Page 17 of The Accidental Countess (Accidentally in Love #1)

E mily held a plate of lemon cream molded in the shape of a fish. She gripped the plate hard enough to stop her shaking hands. Tonight had been beyond her worst nightmares. Not only had she endured the stares and gossip, but her own husband had abandoned her. Would this evening never end? She cast a longing look toward the door, hoping to escape.

Perhaps if she kept her back to the wall, slowly moving toward it, she could slip away without Stephen noticing. She started moving, but when she passed by one of the corridors, she heard the sound of weeping.

She really shouldn’t interfere. It wasn’t her business, after all. But someone else was having an even worse evening than her own, by the sound of it.

The noise led her to a young woman, who was crying just beyond the ballroom. She wore an ice-blue satin gown trimmed with matching ribbons and her hair was a lovely auburn color. Glittering diamonds sparkled about her neck.

“Are you all right?” Emily asked.

The young woman tried to dry her tears, nodding and waving her hand. “I am fine.” When she looked up and saw Emily’s face, her expression transformed into hatred. “Oh. It’s you.”

Emily didn’t know what to say, but the woman continued. “Lady Thistlewaite warned me that you were here.”

“Have we met?” Emily asked, uncertain of why the girl would hate her so much.

“I am Harriet Hereford.”

Ah. The spurned maiden. “I am Emily.” She deliberately did not give her surname, because really, what was the point in upsetting the woman further? Already the young woman knew that she had married Stephen.

“You stole Lord Whitmore from me,” Miss Hereford said in a tight voice. “We intended to marry.”

Whether or not it was true, the woman certainly believed it. Emily held her dessert spoon like a weapon, even as Miss Hereford advanced upon her. “This is not a battle between us,” she said. “If you have a quarrel, you should discuss it with Lord Whitmore.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Miss Hereford reproached. “How can you call yourself a lady, believing he would want someone like you? What did you do? Place yourself in his bed?”

Emily bristled and she bit back a nasty retort. Oh, she could easily argue with Miss Hereford, but this was a battle of words not worth fighting.

“I believe there is nothing left for us to say to one another.” With a curt nod of farewell, she returned to the ballroom.

She found an empty spot against a wall and took deep breaths to calm herself. Miss Hereford’s spiteful words were meant to wound her, to make her doubt herself. And they raised questions she’d tried to avoid.

Why had Stephen married her when there were so many other women to choose from? Miss Hereford embodied everything a lady should be: graceful, poised, and completely at ease in society.

Emily, on the other hand, couldn’t imagine feeling comfortable amongst the ton . Like vultures, the society matrons would peck at her confidence until there was nothing left.

Stephen crossed the ballroom, heading straight toward her. Although he made brief eye contact, he did not speak to her, as if she weren’t there. His deliberate evasion made her anger rise another notch.

He kept walking past her, until she heard his voice saying, “I believe the next dance is mine, Miss Hereford?”

No. He was not going to dance with that woman, was he?

As they passed, Miss Hereford shot her a triumphant gaze. Emily was sorely tempted to throw something. The dessert spoon, perhaps, or better, the remains of the lemon cream.

But then, a true lady would never cause such a scene in public, even if it did wound her feelings, watching them.

That was it. She wasn’t going to stay a second longer. Stephen swept Miss Hereford into a dance, but even as he moved her across the ballroom, his gaze remained upon Emily. She recognized the look of possession, but she took no comfort from it.

Instead, she saw Miss Hereford at ease among the gentry, gliding across the floor in Stephen’s arms. She saw the marquess’s nod of approval.

Would anyone notice if Emily drowned herself in the lemonade bowl?

She handed a servant the remains of her dessert and strode toward the terrace. Never again. Though she’d mistakenly believed she could fit in, it was useless. She was not, nor would ever be, a woman who could belong at such a gathering.

Her imagination conjured up a vision of what it would be like to have gentlemen vying to dance with her. What must it be like to receive pretty compliments instead of warnings that she needed a better dressmaker?

She wanted to dance in the earl’s arms, to wear an ice-blue satin gown with jewels, knowing that she belonged. And if he dared court another woman, his toes would suffer for it.

Her own feet had begun to ache, so she located a quiet area leading to the terrace. She stuffed the tight dancing slippers behind a large fern, grateful that her long skirts hid the evidence of her stocking feet.

She planned to walk through the gardens and along the side of the house to make her exit. But Stephen caught up to her a few moments later. Concern lined his face. “What did Miss Hereford say to you before I arrived?”

“She was angry about our marriage.”

He grimaced. “I feared as much. You looked ready to scoop out her eyes with that spoon.”

She ignored him and continued her walk through the grass. The hem of her gown grew damp from the grass and her stockinged feet itched. Discarding her slippers had not been an intelligent idea, even if she’d saved her pinched feet.

Stephen continued to follow her, and she didn’t bother to ask why. This time, he could say nothing that would convince her to stay. She would throw herself in front of a carriage before setting foot back in that ballroom.

Starlight illuminated the darkened skies, and she inhaled the lush fragrance of Lady Rothburne’s rose garden. From the ballroom, the faint strains of music calmed her mood.

“I want to dance with you now,” Stephen said, his hand reaching toward hers.

“I am a terrible dancer.” She kept walking toward the tall boxwoods, wincing as she stepped on a rock. “I might cripple you.”

His answer was to hold out his hand. “I’ll take the risk.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The music changed into a lively polka. Stephen took her hand, but Emily could not manage the steps. Her feet tangled up in her skirts, and she tripped over the hemline. Stephen almost caught her, but Emily crashed them both into the boxwood hedge.

A laugh escaped her, breaking her terrible mood. What would Lady Thistlewaite say if she saw her now?

My dear Lady Whitmore, it is truly bad form to toss your husband into the shrubbery.

Even when he deserved it.

Stephen lifted her up, plucking a twig from his waistcoat. “Well, that was interesting.”

“I am worse than I thought I was.” A snort escaped her, and she reached up to remove a leaf from his hair.

“I’ll see to it that you receive lessons.”

From the ballroom, a slow, melodic waltz began. Stephen clasped her about the waist, drawing her closer. “Shall we try it again?”

“We’d best move away from the bushes,” she said.

He led her deeper into the garden but well away from the hazardous vegetation. With his hands around her waist, he waltzed with her. Emily’s heart beat faster, and she swallowed hard. She could smell his shaving soap, and his palm rested upon her spine. His eyes were dark silver in the mist. Were it not for the moonlight, they would have stood in complete darkness.

She accidentally stepped on him, and his eyes narrowed. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”

“They didn’t fit. I could not tolerate the pain any longer, so I hid them behind a plant.”

He shook his head in exasperation, then lifted her feet to stand atop his. He pressed her close, and memories welled up inside. He had held her in his arms like this before they’d run away to be married. At the time, she had believed it to be wildly romantic, and he, the daring hero. Now she saw their impulsive wedding as the mark of fools.

“I am sorry about the way I treated you back there,” he murmured. “But after tonight, I don’t want to put you or the children at risk of attack. I wouldn’t forgive myself if they harmed you.”

She didn’t acknowledge the apology but shivered at his warm breath against her cheek. When the music ceased, he held her for a moment.

The faint light of the moon cast shadows over his face. Upon his collar she saw the faint stain of blood, and it bothered her. He had almost died tonight. She found herself watching him, her breath rising and falling in rhythm with his.

Lord help her, she remembered too well what it was to love this man. Her hand moved up to his face, as if to memorize it. The warmth of his skin, the striking features of his face captivated her. His dark gray eyes melted away her inhibitions.

And this time, she kissed him. At first, the lightness of his lips against hers was like a soft breeze, barely there. Then, he slanted his mouth to take her more deeply, his tongue touching hers. The wet sensation made her relive every moment of her wedding night in his arms.

He had been every dream come true, both gentle and passionate. She’d loved him so much, believing that he loved her, too. The memory shadowed her, the past colliding with the present.

Don’t think of it. Just be with him now.

The seduction in his eyes held her spellbound, stealing her breath while intense heat spread through her skin. Her breasts tightened against the delicate fabric, as his mouth moved away from hers to trail down to her shoulders.

She closed her eyes. “You don’t remember anything of what it was like, do you?” Her own memories haunted her, of feeling his hardened body atop hers. “Our wedding night.”

“I want to remember it.” His mouth nipped at her ear while his hands skimmed over her spine. “Perhaps you can show me tonight.”

She inhaled the crisp spring air, trying not to think of how he’d forgotten her. He hadn’t loved her then. And he didn’t love her now.

“You married me to escape Miss Hereford,” she said slowly. “I was a means to an end, not someone you wanted to wed.”

“That wasn’t the only reason, and you know it.” His fingers grasped her wrist, softly tracing a pattern over her skin. “Don’t shut me out, Emily.”

Thoughts of his carnal embrace invaded her mind. She wanted to be with him, more than anything. And yet, if she shared his bed, what if she were nothing but an evening’s entertainment?

She wanted to be more. Although he had broken her heart, she still cared for him. And one night would never be enough.

She stepped away, not even knowing the words that escaped her mouth before she picked up her skirts and fled. She ran through the gardens to the front entrance where the carriages waited.

Gravel cut into her feet as she hailed the coachman. She climbed inside the carriage, clenching her fan in a death grip. Minutes later, her maid Beatrice joined her, after a footman located her.

All through the ride home, Emily tried to harden her heart. She shouldn’t want to be a part of society, or desire to taste his world.

But when he’d danced with her alone in the garden, in that moment he’d once again become the man she had fallen in love with. Handsome, strong, and capable of fulfilling her every desire, it had taken all of her willpower to resist him.

And worse, was the knowledge that he desired her, too.

Stephen swirled the brandy in his glass, watching Lord Carstairs pour his own glass. He’d chosen his father’s study for their meeting.

“Thank you for agreeing to speak with me, Whitmore. I am glad to see you are well after everything that has happened.” Carstairs sat down, slightly agitated. “I’ve not seen you since the night you left my house.”

“I apologize for my sudden departure,” Stephen replied, watching the man for any suspicious gesture.

Carstairs shrugged. “Understandable, given the circumstances. But honestly, Whitmore, you should have waited for my men to assist you. Going after Hollingford on your own was not wise. I am surprised you lived to tell the tale.” His face turned serious. “Did he give you the list?”

Stephen wasn’t certain what list Carstairs was speaking of, but he played along. “No. I did not find it.”

“Damn. We need the names of the other investors.” Carstairs took a sip of his brandy.

Stephen kept his face neutral, wondering just why Carstairs was so interested in a list of names. He ventured a guess. “The investors in The Lady Valiant , you mean?”

“Yes, of course.” Carstairs’s eyes narrowed. “Have you any idea of where Hollingford kept his records? Did you send men to his residence?

“No. I’ve only just returned to London.” From the desperate tone in the viscount’s voice, Stephen suspected there was more to the stolen shipment. “Has something else happened?”

“I’ve received notes of a threatening nature in the past few weeks. He wants a thousand pounds, or he’ll harm my family.” Carstairs slammed down the glass, anger glinting on his face. “I couldn’t pay if I wanted to. I was relying upon the profits from that shipment.”

The revelation of financial problems made Stephen even more cautious. “Why would he target you for blackmail?”

“I don’t know.”

But Stephen didn’t believe him. He said nothing else, waiting for Carstairs to reveal more. The viscount tossed back the remainder of the brandy.

“One last matter, Whitmore. You should straighten your collar. Someone might see.”

“See what?”

With a twisted smile, Carstairs unbuttoned his cuff and raised his sleeve.

There, upon his forearm, was a black tattoo exactly the shape of his own.