the whole thing. It was no accident. I believe the boy was used to lure you across this street. The carriage driver was waiting for you to run you down.”

Gasping, her hands gripped Andrew’s waist as they stumbled toward the coach.

*

“Thank you for saving her,” Mitchel said with his hand out.

“I’m Blackstone. And you are?” Andrew asked as he shook the other man’s hand, his brows raised.

“Mitchel, Your Grace. What brings you to these parts?”

By the way Mitchel looked at him, he already knew why.

He would be a terrible driver and watchdog if he didn’t know Andrew followed them most of the times Emmeline traveled with them.

And it was a good thing he’d cleared his appointments for that day.

If not—his insides trembled, and his stomach knotted—who knew if the love of this life would be alive?

“This and that.” Andrew opened the carriage door and said, “Please get inside, my dear.” He turned to the driver and said, “I’m riding with her.”

Mitchel nodded. “I expected as much.” The door shut, and when Emmeline was settled beside him on the bench, he knocked on the roof, and they were on their way.

“How badly are you hurt?” he asked, knowing they had slid across the road as she’d landed beneath him. On purpose, of course, so his body could protect her if the coach ran them over, even though he knew it would add to her injuries by landing on top of her.