Page 15 of The Accidental Countess (Accidentally in Love #1)

A knock sounded at the library door. Alfred Chesterfield disliked being disturbed, especially when he’d asked the servants to keep everyone out.

“Enter,” he commanded.

Frustration curled up within him at the sight of his son. He had tried reasoning with Stephen, tried to make his son understand why he could not remain married to Emily Barrow. She knew nothing of the ton , never would, despite her birthright. As a woman who had never been presented before the Queen, she was utterly unsuitable. But Stephen did not grasp the true meaning of duty, not the way he should.

Alfred feared it was too late. The scandal of divorce far outweighed the scandal of wedding someone inappropriate.

His son remained standing, an inconvenient behavior because it forced him to look up. “I came to ask you about the night I left London, several months ago.”

Alfred stood to meet his son eye to eye. He leaned upon the desk, taking some of the weight off his bad leg. “When? The time in February when you ran off to marry an improper young lady? Or when you disappeared from the Carstairs’s ball, two weeks later?” He made no effort to conceal his irritation. His son had a duty to behave in a manner befitting the family name.

“The second time,” Stephen responded. “I have no memory of what else happened that night when I was looking for Hollingford. Did you hear anything about it, after I disappeared?”

“No. Nor do I care about the reasons why you shirked your responsibilities.”

“A man tried to murder me,” Stephen stated. “And unless you help me to understand what happened that night, it could happen again.”

Alfred didn’t believe it. Likely his son had run into thieves, if anything. “Exaggeration does not become you.”

At that, Stephen pulled up his shirtwaist and revealed a deep red scar. “Does this look like an exaggeration?”

The jagged wound struck him silent. Stephen continued talking about theories of what had happened and talk of danger, but Alfred heard none of the words. He saw only the physical evidence that someone had tried to take another son away from him.

The emptiness of loss shadowed him as he thought of William, his firstborn. A father was not meant to outlive his son.

Although Stephen had done a tolerable job as the new heir, Alfred had never been close to his rebellious second son. A part of him wished that it had been William who had disappeared, only to resurface months later.

With effort, he forced his thoughts back to the present.

Stephen added, “I intend to lure him out into the open so I may deal with him. I want your help. And—” he narrowed his gaze “—I expect you not to meddle with my marriage. I would rather concentrate on finding my enemy than worrying about what you’ve done to Emily.”

Steeling himself, Alfred set down his pen. “What do you wish to know?”

“Tell me of my dealings with her brother. I remember Hollingford in a vague manner, but aside from his gambling habits I don’t recall much.”

Hollingford had been a desperate man who’d spent most of his hours at the gaming tables instead of earning a proper living. “The man had no money,” Alfred answered. “Disgraceful, really, the way he gambled every penny.”

“Did he owe any debts to me?” Stephen asked.

“If you loaned him money, it was charity. Hollingford never repaid any debts.”

“I’ll have to bring him out into the open, then,” Stephen murmured.

“Who?” Obviously, he was not speaking of Hollingford since the man was dead and buried.

“The man who’s trying to kill me.”

Alfred let out the breath he’d been holding. Words of protest died upon his lips, smothered by denial. “What do you intend to do?”

“I want to host a ball and invite all of our acquaintances,” Stephen said. Grimly, he added, “If someone is trying to murder me, I want him to know I am back in London.”

Alfred did not care for this tactic at all, though he recognized the logic. “What if he tries again?”

“Then I will be ready.”

In the past three nights, her husband had seemed more distracted than usual, as though he had lost interest in the courtship. It was starting to bother Emily, and she wished she could somehow make things better between them. But she was afraid Whitmore would turn her away.

She sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, reaching toward the other side of the bed. The sheets remained empty and cold. The connecting door between their rooms might as well have been made of stone.

This afternoon, her fingers itched to do something, so Emily retreated to the kitchen. The familiar warmth of the space and the aroma of freshly baked bread relaxed her.

She shooed the servants out and gathered ingredients for a pound cake, creaming butter into sugar and cracking each egg into the bowl. With each broken eggshell, her uneasiness grew.

Though her husband behaved as though nothing was wrong, that they were friends, it was starting to wear upon her nerves. They shared meals and conversation together, speaking about dull topics such as the weather. And what she really wanted to know was when he would kiss her again.

If he would kiss her again.

Her arms ached from beating the eggs, but she continued. She’d blamed him for her brother’s death, but that wasn’t fair. He couldn’t be with Daniel at every moment. And though she might never know what had happened that night, she needed to let go of the anger or else their marriage would not have a chance.

The door to the kitchen opened, and the earl entered. His dark hair was combed back, his cheeks shaved. He rested his palm against a wall, watching her. “I thought I might find you here.”

Her knuckles curled over the wooden spoon as she met his gaze. “What is it?”

His eyes watched her with interest. She became aware of just how warm the kitchen was, and moisture dampened the back of her neck. He was eyeing her the way he might stare at a piece of chocolate before he devoured it. “Do I need an excuse to speak with my wife?”

Emily cracked another egg into the bowl, the shells crumbling under her shaking hands. “N-no.”

Honestly, what was the matter with her? She hadn’t meant to add that egg. To cover her flustered mood, she focused on blending the batter.

“Ten eggs?” he remarked, glancing at the fallen shells. “I suppose we should fashion a hen house in here somewhere.”

“It’s for a pound cake,” Emily said. “And—and—I’ve some strawberries, too.”

“I look forward to tasting them.”

The deep timbre of his voice suggested he had other items in mind for tasting. Emily beat the eggs so fast, it was a wonder she hadn’t scrambled them.

Stephen reached in to taste the batter. His finger disappeared inside his mouth, and, God help her, it only reminded her of his sensual kiss. She imagined his mouth capturing hers, asking her to bend, to yield to him. Closing her eyes, she wrenched her attention back to the cake batter.

He dipped his finger into the mixture again and held it out to her. “Want a taste?”

The idea of licking his finger made all the blood rush to her face.

“No, thank you.” She beat the helpless batter, even though it was already well blended.

“Too bad.” His finger disappeared into his mouth. Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing, embarrassing her in such a manner. She turned her back, but he trapped her against the table.

His hands surrounded her waist, and he drew her against his chest. She could smell the spicy male scent of him, of shaving soap and pine. With his fingertips beneath the curve of her breast, her breath hitched.

“I’m hosting a ball tomorrow night, at Rothburne House.”

She was completely distracted by his physical presence. His words hardly meant anything, but she managed to nod. “All right.”

“It isn’t necessary for you to attend. You may remain here, instead.” He released her, and she turned her attention back to the cake.

“Oh.”

It wasn’t necessary for her to attend? Confusion filled her up inside, and she didn’t know what to think. This ball was a second chance, after she’d declined the previous invitation. Why wouldn’t he want her there?

Her stomach tightened with fear. Maybe he didn’t want anyone else to know about their marriage. But, no, that wasn’t possible. She’d lived here for nearly a fortnight, long enough for London to be well aware of her presence.

Did Whitmore still want her to remain his wife? She didn’t know his intentions. He’d sent the flowers and numerous dresses that she hadn’t worn. But perhaps that was only to compete with Freddie Reynolds’s courtship, not because he cared for her.

If she were a better wife, she’d attend the ball at his side. She’d face her fears and fight for their marriage. But she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to conduct herself. It was impossible.

Not to mention, he didn’t want her there. No, that wasn’t right. He’d said it wasn’t necessary for her to attend. But what if she did come?

Think, Emily. There was only one day. Not enough time to prepare herself. Her mind whirled while she began pouring the batter into greased pans. She picked up a tin of candied almonds for the cake tops, and Stephen filched one. Out of instinct, her hand covered his to stop him.

He halted, amusement in his eyes. “Am I not allowed to have one? Or did you want it for yourself?”

His teasing startled her, and she didn’t protest when he slipped the candied almond into her mouth.

The act made her body tighten, made her want to drag him closer for a kiss. But no, she couldn’t do that.

Emily dried her hands on her apron, masking the sudden pulse of trepidation. Self-doubts multiplied, making her wonder why she was even considering this. The earl couldn’t know how cruel society could be. As his wife, she would be scrutinized and found wanting.

“I’ll see you at dinner.” He took a handful of candied almonds with him, striding away. Another dinner, another conversation. Another empty bed.

Emily closed her eyes. It was time to take a chance on what she really wanted.