It had been two days complete since Emily had clapped eyes on Stephen. After their last encounter, he had all but vanished from his daily visits.

In his place was the tall, strikingly handsome footman, James, who appeared at her door at precisely the same times each day—eight in the morning, before the guests were likely to be awake, and nine in the evening, when they were at dinner or otherwise engaged.

James was charming and amiable, but she wondered at Stephen’s motives. Why would he thrust such a man into her path? Was it an attempt to divert her attentions and cast her off?

Bess had arrived earlier to deliver Emily’s dinner—on a tray, as usual—and light the fire in the hearth. Emily was just finishing her lamb and potatoes when there was a knock on the door.

She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and turned in her chair toward the door. “Come in.”

The door opened to reveal James, his dark, wavy hair charmingly disheveled. “Good evening, Miss Michaelson.”

He was striking in his uniform—handsome and polished in the way all footmen were. Indeed, it was so common to see an attractive footman she would not be surprised to find they were bred purely for their ornamental qualities.

But James, it seemed, had more substance than the others, a characteristic she welcomed. On their long walks, they conversed on matters of culture and economics, their hopes for the future. Speaking to another soul on matters of equality was quite refreshing and she found herself looking forward to each of his visits.

The night was clear and unblemished when they stepped out. There had been talk of rain earlier in the week—or so Bess had told her—but it had all come to nothing. The air now was crisp, a gentle wind curling up from somewhere west of Grosvenor Street.

“Are you cold?” James asked, attentive as usual.

Emily pulled her borrowed fur cloak more snuggly against her body. “I am quite warm, thank you.”

All was silent save for the sound of their boots hitting the cobbles. Halfway down the street, James stopped and turned to her. “Might I ask an impertinent question?”

Emily stopped with a polite sigh. She had been cooped up all day and was impatient to stretch her legs. Indeed, they tingled with the need to stretch. “If you must,” she answered.

“Why does Lord Devon keep you confined to your room?”

She was taken aback by his frankness. “I could not tell you. His motives are as mysterious to me as they must be to you.”

She wasn’t entirely ignorant of his motives, but she only had her assumptions. He had yet to explain, explicitly, his reasoning for keeping her confined.

“And yet you allow it…”

She glanced down at the cobbles, then back up at his face. The street lamps illuminated his features and glinted off his dark hair. “There is something I need from him and so I bide my time. Once I have what I require, then I will be free to live my life however I wish.”

James reached out and took her hand, cradling it in his own. “Will you allow me to be of assistance?”

She smiled up at him, wondering how many women would kill to hear those words from his lips. If only she could accept his assistance. If only her heart stirred at the sight of him, as it did in Stephen’s presence…

“You are very kind, but this is a battle I must fight alone.”

He bowed over her hand and then released it. “I am ever your servant, ma’am, should you change your mind.”

They continued to walk for what seemed like only minutes, but must have been well past an hour. When they returned to the house, all was still and quiet. Stephen and his guests must have gone out for the evening. Perhaps to a dinner party or to the theater again.

Within minutes of James escorting her up to her rooms, she was grabbing a candlestick and roaming the corridors with no particular object in mind. It was mostly to relieve the persistent boredom, which had overtaken her to a maddening degree. But there was an element of curiosity to it as well. Could the house reveal anything about Stephen? What secrets might he be concealing behind the other locked doors?

As she tiptoed down the darkened corridor, a dull thud drew her attention. Ahead of her, no more than a few feet away, stood an older gentleman. He was in his nightgown, disheveled and staring directly at her—not unlike a deranged murder.

Emily paused mid-step, her heart pounding. Should she simply turn around slowly and feign like she was searching for the kitchens? Or should she continue on with all the authority of someone who belonged here?

In the end, the decision was made for her. The man, barefoot and frail, lifted his leg to step forward, but misjudged and began to topple—glacially slow—into a table.

“Oh, dear heaven.” She rushed forward and offered her arm to steady him, placing the candlestick on the table. He took her arm and after a moment, was able to right himself.

“Are you an angel?” he asked in a voice raspy from disuse.

“A mere mortal, I’m afraid. Are you looking for something? May I help you find it?” After years of servitude, attentiveness was forever engrained in her.

Who was this man? He looked quite feeble, his wrinkled hands clutching her for dear life. His skin was cold.

He blinked his watery eyes and looked at her. “My carriage is waiting. I am leaving today for Ireland.”

“It is quite late. Perhaps it would be prudent to wait until morning.”

He stared off into the distance, like a man lost at sea. At length, he replied, “What is the time?”

“Half past ten in the evening.”

He nodded slowly. “Yes, perhaps tomorrow will suit.”

“May I see you back to your room?”

She didn’t wait for his answer, but rather began guiding him back into his chamber. It was apparent which was his, as the door had been left open. He was unsteady, but went willingly. Thank heavens. She didn’t know what she’d do if he had refused.

Once inside his chamber, it was clear who this man was. Portraits lined the walls, and small, but valuable trinkets cluttered every available space. The decade’s worth of debris marked this man as a resident, someone deeply embedded in this house.

Stephen’s father, The Earl of Durham.

Who else could it possibly be? Rumor had circulated that he was quite ill.

He wandered to a drawer and pulled out something wrapped in a cloth. When she moved to stand beside him, he handed her the bundle. It was heavy and smelled putrid. Carefully, she opened the wrappings. Four rotted apples lay within the folds.

“Euddie knows how I treasure them. She sent them from her farm in Dublin. She has barrels and barrels of the things.”

Euddie. Eudora? Wasn’t that the woman Mr. Morris had discovered in Ireland? Dear heaven, could the rumors possibly be true?

As Emily bundled the apples back up, the Earl took her in from head to foot as though seeing her for the first time. “Have my trunks been taken down? Is the carriage ready?”

“The carriage, my lord?”

“I am traveling to see Euddie. She lives just outside Dublin.”

Oh, dear heaven, they were going around in circles. “This weather is not likely to hold. There have been rumors of rain for days. To travel now would be unwise.”

He nodded briskly, clearly agitated. “Yes, yes. I must go now, this moment. She awaits my arrival.”

This situation was quickly approaching problematic. If she could not calm him, then the servants—or, worse, Stephen—would be alerted. How was she to explain her presence here?

Taking the Earl by the shoulders, she did the only thing left to her. She lied. “Euddie wrote to me and asked me to see you to bed. She insisted you retire directly and without incident.”

He stared at her for a moment, his mouth agape, then very abruptly said, “Yes, well, she is given to ordering people about. That is exactly like her.”

“Indeed, my lord.”

Once he shuffled off to bed, Emily crept out of the room, closed the door firmly behind her, and snuck down the corridor, back to her chamber. That had been quite enough excitement for one night.

Sometime later, when she was already abed, a scream cut jaggedly through the silence. It jolted her awake with such force, she feared the scream had been torn from her own lungs.

Seconds later, the door flung open on its hinges and a wave of panic seized her. The tall, large figure standing in the doorway did not step inside the room. He looked in and then just as quickly was gone.

But in his haste to leave, he had left the door wide open. Crawling off the mattress, she collected a blanket off the end of the bed and ventured out into the corridor. Dogs swarmed the corridor, barking and wagging their tails as several people rushed into the narrow space, glancing around in alarm.

James was among the crowd, and seeing a familiar face, Emily moved to stand beside him.

“I heard a scream,” she said.

James turned to her, one brow lifted in surprise. “You have dared to escape your confines,” he teased. “Pray do not let Lord Devon see you.”

“Someone rushed in and left it open.”

A smile touched his lips. “You look very fetching, even torn from sleep as you must have been.”

She blinked up at him, her cheeks flushing hot. She could not encourage his flattery. “What happened?” she asked, abruptly changing the topic.

James nodded to the motley assembly. “It appears the Earl escaped from his chamber and attempted to climb into bed with Miss Westgate. She has gone into hysterics and his lordship is agitated beyond reason.”

She glanced over at the crowd and her gaze caught on Stephen’s. He was staring at her, even as Miss Westgate leaned on him, dabbing at her tearstained cheeks with a handkerchief.

Emily swayed a little and James placed an arm around her shoulders, offering his strength. “You look unwell. Might I escort you back to your chamber?”

She tore her gaze away from Stephen and shook her head. “No, no, I am quite well, thank you. If you’ll pardon me…”

Without a thought, Emily approached the Countess, who was pleading with his lordship to return to his rooms. “Pardon me, my lady, may I have a word with his lordship?” Emily asked.

The Countess parried with him a bit as he attempted to get past her, but curiously none of the servants moved to assist her. “That would not be wise. He is more disturbed that is usual.”

“I believe I may be of some help.”

The Countess drew her eyebrows together. “I don’t believe I have seen you before. You must be one of the new maids.”

Emily hesitated only a moment. “Um, yes. Exactly so.” She smiled faintly and glanced at the Earl, who was presently struggling with one of the servants. “May I?”

The Countess sighed and nodded, perhaps surrendering to the realization that she could not do this alone. She appeared tired. Worn.

Leaning in, Emily whispered in the Earl’s ear. He quieted instantly, nodding in understanding. “Are you certain?”

“Quite,” she said to him. “Let us get you back to bed, my lord.”

As Stephen and the rest looked on in astonishment, she ushered the Earl back to his rooms. She watched him climb up into his monstrously large bed and after offering him a few words of encouragement, she ducked out.

“Someone may wish to lock that door,” she mumbled to no one in particular as she made her way back to her chamber.

No sooner had she slipped back beneath the comforter, did the door swing open on its hinges to reveal Stephen.

“What in the devil was that?”

She made a show of fluffing and rearranging the pillows. “What was what?”

In two long strides he was beside her bed, glaring down at her with a dangerous look in his eyes. “You know very well what I am speaking about. How did you calm him so easily?”

Glancing up at him, she flinched a little at his harsh tone. She had expected bewilderment, perhaps, but not anger. His jaw was set, a tick pulsing in his cheek. She had never seen him quite this enraged.

She could not risk telling him the truth—he would be even more furious at her deception. So she reached for the only excuse available to her. “My aunt suffered from something similar. It is an illness of the mind. I am familiar with the malady.”

Reaching down, he grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her out of the bed.

“My lord, I beg your pardon…” she squeaked.

His face was close to hers, tauntingly close. “What did you say to the old man?”

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t know, exactly. I can’t remember.”

“You remember,” he said firmly. “What did you say?”

He was so imposing when he was angry. It was a product of being born into the elite, no doubt. Authority, power, domination. It was the way of his world and the people in it.

With a sigh, she said, “I heard him mutter a woman’s name, so I may have possibly told him that she had requested he get a good night’s sleep before he sets off to see her in the morning.”

“Name? What name?”

“I couldn’t quite make it out,” she lied.

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Who was that nestled up to you in the corridor?”

Oh, so that was the cause of his ill humor. She could practically feel the heat of anger radiating off his body. He was displeased to see her with another man. A man he himself had thrown into her path.

“Nestled up is a bit strong, isn’t it?”

“Emily.” The note in his tone held a warning that she didn’t dare ignore. Pushing out a breath, she said, “His name is James, as you should know. He has been a footman in your household for nearly a year.”

His hand tightened around her arm. “You encourage this man’s attentions.”

It wasn’t a question; it was an accusation—as though she had deliberately thrown herself at James’s feet and begged for just one small glance in her direction.

“If there is any affection on my part, it was encouraged by you.” She attempted to tug her arm out of his grasp, but he held it firmly—his strong hand tightening another degree.

“I would never have encouraged the mother of my child to seek the attentions of another man.”

“Was it not you who ceased visiting me? Who assigned a footman to attend to me? He and I are human, Stephen, of course we have come to know each other in that time.”

“And you prefer his company…” Another accusation.

She looked him straight in the eye, determined not to flinch. “Perhaps I do.”

His features drew tight in fury. “You are with child. My child,” he growled, breaking away from her. He paced, eating up the space with his long, muscular legs. “Flirting with a man in your condition is…”

Oh, now she was angry. Furious. How dare he abandon her and then admonish her for it? He was engaged to another woman! Pot, allow me to introduce Kettle.

“Would you care to finish that statement?” Before he could speak, she held up her hand. “And I would advise you to chose your words wisely, my lord.”

He glanced down and shook his head. “You are not to see him again.”

Oh, the audacity! “Perhaps your memory serves you ill. Allow me to refresh it. I am not your paid subordinate,” she spat. “You have no authority to dictate whom I see and whom I do not.”

James was amiable and she enjoyed his company. If he did not make her heart flutter, then so much the better. What had flutters ever gotten her? Pain. Heartbreak. Thank you kindly, but what she needed was someone who did not make her dizzy with wanting. Steady, dull. If she were inclined to marry, those were the qualities she would seek out in a partner.

“I will not repeat myself, Emily,” he said.

“Excellent,” she said with false cheer. “Then it shall save me the trouble of refusing you again.”

He advanced on her, his eyes wild with fury. She half-expected him to grab her again. Instead, he tugged her into his chest and captured her mouth with his.

Oh.

She parted her lips and their tongues touched, provoking a low animalistic rumble from somewhere deep inside his chest—a reminder, if one were needed, that he was a strong, virile male, and he wanted her.

When he pulled away, it was apparent his fury had not cooled. Indeed, his eyes looked even darker, more dangerous. Perhaps it was wrong, but that look in his eye did curious things to her insides. “You will not see him again,” he repeated.

Before she could open her mouth to argue, he lifted her up and placed her on the mattress. With a surprised breath, she bounced, her chemise bunching up and exposing her thighs.

Heat pulsed through her body. “W-what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned forward, one knee on the mattress and prowled up her body. “I’m doing what I should have done the morning I found you in my bed.”

Emily was a woman of some practical knowledge. She had not been brought up in the insulated world of a lady. She had seen what men do to women. She had seen how the women enjoyed it—in the back alleys, in the dark corners of theaters. The heat, the anticipation. The raw, clawing hunger…

She’d had it herself, once.

Once solitary moment and her body had craved it ever since.

Pressing his lower half into the cradle of her thighs, his head dipped as his lips skimmed up the side of her neck. Ah, yes. Goosebumps formed on her arms, though her body was flushed. It was kindling to her own desires, her own selfish need…

“Stephen, we shouldn’t…” she breathed, even as her hips rose up to grind against him. “We mustn’t do this…”

His right hand gripped her thigh, his fingertips sinking into her flesh painfully, but gloriously. “I don’t give a damn what we mustn’t do,” he whispered harshly against her neck. “I must have you, Emily.”

If she had more self-restraint, she would have pushed him away. She would tell him to leave—or better still, she would walk out the door herself. Stephen was to be married and she was to start her own, independent life without him.

This was the reverse of living her life without him. Indeed, this would only serve to entangle her further. But if there was one certainty in life, it was that she had little restraint when it came to Stephen.

Tilting her head back, she moaned. He felt heavenly, intoxicating—his weight on top of her, pressing her into the mattress, the sensation of his lips sliding across her skin.

“Tell me what you want, Emily.” He dragged kisses across her neck, her chin, her nose, her lips… “Say it. Let me hear the words.”

“I want this,” she panted. “I want you.”

He groped for her breast, finding the thin fabric of her nightgown instead. With an angry growl, he lifted off her to pull her chemise up her body and over her head, flinging it aside.

He paused for a moment, gazing at her as though one would study a portrait by a fine artist—the colors, the brushstrokes, taking in every minute dip and valley on the canvas.

She was naked. Fully and completely at his mercy. Perhaps she should feel shy, or embarrassed—especially given the changes in her body. She didn’t. She felt at ease with every bump and crease.

His hand fell to the curve of her belly, stroking gently. “You are so beautiful.”

“And you are impertinent, my lord,” she teased.

With his gaze never leaving hers, he moved off her, unfurling to his full height. He was all focus and determination. Completely lacking in amusement.

Turning, he sat on the edge of the bed and removed his boots, allowing them to fall with two dull thuds on the carpeted floor. Then he stood and turned back toward her, making a slow, deliberate show of removing each piece of clothing, until he stood in nothing but his breeches.

His body…it was all solid muscle, his abdomen knotting as he reached down and began unbuttoning his breeches. A long, angry scar ran down his left side, still red and angry.

Slowly, he pulled his breeches open, allowing his granite-hard erection to spring free. Shucking his breeches the rest of the way, he took himself in hand and smiled.

“Are you ready, Emily?”