Stephen groaned and threw his arm over face, frustrated by the intrusion. What he would give for just five more minutes alone with Emily. Five damn minutes. There was always some intrusion, some reason why they must be pulled apart. It was maddening.

“It must be Bess. Hide at once!” Emily said.

He lowered his arm and sighed. “Just send her away.”

Emily stared at him blankly. “If I open the door, even a little, you will been seen, clear as day.”

The yawning gulf between their stations could not have been more evident. Emily was horrified by the prospect of a maid discovering their liaison, while Stephen could not possibly care less. Servants were a part of one’s life as a gentleman. Silent specters, hovering at the edges of the room, poised to offer assistance at a moment’s notice. If they had opinions, they did not share them and Stephen did not care to hear them.

“I won’t hide from my own servants,” he said.

“Everyone below stairs already distrust me,” she whispered harshly.

Another knock.

“Just a moment,” Emily called out.

She rose up onto her knees on the bed, her hair tumbling around her shoulders and shoved at him. “Stephen!” she hissed. “Hide this instant or I shall never forgive you!”

Good God. There was no closet, only a wardrobe that wasn’t large enough to admit his tall frame. With a groan, he slid off the bed and grabbed a throw, wrapping it around his hips as he strode across the room to stand behind the door.

Emily followed behind him. When she reached the door, she cast him a stern look before opening it.

“Oh, Bess,” she said in feigned astonishment—her voice was too high, her tone too cheery. Were it anyone else, they would not have noticed, but he did. He noticed everything about her. He made a study of her gestures and tones. The subtle way she licked her bottom lip when she was nervous or the way she fidgeted with the cuff of her sleeve when she was bored.

“Apologies, I must have overslept. No need to help me dress this morning. I’d like to rest a while longer before James arrives for our morning walk.”

“Very well, I shall return—” Bess started.

“No, no, I can manage,” Emily interrupted quickly. “T-thank you.”

Swiftly, the maid pushed the door open and stepped inside. “I just need to take the linens down stai—”

At that point, she had reached the middle of the room and turned toward Emily—but in doing so, she caught sight of Stephen, standing behind the door like a fugitive in his own home with only a throw to cover his modesty.

“O-oh, my lord,” the maid said. “I apologize, I didn’t...that is to say, I had no…”

“It’s quite alright.” Stephen stepped forward. “Naturally you will not mention this to anyone.”

“Oh, no, my lord,” she said quickly, her cheeks flushed crimson. “I would not think of it.”

“Thank you.”

The maid gathered the linens and ducked out of the room, her eyes cast downward. She clicked the door shut behind her.

Once they were alone again, Stephen turned to Emily. Her cheeks were pink and a fine layer of sweat dampened her temples. He squinted at her, concern tightening in his chest. “Are you ill?”

She swallowed and averted her eyes. “I am well.” Her gaze met his and she shook her head. “I am just...uncertain about this, us. Our lives, our stations in life are so vastly different. How can we possibly continue like this?”

That simple question was like a balm, like a weight lifted. For the first time since she’d arrived, she spoke as though she wanted to stay.

He itched to tell her he would set her up in a house, give her an allowance and provide anything she or the child required. But she was a proud woman, used to working hard. She would not easily accept what she would doubtlessly perceive as charity. He must move slowly, take careful measures to insure she did not flee.

He smoothed his hands over her shoulders. “We shall find a way.”

She rested her forehead against his bare chest. “Our circumstances are so difficult to reconcile, nearly impossible.”

“We shall find a way,” he repeated.

She lifted her head and smiled up at him. “Yes.” She nodded. “Yes, of course we will.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I must return to my rooms before Keating discovers me missing. He will be quite distressed to find no one to dress. He may resort to dressing an armchair.”

She nodded stiffly, releasing a long breath as though she had been holding it a good while.

With one last kiss on the lips, he opened the door and walked the short distance across the corridor to his own chamber, pleased that for once, things seemed to be progressing exactly as they should be.

As Emily lay there in bed, her body still humming in the afterglow of pleasure, she reflected on how blessed she was. She and Stephen had reconnected; strengthening the bond they had created in Scotland. Nearly a week past, when she had arrived in Durham House, she had never dared hope for such an outcome.

At length, she was forced to acknowledge the hunger that was balling her stomach into knots. Breakfast would be sent up soon, but not for another hour. She placed a hand over the slight swell of her belly. Her appetite had grown by leaps in the last few weeks and when hunger struck she was obliged to satisfy it quickly, lest she become sick.

Perhaps she would just nip down to the kitchen and grab an apple or a slice of buttered bread. Dressing quickly, she arranged her hair up into a knot and slipped her shoes on without troubling with her stockings.

As she left her chamber and made her way down the corridor, she nearly collided with someone. It was the Countess. She had just come from the Earl’s room.

“Oh, pardon,” Emily said, stepping to the side.

The Countess blinked as though waking from a daze. Her eyes were red, as though she hadn’t slept in days, perhaps weeks. She blinked again, focusing on Emily’s face. Her eyes lit in recognition. “You are the maid.”

Emily froze. Had Stephen mentioned her to his mother?

“The one who came to our aid last night,” she finished.

Oh. Yes.

“Indeed, my lady.” She smiled. “I was glad I could be of some assistance. My aunt suffered from a similar affliction.”

The Countess glanced at the Earl’s door. “I wonder if you might…sit with him a while? I should like to lie down.”

“Oh.” Emily hesitated. She was quite hungry, but refusing the Countess might cause her to question Emily’s presence here. “Yes, of course.”

She smiled faintly and led Emily into the Earl’s chamber. He was sitting in one of two wingchairs by the fire with an untouched plate of biscuits on the table beside him. “My darling, this is…” She looked at Emily expectantly.

“Oh, um, Emily.”

“Emily will be sitting with you a while,” the Countess continued with false cheer.

The Earl glanced up at them and frowned a little, but made no other show of acknowledgement.

The Countess walked to a door that was flush with the inside wall. “My chamber is right through here should you need me,” she said, opening a door that adjoined the two rooms.

“Yes, my lady.”

With one last glance at the Earl, she nodded and disappeared into her room, closing the door.

Emily took a deep breath and turned to the Earl. He was staring down at his lap. She sat in the chair next to him.

“Good morning, my lord,” she said awkwardly. “May I have one of your biscuits?”

He looked at her then and smiled, handing her the plate. She took a biscuit and bit into it, thankful, at last, for a morsel to eat.

Three hours later, Emily was winning at a game of Hearts, which the Earl had taught her to play, when the Countess returned. If she didn’t look entirely renewed, she at least looked more rested than she had before.

Emily placed her cards on the table, stood and curtsied. “My lady.”

The Countess smiled at her. “I confess, I had expected to hear from you long before now.”

“We have been very quiet here. His lordship has been teaching me card games.”

The Earl waved his finger in the air. “On your next visit, we shall attempt chess.”

“I should like that very much,” Emily said.

The game appeared quite complex to her eye, but she was a willing student and the Earl was a patient teacher.

The Countess glanced around. “I suppose I should order a pot of tea.”

“Oh, I ordered tea, but when it arrived it was a touch too cold, so I sent it back to the kitchens. A new pot shall be brought up shortly.”

Astonishment flashed across the Countess’s elegant features. “How very thoughtful of you.”

“Not at all, my lady.” Emily folded her hands in front of her. “If there is nothing else you require…”

The Countess’s gaze wandered over Emily as though she were sizing her up. For a split second, her eyes alighted on Emily’s stomach, and Emily’s heart seized. Could the Countess tell she was with child? But just as Emily was preparing herself for the Countess’s censure, the moment passed and her features softened.

“No, thank you, Emily,” the Countess said. “That will be all for now.”

Emily curtsied, and left the room, her heart still pounding. What would she have done had the Countess called her out? She had no idea. But one thing was certain; The Countess would have to be told about her grandchild eventually.

Would she be displeased with her son’s choice of partner? Undoubtedly. A Countess would not accept a maid as her daughter-in-law willingly. Or quietly, she imagined.

Emily sighed. Perhaps, eventually, the Countess would come to accept their union. It was the best Emily could hope for.

Later that morning, Stephen ventured downstairs. One brown and black spotted spaniel trotted down the main staircase, the remains of a disemboweled throw pillow dangling from his teeth.

Is this what life would be like when he and Miss Westgate married—Dogs constantly under foot, destroying helpless pillows and God knew what else?

With an annoyed grunt, he approached the breakfast room. Miss Westgate’s high-pitched laughter echoed in the small room and it was only when he crossed the threshold that he realized what—or who—had provoked such jubilance. Grant sat in the chair next to her, his deep chuckle punctuating the shared jest. They were alone. It appeared his mother and Miss Pearce had not yet come down.

Stephen cleared his throat, drawing both their gazes.

“Oh, Lord Devon,” Miss Westgate said, her voice startled. “Mr. Grant was kind enough to keep me company until you emerged.”

“Where is your companion?” Stephen asked.

“Oh, she is feeling unwell and resolved to remain in bed this morning.”

Stephen clasped his hands behind his back. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No, indeed,” she said quickly. “A trifling cough is all.”

“Perhaps I should send for Dr. Abel again,” Stephen said.

“No, no, do not trouble yourself. The surgeon looked in on her yesterday and prescribed a tonic. But Miss Pearce often has one malady or another.” She laughed. “My dear companion can be a touch dramatic.”

A touch was putting it lightly, but he said nothing. He was astonished to find Miss Westgate so at ease after what had transpired last night. Though his father was harmless, she had received quite a shock. Stephen had expected her uneasiness this morning, but to his relief, she appeared remarkably recovered.

“I must apologize again for last night, Miss Westgate.”

She shook her head and blew out a breath. “If the Earl is mad, then he should not be allowed out of his chamber,” she said coldly. “I was nearly mauled, I daresay. You should take care in future, Lord Devon.”

His jaw tightened. “He was not allowed out, ma’am. He is not one of your spaniels. This is his home. He is permitted any and all liberties we can afford him.”

The Earl’s door had been left unlocked quite by accident, but that did not signify. The idea that Miss Westgate, a relative stranger, would dictate to him how best to care for his father was infuriating.

She turned to him, her eyes dark and unfeeling. “Even those liberties that permit the handling of your honored guest? You surprise me, my lord.”

No, it was he who was surprised. He had not thought her so cold. Emily would never have reacted in such a way.

“Now, now, this is hardly a conversation to be had first thing in the morning,” Grant interrupted. “Breakfast has been laid out. Eat first and then you may bicker to your hearts content.”

Stephen smiled at Grant, thankful for his interference. “You have called early. I would have thought you burrowed into a coffee shop somewhere amid a halo of smoke, spinning your prose.”

“I have been forced to quit the coffee shops. My squealing young admirers have discovered my preference for them and have made it a point to wait for me, then crowd around me as I write. It’s maddening and not at all conducive to creating verse.”

Two months past, Grant had published a book of poetry and it had become so admired by the young, silly women of London that he could scarcely step outside his door without being assailed. It was quite the enviable problem.

“As I know you will not bombard me with questions, I thought I might pay you and your very charming guests another visit.”

“We had planned on a ride in Hyde Park this morning.” Stephen glanced out the window at the mist and drizzle beyond the glass. “But it appears the weather has turned against us. We are confined indoors, I’m afraid.”

Grant slid a glance to Miss Westgate. “I am here to offer what I can by way of entertainment. Whist is a favorite pastime of mine. I must confess to being quite skilled at the game.”

“Are you indeed, sir?” Miss Westgate asked.

“When I am not losing,” he said.

Did Stephen detect a twinkle of interest in her eyes? Dear God. He had enough to deal with aside from these two batting their lashes at each other. Perhaps he should take Grant aside.

They played Whist for several hours and all the while, he thought of Emily. He imagined her in bed; her hair tussled from their lovemaking, her lips bruised from his kisses.

What he would give to slip into bed with her now, molding his naked body to hers. They would remain that way for hours, days, forever, making love, laughing, and talking of nothing in particular.

After luncheon, when the rain had abated, they ventured out to several shops that Miss Westgate had a particular desire to visit while she was in Town. She purchased new gloves and earrings for their dinner at the Pembroke’s this evening. She also purchased a medicinal tea for Miss Pearce’s throat.

Late in the afternoon, they returned to Durham House and Miss Westgate retired upstairs with her many parcels to dress for the evening. Stephen and Grant moved to the study. Walking to the sideboard, Stephen poured Grant a brandy and handed it to him.

“Thank you, old man,” his friend said.

“Will you be at the Pembroke’s this evening?”

“There is little else to do in London this late in the year.” Grant tipped his head back and swallowed the entire contents of his glass. “Tell me, what is happening with you and Miss Westgate?”

Stephen poured himself a drink, the cut glass decanter clinking as he replaced the lid. “I should ask you the very same. The two of you have become quite familiar.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “She is a pretty diversion.”

Stephen lifted a brow. “She is also my fiancé.”

“Yes, she did mention that small detail. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to take her off your hands? I find I am suddenly in need of a wife and she would do as well as any other.”

Stephen shook his head and laughed. “You require a wife so urgently that you would steal my intended? You are a deplorable friend.”

“I do what I can,” he answered.

“You are not seven and twenty. Why do you require a wife so urgently?”

Grant waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not important. The point is that I would not be such a danger if were more attentive to your fiancé.”

He was right, of course. Stephen had hung fire when it came to nurturing his relationship with Miss Westgate. It was all Emily’s doing. She had invaded his every thought. Even now, sitting here with Grant, he wondered what she was doing this very moment. He itched to get back to her.

Stephen lowered into the chair across from Grant and took a swallow of his brandy, savoring the hot burn as it trailed a path to his stomach. Sweet oblivion.

“I have every intention of marrying Miss Westgate, but I will not deny that Miss Michaelson’s arrival has complicated matters. Acutely.”

“I see no complexity.” Grant shrugged. “Do you suppose you are the only gentleman to fall for his pretty young maid? Find her a new situation and be done with it.”

“I cannot cast her off. My conscience will not allow it and I dare not even try.” He pushed out a breath and tipped his head back, staring up at the ceiling. “I admire Miss Westgate, but what I feel for Miss Michaelson is something more.” He shook his head, unable to explain it. “I am thoroughly entangled.”

“Indeed, it seems as though you’ve ensnared yourself in quite the web. What do you intend to do?”

He looked to his friend. “What do you advise?”

“I’m glad you asked.” Grant held up his empty glass and smiled. “As it happens, I have the perfect solution.”