She intrigued him in a way no woman had before. He couldn’t reconcile the two parts of her—the headstrong adolescent girl and the fiercely protective woman who was terrified of society.
And then, it struck him why. She hadn’t received the necessary training a baron’s daughter deserved. She hadn’t had the years of dancing lessons and etiquette. From her own mouth, she’d confessed her reluctance to embarrass him in public.
What if he gave her what she’d been missing? Gowns and jewels, and the tutors she needed. Perhaps it would atone for what he’d done.
In the morning, he would send word to the dressmaker’s and the jeweler’s that Emily was to be outfitted with the finest clothing and pearls to befit her rank.
And as an afterthought, he decided to order new shoes for Royce and clothing for the baby.
Wrenching tears broke from her, and Emily longed to throw something at the wall. It was just like before. Stephen had driven her into wild need, her body aching to receive him.
If there was any way to leave London, to hide elsewhere, she’d depart immediately. Being here with Whitmore only dredged up all the feelings she’d tried to bury.
He wanted to share her bed. She knew it, and even now, she wanted to feel his body against hers. But it would be wrong. To him, it would be nothing more than an act of passion. While to her, it would reopen the past.
More than ever, she wished she’d never married him. She hadn’t thought about the future, of what it would mean to be a countess. She would have to host parties, to assume the duties of being his wife. His position demanded more than she could manage.
She didn’t want to leave him, though it was the right thing to do. He deserved a better wife than she could be. With a sigh, she finished undressing and donned a nightgown.
And tried not to think of her husband in the next room.
Chapter Seven
Thefirstflowersarrivedon 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?Hehad 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?
