he didn’t elaborate.
But she voiced a polite reply, “Dinner would be lovely. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” At the very thought of it, her stomach wrenched with hunger. Food. Oh, sweet heaven, there would be glorious food.
“What about your axe?” he inquired.
“Oh, one of the servants can bring it back,” she lied, for she had no intention whatsoever of admitting how desperate her circumstances had become. She walked with him around to the front of the house, where his gleaming black brougham waited.
“I look forward to renewing our acquaintance,” he said, tipping his hat again. His deep baritone was like rich toffee pudding, tempting her back to her past infatuation.
When his carriage reached the end of the drive, Emily walked calmly inside her brother’s house. Curse it all, she hadn’t a thing to wear. All of her expensive gowns had been sold. She had nothing but the brown cotton day dress she was wearing now, a black serge mourning gown and a threadbare blue tarlatan dress.
The tarlatan dress had been mended so many times, it was scarred with seams. But perhaps with a good shawl…
Her gaze fell upon the printed sofa in the drawing room. Sometimes desperate measures were necessary.
Stephen hadn’t slept well that night, just thinking of the crumbling Hollingford estate. Overgrown boxwood hedges and a veil of ivy shrouded the house, hiding it from the outside world. The estate was practically a graveyard, and it wasn’t fit for rats, much less Miss Emily Barrow.
Though she’d tried to pretend as if everything were all right, it was clear she’d been chopping her own wood for fuel. Her cloak had been far too thin for such cold weather, and her gloves had holes in them. Worse, she’d grown too thin, not at all like the girl he’d grown up with.
When Daniel Barrow, the Baron of Hollingford, had asked him to look in on his sister, Stephen hadn’t known things were this bad. The question was, what to do about it? Emily wasn’t the sort of woman to accept charity. And if he sent Hollingford funds, they would be gambled away at the tables.
What Emily Barrow needed was a husband. Someone who would give her a decent place to live and take care of her.
Not him. The last thing Stephen wanted was a wife. He’d had his fill of maternal badgering and his father’s guidelines on Appropriate Women to Wed. When Christine Chesterfield had presented him with a list of possible wedding guests, that had been the final straw. He’d left London without a word of warning, for fear he’d wake up one morning and find himself standing in a church, bound and gagged before the altar.
He noticed his butler Farnsworth shifting his weight from foot to foot. An envelope rested in his hands.
“It’s from my mother, isn’t it?” Stephen predicted.
The butler nodded. “I’m afraid so. And she bade me give you this, my lord. It was among your grandmother’s jewels here at Falkirk.” Farnsworth handed Stephen a velvet pouch. Inside was a ruby ring set with gold.
“Well, it didn’t take Lady Rothburne long to find me.” Were it not for the efficient train service, he’d have gotten a full week of peace, at least.
Stephen took the note and glanced at the contents. Amidst his mother’s outrage at his sudden disappearance, was also a list of reminders. Stephen was supposed to apply for his marriage license, use the suggested betrothal ring for his proposal when he returned to London, and speak to Viscount Carstairs about permission to wed his daughter.
My God, he hadn’t even asked anyone to marry him. Least of all Miss Lily Hereford, the Viscount’s daughter and his mother’s current Marital Selection of the Season.
Stephen crumpled up the note and strode over to the drawing room fireplace, dropping the list into the coals. He’d marry whomever he pleased, whenever he wanted to. Not because it was his duty to do so.
He shoved the heirloom ring into his waistcoat pocket, remembering suddenly that he hadn’t made any of the arrangements for tonight’s dinner. “Farnsworth, I am hosting a small gathering this evening for the neighbors. Inform Cook to make the necessary preparations, and see to the invitations, if you will.” After a brief pause, he amended, “Only those neighbors with married daughters, if you don’t mind.”
While the butler strode off to do his bidding, Stephen paced the length of the drawing room. The dinner party was nothing but a means of getting Miss Barrow out of Hollingford House. But he had no idea what to do with her after that. He couldn’t very well send her back to her brother, given Hollingford’s ever-present creditors and lack of funds. Perhaps he could locate an elderly aunt or cousin and send her off to be a companion.
It bothered him to see Miss Barrow this destitute. She had the same survival instincts as before, the willingness to roll up her sleeves and do what needed to be done. It appalled him to think of any woman living under those circumstances, especially a spirited one such as her.
Despite her ragged clothing and desperate circumstances, she remained as beautiful as the last day he’d seen her. Her blond hair framed a heart-shaped face with whiskey-brown eyes. The years had given her soft curves and a full mouth.
Damn it all, nothing had changed. He’d stayed away from her for so long, he’d forgotten the way she fired his blood. There was something wild about her, a recklessness that tantalized him. He’d wanted to touch her once again, to taste her bold mouth and…remember what it was like between them.
For the truth was, he still wanted her, even after all these years.
Ten years earlier
Stephen found Emily in his father’s stables that Christmas evening. She wore a faded rose gown, and her blond hair had been scraped into a topknot. Her eyes were swollen, and he couldn’t tell how long she’d been crying. A strand of straw stuck out in her hair, marring the silkiness.
Stephen moved to sit beside her on a bale of hay, still wearing black evening attire from dinner earlier. Emily’s skirts were spread out, and the gown was so many years out of fashion, it was likely one she’d inherited from her mother. The square bodice bared her skin, and the light swell of adolescent breasts pushed against the fabric. He jerked his gaze away, knowing he shouldn’t be looking at her in that way.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just needed to have a good cry.”
“What’s happened?” He drew up a bale of hay closer to her. It didn’t occur to him to worry about propriety or being discovered alone with her. This was Emily, the girl he’d known since he was seven years old.
“It’s foolish, really. I knew there wouldn’t be any presents this morning. But Mother told us to hang up our stockings near the fireplace.” She braved a smile. “They were empty when we woke up, just as I thought they’d be.”
Stephen reached into his pocket for an orange he’d gotten in his own stocking and offered it to her.
“I don’t care about that.” Another tear slid down her cheek, and she sniffled. “But if you could have seen my mother’s face…It broke her heart that she had nothing to give us.”
He put his arm around her shoulders. It wasn’t the first time he’d touched her, but this time, Emily stiffened. “I didn’t come here for your pity.”
“I never thought that.” He peeled the orange and divided a section. Juice dripped from his fingers as he slipped it into her mouth. He’d wanted to console her, but when his fingers touched her lips, something changed. It was a ripple of intensity, an awareness that he tried to push below the surface.
The rose gown outlined firm breasts, while her slender waist swelled into rounded hips. The need to hold her, to caress the softness of her skin, evoked strange feelings inside. He shifted his coat, trying to hide his unbidden response to her. To distract himself, he tasted a slice of the orange. There was a hint of tartness beneath the juice, but it was sweet just the same. He