“Yes, we can go now.”
With the boy’s hand tucked in his own, Stephen passed Emily on the way, offering her a look of what-could-I-do? while Royce babbled on.
“And I’m going to learn how to gallop and I’ll go faster than anyone!”
His wife had a smudge of flour in her honey-gold hair, and never had any woman looked more delectable. He wanted to brush the flour aside, kissing her senseless.
“The cake was delicious.” He caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist.
“You said you liked strawberries. I was in the mood to bake a cake, so…” She shrugged, as though it were nothing.
But she had tried to please him, had created the dish with her own hands. She cared.
Deep topaz eyes met his, and, on impulse, he caught her by the nape and kissed her. Her lips parted in surprise, but she kissed him back. It was too short by half, but the softness of her touch, the scent of vanilla, inflamed him.
“Uncle Stephen, comeon.“ Royce pulled him away, and at last he relented.
“Later,” Emily whispered, after they had both left. She wanted so badly to believe he could be her helpmate and friend. But a part of her held back.
For three months she’d been alone. It had been the worst time of her existence because Stephen had disappeared, and she hadn’t known if he was dead or alive. She’d woken up in the middle of the night, wondering if she’d only imagined the marriage.
And when he returned, he hadn’t remembered her at all. Would he ever learn to love her? And if not, was it enough?
Farnsworth cleared his throat, interrupting her thoughts. “There is a solicitor to see you. Mr. Terence Robinson.” The butler handed Emily the man’s card.
What was this all about? A wave of fear washed over her. She hadn’t seen Mr. Robinson since her brother’s death, when they’d been unable to locate Daniel’s will. They had assumed that the title and entailed property went to Royce.
Dread gathered in the pit of her stomach, gaining momentum. Was there something wrong?
She wiped her hands upon the apron. “I must change my gown. Please serve him tea in the parlor while I prepare myself.” Then she added, “Send for Lord Whitmore.”
The butler bowed, and when he had gone, Emily raced up the staircase, tearing off her apron. When she reached her room, she rummaged around, looking for something suitable to wear. There was nothing, save the lavender ball gown, which was completely inappropriate.
Oh, why hadn’t she brought any of the new gowns Stephen had given her? She’d left them behind, too afraid to wear them. Almost as if putting on the silks and satins would force her to become a true lady and a countess. But it was too late to worry about that now.
There was no choice but to continue wearing the black serge dress. Quickly, she pinned up her hair, moaning in dismay at her appearance. Flour spots marred her hair, and she tried to blot them out with water. She washed her face with scented soap, drying it with a towel. She prayed it would not take long for Farnsworth to find Stephen.
Her heart pounding, she took a deep breath. Each step toward the parlor felt like a step closer to an execution.
Emily opened the door, preparing for the worst. Mr. Robinson sat on the couch, a cup of tea in his hands. His dark wool jacket strained against the buttons, and he brushed the crumbs of a treacle biscuit from his buff-colored trousers.
“Lady Whitmore.” Her brother’s solicitor rose and inclined his head in greeting. “Thank you for receiving me.” With a warm smile, he added, “I am glad to hear that your husband has safely returned.”
“He has, yes.” She bade him sit down. “What business brings you to Falkirk, Mr. Robinson? Have you located Daniel’s will?”
“I have.” He accepted a fresh cup of tea when she poured it. “As you know, after your brother’s untimely death, we spent several months searching for it.”
“Royce inherited the title and lands, didn’t he?”
Mr. Robinson nodded, and Emily was able to breathe again. “Good. That’s good, isn’t it?”
The solicitor took a sip of tea, his eyes troubled. “I’m afraid there’s more. It came to our attention that your uncle Nigel was named legal guardian of the children, instead of you and your husband as we’d assumed.”
Her mind barely registered his words. Uncle Nigel? As an elderly widowed gentleman, Nigel had no use for young children. Why would Daniel have done such a thing?
“Uncle Nigel is still in India,” she informed Mr. Robinson.
“He was. But he has recently returned to his estate here, upon hearing of your brother’s death. His men contacted me, and, thanks to his efforts, we were able to locate the will. It seems your brother put it into his safekeeping.”
