Page 16 of The Accidental Countess (Accidentally in Love #1)

S omeone was following him. Though it seemed an unreasonable suspicion with all the hired hacks and other carriages out on the road, Stephen couldn’t shake the heavy premonition.

The evening air held the coolness of spring, and a low fog obscured the road. Flickering gas lights shone through the mist, while another carriage drew closer.

He ordered his driver to take them past Grosvenor Square toward Hyde Park. The man was one of the newer servants sent over from Rothburne House, but he was a friendly enough sort. They rode in silence for half a mile, perhaps more. No one appeared to be traversing the same path. In time, he was forced to admit he’d been wrong. When they reached an area toward the lake, the carriage slowed to a stop.

“Take me to Rothburne House,” he told the driver.

Instead of following his command, the driver turned. A revolver glinted, and out of raw instinct, Stephen threw himself sideways. The shot exploded inches from where he’d been sitting.

Damn. Survival instincts took over, and he seized his assailant’s arm. Muscles burned and perspiration slid down his forehead as he held the revolver away. The man’s finger eased across the trigger, ready to fire.

Stephen slammed his head against the man’s nose, twisting his body to gain control of the weapon. Caught off balance, the driver lurched forward, and Stephen fired the gun. Blood spread across the driver’s shirt, and he slumped against the door.

With the dead man lying at the bottom of his carriage, Stephen stilled. Though outwardly he showed no sign of exertion, his pulse pounded with energy. He had hoped to draw his enemy out, and now it had happened.

He felt no remorse for the assailant’s death. Nor did he believe this was the same man who had tried to murder him back in February; likely the man was only a hired killer.

He had been careless, too trusting, and it had nearly cost him his life. Stephen withdrew his handkerchief, wiping the blood from his hands.

He had achieved his goal, it seemed. His attacker now knew he was back in London. And he wanted Stephen dead.

Emily searched the glittering ballroom for a sign of her husband. She wore the lavender gown Stephen had given her. Although it was old-fashioned, Emily liked its simplicity. Her maid Beatrice had laced up her corset until Emily could barely breathe, but the results made her waist tiny. Her petticoats and crinoline swelled the skirts around her like the gown of a princess. The effect was lovely, except for the shoes. She had nothing else to wear, save the dancing slippers Stephen had purchased for her. The terrible shoes pinched her toes like a vice, yet she had no choice but to suffer.

Beatrice had taken charge of her hair, placing white roses behind the knot. She had loosened stray tendrils to float around Emily’s nape.

For a moment, Emily hesitated at the door, afraid of disgracing herself by either fainting or heaving up the contents of her stomach. She had arrived separately from Stephen since she hadn’t told him of her intention to attend. Her maid Beatrice stood behind her as a chaperone.

Already she was breaking so many rules of good manners. She should not have come without her husband at her side. But then, did anyone know she was married? She wasn’t certain whether Whitmore had revealed it to anyone. Heaven knew, the marquess would not speak a word of it.

Nervously, she twisted her gloved hands, terrified of what they would say. She recognized Phillips, the footman who had tossed her into the streets some weeks ago. Across the ballroom, she saw Lady Rothburne signal to the footman, shaking her head slightly. The acerbic feeling in Emily’s stomach worsened as Stephen’s mother did not come forward to welcome her.

The footman stared at her as though she were an unwanted insect. “I do not believe you were invited, madam.”

Emily struggled to maintain her composure. A deep flush suffused her cheeks, and she forced herself to hold her head high. Do not let them see your feelings. “ I am the Countess of Whitmore,” she murmured. “I rather think my husband would be offended if you deny me entrance, don’t you?”

Where was Stephen? She looked around, but did not see him anywhere. Without him as an escort, she felt the curious eyes of the crowd watching her. A wall. She needed a wall where she could blend into the background and await her husband.

Then, a voice rescued her, calling out, “Miss Barrow! By Jove, it is such a delight to see you again.”

Freddie Reynolds beamed as though she’d handed him the sun on a silver platter. He wore a crimson frockcoat with a matching waistcoat and black trousers. His brown hair was combed back, his beard and mustache neatly trimmed. In spite of herself, Emily couldn’t help but answer his smile.

“Oh, forgive me, I mean Lady Whitmore. I was hoping to see your face again, and now that I have, my life holds meaning again.”

His exaggeration made her smile. In all honesty, she replied, “Mr. Reynolds, it is a pleasure to see you as well.”

“But where is your husband? Surely you did not come alone?”

Before she could fabricate an explanation, he waved his hand. “You must allow me to be your escort, if I may be so bold. It would be an honor, Lady Whitmore. Quite an honor.”

“Well, actually, I—”

“Did you like the flowers I sent to you?” he interrupted.

Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “No. If they were not to your taste, I would rather not know.”

“They were lovely, but really, you shouldn’t—”

“Perfect! I shall see to it that you receive more this week. I intend to woo your heart yet, my lady.”

“Not now, you won’t.” The sharp voice of the earl intruded. Her husband wore all black, except for the snowy white cravat that was impeccably tied. Tall and imposing, he eyed Freddie with distaste.

Freddie jerked with surprise at the earl’s unexpected arrival, but he quickly recovered. “Lord Whitmore. It has been many years, has it not?”

“It has. Thankfully.”

Emily couldn’t believe Whitmore’s rude behavior, but at last she managed to find her voice. “Sir, I am grateful for your offer, but now that my husband is here, I do not need an escort.”

With a false cough Freddie said, “Lady Whitmore, perhaps I should be going.”

“An excellent idea,” the earl interrupted. “You might take an extended tour of the Continent starting in the morning while you are about it. And stop sending flowers.”

After Freddie beat a hasty departure, Emily snapped open her fan, suddenly feeling not at all sure she should have come. “Hello, Whitmore.”

“Why are you here?” Her husband's voice was edged with anger, cutting down her fragile courage.

She stared at one of the potted plants, taken aback by his tone. “You said that it wasn’t necessary for me to come, not that you didn’t want me here. Should I return home?”

“We’ll talk first. Meet me by the stone urns near the garden.” Stephen did not wait for a response but strode away. Emily glanced around, and saw several women staring at her, whispering.

She didn’t know what stories were coursing about London, but she was sure their gossip was not at all flattering. One of the matrons stared at her, before turning her back.

It cut her apart to see it, but Emily didn’t know if her father’s scandal or her marriage was the reason.

She waited endless minutes, trying to avoid notice. She ordered her maid Beatrice to maintain a slight distance. Eventually, she made her way to the terrace and located the stone urns Stephen had mentioned. The light fragrance of verbena drifted from the soil.

Her husband emerged from the shadows, gesturing. Emily moved forward until she stood beside a tall boxwood. From the ballroom, no one would see her speaking to the earl.

Stephen lowered his voice so as not to be heard. “Someone tried to kill me tonight just before the ball. He took the place of my driver. I left his body near the park and alerted the authorities.”

Shock suffused her, and her heart nearly stopped at the thought of losing him. But she couldn't think of anything to say. Words tangled in her head, and his expression hardened.

Though Stephen had tried to push the memory out of his mind, it lingered. The smell of gunpowder, the slick feeling of a man’s lifeblood, haunted him. It intensified his need to understand why his life was in danger. And he regretted bringing Emily into this.

His wife said nothing at first, her silence damning.

“Did you wish they had been successful?” he inquired darkly.

“I thought the danger was over,” she admitted. “Why would anyone want you dead?”

“I have my suspicions. It may be related to a shipping venture I made several months ago.”

“What does that have to do with the attacks?”

“According to Quentin, the investment was a loss. All of the cargo profits were stolen. Your brother was involved with the shipment,” he continued, “along with Carstairs and me.”

A guilty look crossed Emily’s face. “Daniel did nothing wrong.”

“I did not accuse him. But the man who murdered your brother is likely the same person who is trying to kill me.” There were too many connections, and he needed to fit the pieces together before the man could strike again.

“I thought you said he was dead.”

“I don’t think it’s over. He was a hired man, likely.”

Emily took a deep breath, her eyes cast downwards. “Someone attacked me as well. Just after you left for London, when I was at Falkirk.”

Her words stunned him. He listened to her explanation, while his mind seized the logistics.

Why hadn’t she told him sooner? Damn it all, he was her husband. He had the right to know when someone was threatening those under his protection. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. He pushed me down, but that was all.”

His fist clenched, along with his gut. He wanted to ask her why she'd never told him. But then, he'd left her behind. Why would she?

He took a breath and asked, “Did you speak of this to anyone else?”

“Only you.” For a long moment, she stared at him, her face bathed in moonlight.

“You should have told me about the attack, Emily," he said gently. "I cannot protect you if you're holding secrets from me.”

Her expression appeared lost and lonely. Then she shrugged. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

He didn’t believe her. She’d waited this long to confide in him—what else did she know? Getting her to let down her defenses, to trust in him, would take time.

If that was what he wanted.

He studied her for a long moment, her blonde hair silvery in the moonlight. She wore the strand of pearls he’d given her, and the beads rolled against the curve of her breast.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” she whispered.

He palmed her waist and pressured her toward the darkness. Without a word, he pulled her against the boxwood. Her breath hitched, her shoulders rising. With a single finger he twisted the pearls, drawing them taut against her bodice. Her mouth opened with a hush, her nipple tightening as he drew the strand over the hardened tip.

“I think you know why.” His own breathing grew harsh, but he continued the game. Teasing her. Tempting her. Leaning close, he kissed the softness beside her ear. She shivered, balancing her gloved hands upon his shoulders.

“Whitmore, anyone could see us—”

“Stephen.” He brushed his mouth against her cheek, moving toward her lips. “You used to call me Stephen.”

Before she could protest again, he stole her mouth, tasting the sweetness of the girl she’d once been. And the woman, the innocent beauty who was slowly captivating him.

“You kissed me like this when we were younger,” he breathed, grazing her breasts with the pearls once more. “Do you remember?”

“In the stables,” she whispered. “I was sixteen.”

When he tried to kiss her again, she stepped back, tangling her hair in the hedge. “Do they know about our marriage?”

“Probably,” he acceded. “I’ve heard the gossips whispering.”

“And what will you tell them?”

“Nothing. It’s best if they think I didn’t want a wife. It will protect you from my enemies.” If no one knew that she meant something to him, it might keep her safe.

Her expression grew stricken. “You want me to go back inside, letting them think I trapped you into marriage?” Emily disentangled herself, stepping free of his embrace. “No, thank you.”

It wasn’t what he’d meant at all. “Just stay away from my side for tonight, Emily. Let me worry about the details.”

“And that very small detail that you chose to marry me?”

“It would not be for long,” he added. “You need only keep out of society until the man is caught. After that, I’ll reveal everything.”

“Don’t make me a part of your games.” She took another step backwards. “If you won’t admit the truth, then don’t cast the blame upon me. I’d just as soon keep our marriage a secret, if it’s all the same to you.” She strode away from him, not looking back.

But it was far too late for secrets. Stephen let her go, biding his time. Tonight, when they were alone, he would make her understand. And perhaps then, he’d demonstrate exactly what he wanted.

Her. In his bed.

Emily danced with Freddie and endured the fascinated glances of strangers. Beneath her stiff posture and masked smile, she was drowning inside. Her husband was tearing her apart, one moment making her feel hope, and then another pretending as though she didn’t exist.

She did want Stephen back in her life but not as his convenient wife. Not as a woman cast aside whenever he chose. If he could not acknowledge her, then she didn’t want him at all.

Her dance with Freddie ended, and she curtsied. After he departed to pay his respects to their hostess, she stood among a group of young ladies drinking lemonade. Beyond polite responses, they made no further conversation. It was as though the marquess had branded her as an Untouchable. Likely the only reason she had not been removed from the ballroom was due to her avoidance of the earl.

A bitter taste rose in her mouth at that. Stephen had said it was to protect her, and maybe it was true. His earlier revelation had shaken her. A man had tried to murder him, and she hadn’t let herself think about it. If that man had succeeded, she truly might have been widowed this night.

A coldness slid beneath her skin, like a blade. She didn’t want to think of being alone again. Not after all that had happened.

She stumbled into Lady Thistlewaite. The gray-haired matron wore a saffron silk gown that made her look like a large dandelion.

“Miss Emily Barrow. What a surprise to see you here.” Lady Thistlewaite studied her with eyes eager to pry out the story. “Or should I say, Lady Whitmore?” Her tight smile gleamed, as though she had claimed the greatest gossip prize in all of London.

“Lady Thistlewaite,” Emily responded, with a light nod. She remembered her mother speaking of the dowager viscountess. One of the worst rumormongers in society, she could shred a woman’s reputation faster than a pair of scissors.

“After your father’s tragedy, why, I can hardly believe you are here. Such a scandal, it was.”

Emily said not a word, but the barb had struck true. Lady Thistlewaite knew it, too.

“And you captured the Earl of Whitmore.” The Dowager shook her head in disbelief. “I can hardly believe he would marry a woman such as yourself.”

“We are married, yes.” Though the matron was fishing for more information, Emily refused to give it. She searched the ballroom, desperately hoping for an escape.

“Well…” Lady Thistlewaite paused, her gaze sweeping over Emily. “I do not wish to be the bearer of bad news, but I know you would wish to put the stories to rest. They are saying that you were caught in a compromising position, and the earl wed you to preserve your family honor.”

“That is not true at all.” Emily clenched her gloved hands around her fan, trying hard to hold back her temper. “And I do not believe our marriage is any of your business.”

Lady Thistlewaite stared back as though Emily had slapped her. With a huff of air, she continued on. “My dear, I was only trying to help. You will want to put the stories to rest, won’t you? And how can we ever do that, if you do not tell us why the earl married you?”

“You may ask him that yourself.” Her voice came out harsher than she’d intended, and she tried in vain to escape the matron.

“Now, now. There is no need to take offense.” Lady Thistlewaite placed herself directly in Emily’s path. “But I did think you should be warned. No one else would dare to tell you about this, but I should hate for you to have your feelings hurt. It would be a most awkward situation.”

Emily wasn’t sure which of her feelings hadn’t already been crushed by the woman’s meddling gossip, but she waited.

“The earl intended to wed Miss Hereford, long before he met you. This scandalous marriage has quite broken her heart.” Lady Thistlewaite fanned herself, tut-tutting. With a sly smile, she added, “You really shouldn’t have chased after the earl, you know. It speaks of ill breeding.”

Emily gritted her teeth. “I never chased after him.”

Lady Thistlewaite offered a sympathetic smile. “It isn’t obvious to you, I’m sure. But the earl has kept his distance from you tonight, hasn’t he?”

Emily squared her shoulders. “He did not know I planned to attend.”

The matron shook her head sadly. “My dear, it is obvious that you are in desperate need of advice. For instance, the dress you are wearing is far too plain for a gathering such as this. Lavender does not flatter your complexion. You look as though you are wearing half-mourning. Blue or rose would be better.” The woman lowered her voice as though she were about to impart the secrets of warfare. “I have a dressmaker you should see.”

Emily counted to five before answering. Losing her temper in front of the Whitmore household would not precisely endear her to the marquess. She managed to nod. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Lady Thistlewaite lifted her hand. “Call upon me in the morning, and I would be happy to advise on proper attire. You are the daughter of a baron, after all. Since your departed mother cannot be here for you, I shall take it upon myself to instruct you. It would be my Christian duty to help you understand the necessary etiquette.” With a pat to Emily’s shoulder, the matron sailed across the ballroom to find another target.

Emily said nothing, tears pricking her eyelids. From the stares directed toward her, no doubt most people sided with Lady Thistlewaite in believing that Stephen was embarrassed by her.

She watched her husband mingle with the guests and dance with simpering young misses vying for his attention. He didn’t look at her once, though she watched his every move.

It hurt to see him pretending as though she didn’t exist. She went over to stand by the refreshment table, wishing she had never opened her mouth.

“I suppose you think to worm your way into our lives,” a deep voice said.

It was her father-in-law. And here, she had thought the evening could not get much worse. He had come to finish her off and pick his teeth with her shattered feelings.

Lovely. Just what she needed.

The Marquess of Rothburne stood just behind her, behaving as though he weren’t speaking to her. But Emily knew the remark was aimed at her.

“You do not like me,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “I am aware of it.”

“You don’t belong here. You could never dream of being a part of us.”

“Hide the silver, is that it?” Emily turned to face him and offered the marquess a serene smile. “Let me reassure you. I am not after Stephen’s wealth or his title.”

“You’ve blinded him. Like a common lightskirt, aren’t you? He isn’t thinking clearly.”

“I am not a lightskirt, my lord. Nor will I be a target for your ill-aimed insults. I am the Countess of Whitmore. You had best get used to it.”

It would have been a rather grand exit, had her hands not been shaking so badly she had to set down her glass of lemonade. No matter what, she promised herself she would not cry.

Especially when she caught the triumphant smile of Lady Thistlewaite.