Page 14 of The Accidental Countess (Accidentally in Love #1)

T he first flowers arrived on Monday. Stephen disregarded the bouquet of yellow tulips. On Tuesday, lilies of the valley were delivered. Wednesday and Thursday brought daisies and lilacs. By Friday, a dozen roses had arrived in every shade from the most delicate pink to the deepest ruby red.

They weren’t from him.

Exactly what was going on? Had his wife entertained gentlemen callers while he was visiting his family? He wanted to find the fop who’d sent them and wrap the long-stemmed roses around the gentleman’s neck.

He discovered Emily arranging the blooms in the parlor. She wore the dress he hated, the black one with the frayed hem. Why she insisted on wearing the Dress of Martyrdom when he’d presented her with a dozen dresses in every color, he didn’t know. At the very least she could wear a gown that didn’t look as though it had been dragged through the ashes.

“Who sent these flowers?” he asked.

Her cheeks flushed. “Freddie—I mean, Mr. Reynolds did.”

Freddie Reynolds? Damn it all, now what was that little weasel doing in London? He’d never liked Reynolds, even when his father had invited their family to attend a small gathering or an evening supper.

Short of stature, and dressed like a dandy, Reynolds was the sort of man to charm the ladies with the most inane conversations about hothouse flowers and the latest fashions.

Stephen glanced at one of the cards.

Your eyes are like the bluest ocean,

Your lips as red as my heart’s blood

Which I would gladly shed

If I could but walk upon the same grains of sand

Tread upon by your feet.

“Good God. What is this?” he demanded. The verse held some of the most ridiculous lines he’d ever read.

“Poetry, I believe.” Emily sniffed one of the red roses before arranging it with the lilies.

“Your eyes aren’t blue. They’re brown,” he pointed out. “He’s got it all wrong. And what’s this bit about sand? We’re in London, not the Sahara.”

Had his wife lost her mind? He had sent her pearls and the finest ballroom attire that she still hadn’t worn. But when Freddie Reynolds sent her flowers, she was beaming and snipping the stems?

Not likely.

“You should not accept flowers from other gentlemen.” Stephen grabbed the bouquet of roses and tossed them in the hearth. When the blossoms scattered with a soft thump, he felt better.

She sighed. “I told him I had married you. But I’ve known Freddie for years, and he’s not a man who abandons a courtship easily. I suppose you don’t remember him from when we grew up together.”

“I remember him well enough, and if he doesn’t cease this nonsense, I’ll shove the damned roses down his throat.”

Emily shrugged. “It’s harmless, really. He told me…what was it? He is adoring me from afar.”

“What utter rubbish.”

“I think it is rather flattering, actually. Like an unrequited lover, pining for me.” She picked up another bloom and adjusted it in the vase. “And I suppose I should keep my options open.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“In case you divorce me and I decide to remarry.”

“Absolutely not.”

She broke the head off one of the roses and laughed, reaching up to tuck it behind his ear. “Jealous?”

“Not at all.” It was then that he realized she’d been teasing him. Though it eased him to know it, the idea still disgruntled him.

He could certainly buy nicer flowers. And the poetry…Good God. Shakespeare or Tennyson would be far better.

Stephen removed the offensive flower and threw it onto the fire. He took savage pleasure in watching it wither up into flames. “I could do far better than him at courting.”

“I wouldn’t know.” She went back to arranging the flowers while he tried to make sense of that remark.

“I courted you before I wed you, didn’t I?”

She shook her head. “Not really. You escorted me home, and we talked. I made you ginger biscuits.”

He fell silent at that, still not understanding. “I must have brought you a gift.”

She held up her wedding ring. “You gave me this.”

It didn’t seem possible that he’d made such a momentous decision without even courting the woman he’d married. “In all the time I spent with you after I returned to Falkirk, I never gave you anything?”

Her face held pity. “It wasn’t that long, Stephen. Only a week before you proposed. Then after we got married, you left me for London.”

Her words sobered him, for it wasn’t the sort of man he was. “I don’t understand. Why did you marry me if I gave you nothing except the ring?”

She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “You rescued me from the life I had. And we were friends, once.”

“Once?” She spoke as if that were no longer the case.

“It’s been a long time, Whitmore.” Her voice held a heaviness, as if she expected nothing at all from him.

Her brown eyes held a hint of sadness, and he was starting to wonder if he’d been too harsh. It was clear that she had truly fallen into poverty and had struggled to keep her family together. Regardless of what had happened in the past, perhaps there was a way forward for them.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Pressing a kiss against her skin, he held her fingers far longer than was proper. And when he glanced at her face, he saw the flush upon her cheeks. “W-what re you doing, Whitmore?”

He gave her a wicked smile. “Courting you.”

Victoria grasped Emily’s fingers and, with a determined look, trod her first wobbly steps around the parlor. Emily helped the baby balance, unable to stop her smile when her niece reached out to clutch the sofa. There was something magical about watching a child learn to walk.

A light knock sounded at the door. “Yes?” Emily turned just as the door opened.

Harding held out an enormous array of flowers. Roses, gardenias, hyacinths, tulips, and every spring flower imaginable had been stuffed into the arrangement. It was easily three times the size of any bouquet she’d received thus far.

Once again, they were from Freddie. The ostentatious display made her uncomfortable, as though he were trying to prove his affections. More wasn’t necessarily better.

Emily pointed to the piano, for it was the only surface large enough for the monstrosity. “Please set it down over there, Harding.”

“There was, er, another arrangement of flowers for you as well,” Harding added. The young butler folded his hands behind his back and rocked to his heels.

Another one? Was Freddie trying to purchase every flower in London? She held back her irritation, wishing that the man would just stop. Like a clinging vine, he was smothering her.

“You may put it beside the other flowers. If there’s room.”

Harding bowed and returned a moment later with a simple posy of daffodils tied up in white ribbons. The bright yellow of the cheerful flowers lifted her spirits.

They were from her husband.

Touched by their simplicity, Emily fingered the blooms. He’d plucked a daffodil for her once before, when she was but a girl. And, oh, the scolding he’d received from his mother. She smiled, remembering it.

It hadn’t mattered then that he was an earl. He’d been the first boy she’d kissed, the one she’d fallen completely in love with. He had been everything to her.

And now? She didn’t know. A note of melancholy drifted over her, trouble encircling her spirits. She’d made such a mess of things.

Abruptly, she seized the large arrangement and threw the blooms onto the hearth. To encourage any other man was wrong. She’d been using Freddie to make Whitmore jealous, and that wasn’t fair.

Victoria began to fuss, so Emily picked her up and took her to Anna. The nursemaid opened her arms for the infant, and Victoria snuggled in, her eyes drooping shut. Emily’s heart caught at the sight of the baby. Victoria and Royce were her children now. She would do anything for them.

Their futures rested on her shoulders, and she had to ensure that they were cared for. Her nerves wound tighter. What if the society gossips resurrected the past scandal? They would not have forgotten her father’s unspeakable death. She couldn’t bear it if those secrets were revealed.

The matrons would ply her with questions, questions she didn’t want to answer. She was desperately afraid of the glittering world so far beyond her reach.

Playful shouts of delight sounded from Royce’s room. When Emily reached the door, she peered inside. The room was in shambles. Her nephew had stripped his bedding from the mattress, and one sheet dangled from a sconce upon the wall, perilously close to the gaslight.

“Ahoy, matey!” Royce yelled as she walked inside. His ash-blond hair flopped across his shining brown eyes as he bounced on the bed. “I’m a pirate!”

“Are you?” She reached up to untie the sheet, which had served as a main sail. “Do not tie these to the gas lamps, sweeting. Else you’ll set fire to us all.”

A gleam of mischief crossed his face. “I could burn the house down. Then we’d be rid of the earl.”

“Royce, how dare you say such a thing?” she scolded. “Without the earl, we’d be out on the streets.”

“But I want to live on the streets,” Royce said, slashing his shoe toward Emily, as though it were a sword. “We could rob the rich and give to the poor,” he said. “We’d be outlaws like Robin Hood.”

“And where would you sleep at night?” she asked, taking the shoe away.

“I’d sleep in a tree, of course.”

“In the park?”

He bobbed his head again, falling backwards onto the bed, his arms and legs spread wide. Emily began picking up the tin soldiers where Royce had left them strewn about the room. One of the soldiers had numerous dents and barely resembled its original condition. She scooped the rest up and set them upon a desk.

The battered leather shoes suddenly caught her attention. Royce had used one as a sword while he wore new shoes made of fine leather.

“Where did you get these?” she asked.

“They were here this morning upon my trunk.” Royce snatched a pair of tin soldiers and began a mock fight. Then he paused a moment. “Didn’t you buy them?”

Emily shook her head.

“It must have been the elves,” Royce said, nodding. “Like “The Shoemaker and the Elves” .”

Emily gave a pensive smile at his mention of the story. “Yes, you’re right. It must have been the elves.” Yet she knew who had bought them—Stephen. He really had been listening to her last night.

The thoughtful deed meant more than she wanted to admit. Tucking the sheets back on to the bed, she said, “The day is lovely. Shall we go for an outing?”

Royce beamed at her suggestion and within moments helped her put the room to rights. After donning a cloak and bonnet, she asked Harding to send along a footman to escort them.

As Royce struggled with the buttons, she noticed that once again, the “Elves” had gifted the boy with a new coat. The black wool was perfect for a boy of his size, and Royce put on a new straw hat. He beamed at her as he showed off his finery.

“Where did these come from?” Emily asked.

Royce grinned. “Harding bought them.”

The butler shook his head discreetly, and Emily tried to push away the feeling gathering around her heart like a warm blanket.

She followed Royce outside, wondering how to reconcile herself to this new side to her husband.

Stephen set his spectacles to one side, rubbing his eyes. He’d spent hours poring over ledgers in his study. Endless accountings of estate figures, harvest yields and rents paid lay before him in his own familiar script.

He had a sudden urge to set it all on fire.

He hadn’t come any closer to finding a reason why anyone had attacked him. There were no records about The Lady Valiant , regarding any sort of stolen profits. It was as if the ship had never existed.

He wanted to believe that the scars he bore were nothing more than the result of common cutthroats. But the tattoo on his neck and the missing memories suggested otherwise.

Start at the beginning , he thought. He struggled to remember why he’d left London at the beginning of February. Had he merely needed an escape from his life here? Had he run away, intent on avoiding his father’s interference?

Or had Hollingford asked him to come? He hadn’t considered that possibility before. Emily’s brother was an acquaintance, not a friend. But what if there had been a connection between himself and Hollingford?

Closing his eyes, Stephen struggled to remember. He inhaled slowly, trying to keep his mind relaxed. He allowed his imagination to wander, and it settled on an older memory.

It had been winter, and a sixteen-year-old Emily was shoving handfuls of snow down his collar. He’d thrown her down upon the hillside, both of them laughing as he smashed snow into her own face.

Emily had flung her arms about him, and his body had risen to her innocent call. For a brief, frozen moment, her lashes stilled, her amber eyes catching him with a look of intensity. Her hands had paused upon his shoulders, waiting for him to lean down.

He’d kissed her cool mouth, a touch that had left him reeling. When she pulled back, she smiled. Then she’d shoved his face back into the snow until his own clothes were sodden.

The vision faded, and though he fought to reach one of the hidden memories, he couldn’t grasp anything.

Was Emily still the same laughing girl he’d known? He couldn’t deny that he wanted her in his bed. He wanted to peel away each layer, each petticoat and chemise until he found the woman beneath. She had a passionate nature, one that heated his blood just to look at her.

But she was afraid. Although she had thanked him for the flowers and the gowns, she seemed apprehensive, as though she expected everything to vanish.

Perhaps it would. Everything about their union had been a mistake. And he still didn’t know if there was any chance of a successful marriage between them.