Emily sat in the hired hack next to James, clutching her worn cloth bag to her middle. Last night, after her argument with Stephen, she had been desperate to leave Durham House. Indeed, she had been positively chomping at the bit.

But both James and Bess had persuaded her to stay, at least until morning. They had convinced her that there was no sense in running out into the night without a farthing to her name. She could not visit the bank until morning, anyway.

The night had gone a long way in cooling her anger. She hadn’t slept a wink. She had lain in bed, tossing and turning while her last conversation with Stephen swirled in her mind repeatedly. The look of pain and betrayal that had flashed across his face when she had mentioned the letter had made her stomach drop, even in the heat of anger.

She swallowed against the weight of guilt in her heart. No matter what Stephen had done, or said, it did not justify her using his father’s duplicity to her advantage. She saw that now, in the harsh light of day.

But it was too late. He despised her. He suspected her of assisting the Duke in his machinations against the Earl, and if she examined the facts rationally, it made sense. Blackmail did not breed trust, after all. Perhaps she had earned his suspicion.

A dull, all-encompassing pain radiated out from her chest. He did not deserve the ire the Duke had leveled at him. Stephen may be flawed, but what had transpired between him and Lady Evelyn had not been his fault.

Emily pushed out a breath. The Duke was one of the most powerful men in London. What could possibly be done to mollify him?

Myriad thoughts ran through her mind, until at last, she alighted on an idea. The plan could very well make matters worse, but her aunt had always told her, nothing ventured, nothing gained. She must try.

Placing a hand on her stomach, she glanced over to James, who had the morning paper resting on his lap. The moving carriage caused his body to sway. He looked over at her and smiled. “Are you quite well?”

“I am,” she said. “But I should like to make one last stop before we leave London.”

“Yes, of course. Where shall I tell the driver to stop?”

She glanced out of the hackney’s cracked window. “The Duke of Arlington’s residence. I have a favor to ask of Lady Evelyn.”

By the time Stephen left the conversation with his mother, his anger was palatable. He tasted it on his tongue, felt it racing through his veins. Had he not left the room, he feared what he might put his fist through a wall.

With short, clipped footsteps, he stormed down to the sables and ordered Pharaoh readied. As he and Pharaoh thundered through Hyde Park, that dark cloud of anger eventually began to fade.

How did one reconcile the things his mother had confided in him? He was a bastard. A damned bastard. His parents had known what they were inflicting on him and they had said nothing. Not a damned word.

Stephen pulled in a reedy breath, tightening his grip on the leather reigns.

His mother’s words echoed in his mind.

You have paid for your father’s mistakes for far too long.

If he married Miss Westgate, he would be making the same mistakes his father had. Marrying her might preserve his legacy, but at what cost? He would be leg shackled to a woman he could scarcely tolerate—a woman who was in love with her companion.

But could he marry Emily?

Emily. Everything circled back to her. He had thrown the money down and told her to leave. She had blackmailed him. But what choice had he given her? She was in a desperate situation—penniless and with child. Her choices were few. Be his mistress, or be cast out into the cold.

His treatment of her was contemptible. He had used her, kept her close for his own selfishness. And now she despised him.

Perhaps it was better that way. He didn’t deserve her.

But he could no longer continue this farce with Miss Westgate. He must end the engagement—but how to do so without exposing her to censure. Grant had shown an interest in her, had he not? He did not stand to inherit a title, but he was wealthy and respected. Perhaps he would suit.

And if not, Stephen could certainly introduce her to a number of eligible gentlemen within his sphere. Once she found a suitable replacement, she could break off her engagement with Stephen and he would appear the jilted party.

When he returned to the house, Mr. Hawkins met him at the door. “Miss Westgate and Miss Pearce are taking their leave, my lord.”

He lifted a brow. “They are not due to return home until Saturday.”

“Indeed, my lord, it seems their plans have changed rather abruptly,” Mr. Hawkins said.

Stephen shook his head, confused. “On account of what?”

“Miss Westgate received a letter this morning from the Duke of Louth, but whether or not that is the reason for her departure, I could not say.”

Stephen handed Mr. Hawkins his hat and crop, a sense of urgency burning in his chest. If she left, there would be no hope of him helping her ensnare another gentleman. Honor would require him to marry her. “Where is Miss Westgate now?”

“In the foyer, my lord.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hawkins.”

Stephen found her exactly where Mr. Hawkin’s said she would be, surrounded by five panting spaniels and a mountain of trunks, all teetering dangerously.

“No, no, that goes in the carriage with me,” she snapped at one of the footmen. She turned to another. “Wait, that trunk over there should go first. This one goes on top.”

Miss Pearce was chasing after the dogs, attempting to usher them outside and into the carriage.

Stephen clasped his hands behind his back in an attempt to appear composed. “Miss Westgate. You are leaving us so soon?”

She whirled on him, her eyes wide. Had she hoped to sneak out without saying a word to him? “Oh, my lord, there you are. I was told you were out riding.”

He lifted his arms, palms up. “I have returned, as you see.”

Her hesitant gaze flicked over him. “Um, yes. Excellent. Might we have a word in the parlor? There is something very particular I wish to discuss with you.”

He bowed and indicated the way with his outstretched arm. “By all means. There is something I would like to speak with you about as well.”

He followed her into the parlor. She sat on the settee, looking far too bright and nonchalant. Curious. How could a letter from Louth have affected such a drastic change in her?

He sat in the chair across from her. “I was told you received a letter this morning. Everything is well, I hope.”

“Yes,” she said, her gaze falling to the carpet. “Quite. The letter I received was from The Duke of Louth.”

He raised a brow. “How very bold of him to send a letter after just having made your acquaintance last evening.”

She straightened. “He is a man of consequence and he is above the rules of etiquette.”

“His letter has not gone unnoticed by the servants. He exposes you to impertinent remarks.”

She waved that comment away. “Such remarks will be silenced when I am Duchess.”

Stephen angled his head. She spoke as though she were engaged to the man. “Miss Westgate, forgive me, is there an understanding between you and the Duke?”

“We have become very well acquainted in the past…day.”

“You are engaged to me.”

He should be pleased with her interest in another man, and he was, indeed. It solved a great deal. But it was all so perplexing. She and the elderly Duke had known each other one night.

“Yes, that is precisely what I wish to speak to you about. Last night, at dinner, it was relayed to me that charges will soon be brought against your father for bigamy. If the House of Lords proves their case, you will be declared a bastard.”

His jaw tightened. One of the other guests at dinner had clearly enlightened her about what the House of Lords had planned. Who else had the blaggards told? “Yes,” he intoned. “That is a possibility.”

She pushed out a breath. “Allow me to be plain, my lord. I came here to wed an earl’s heir, not a bastard steeped in scandal. My connection to Judge Addams is far too valuable to waste. And as there is no danger to either of our hearts, I trust you will not fault me for ending our engagement.” Her unapologetic gaze flicked up to meet his.

The relief he felt was so acute, he wanted to lean forward and kiss her. Thank God. Could fate have truly been so kind? “Of course, if that is what you wish.”

“The Duke’s daughter, Lady Beth, has invited Miss Pearce and me to their estate in Hereford. We leave directly.”

He sat back in his chair. “You wish to marry the Duke.”

“If he will have me.”

She was bold, ambitious, and he could hardly fault her for that. The match, from her perspective, must be ideal. The Duke was old as sin and already had two sons. He wasn’t likely to demand much from her by way of intimacy. Indeed, he wasn’t likely to live past Tuesday, so she would do well to secure him quickly.

Stephen stood, which prompted her to stand as well. His standing first was a breach of etiquette, but she had just declared her displeasure for such rules. “Then I offer you my congratulations, Miss Westgate.” He took her hand and kissed it. “And happy travels.”

He had scarcely left the parlor when he was bounding up the main staircase to Emily’s room. His long strides ate up the space until he stood in front of her door, his heart pounding.

She would still be furious with him. What could he possibly say in the face of how he had treated her?

He shook his head. He could only be truthful and confess the contents of his heart. He loved her. He knew that now. If he lost his title, if he lost everything, he cared little. What mattered was that he and Emily were together. With her by his side, he could face anything.

With a deep breath, he knocked once and opened the door.

It was empty.

He stood there for a moment and stared at the hearth. There was no fire. The room was dark and cold, an echo of his own hopes in that moment.

Perhaps she had gone for a walk. But even as the thought formed, he knew it wasn’t true. The room had a hollowness about it that had not been there before. It had an emptiness that reached into his very soul and took hold.

With clipped movements, he walked to the wardrobe and pulled it open. All of the dresses he had purchased for her sat neatly folded on the shelves. But her cloth bag and the book she cherished were gone.

His heart sank.

Miss Porter must have followed him up the stairs. “One of the maids came up to check on her and she was gone.”

“When was she last seen?” he asked, his pulse jerking violently.

“About seven o’clock, sir. Bess came up with her breakfast tray, but Miss Michelson did not wish to be dressed.”

Stephen glanced at the breakfast tray, untouched on the side table. She hadn’t eaten. She was out there, somewhere, cold and hungry. Self-inflicted or not, it haunted him.

“Does anyone have know where she went?”

“No, sir,” Miss Porter said. “I questioned the staff before I came to you. Someone mentioned she might have absconded with one of the footman.”

Every muscle in Stephen’s body went stiff. “The footman who took Emily on her walks?”

“Yes, James Walton.”

“Find him at once. Bring him to the study.”

“Yes, my lord.” She gave him a quick curtsey. “At once.”

Stephen paced the study, his legs eating up the space. He paused, only momentarily, to look out the window at the dreary, rain-drenched streets. She was out there—cold, alone. And it was his fault.

He’d been so blind. So fucking idiotic. She was a miracle, and he’d squandered her. For what? Continued admittance into a society he detested?

A quarter of an hour passed before there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called.

It was Mr. Hawkins. “The footman is gone, my lord. I found this note on my desk this morning.”

He handed him a folded parchment and Stephen read it quickly, taking the words in as if in a daze. It was short, vague. But it all boiled down to one thing. He had resigned and given no details on his current whereabouts.

“Does he have family in Town? A sibling, perhaps?”

“He has only worked at Durham house for a year, my lord. He said nothing of family or connections.”

Stephen crumpled the note out of frustration and threw it aside.

Fuck.

Stephen cursed under his breath and raked a hand through his hair. He had done this. He had pushed her away. He was such a damned idiot. With the money he had given her, she could disappear anywhere. She would take a new name and pose as a widow in some remote village. It would be nearly impossible to find her.

But he would find her and when he did, he would beg her to stay—not as his mistress, but as his wife.