Emily was devouring her eggs and toast when there was a sharp knock on the door. Stephen? Her heart lurched.

She dropped her toast and straightened, but when no one came bursting into the room, she knew it couldn’t have been Stephen. Knocking was far too polite for his tastes. The last time he’d visited, he had not bothered to knock at all.

“Come in,” Emily called.

The door opened to reveal Bess and an older, finely dressed gentleman Emily had never set eyes on before.

“The surgeon is here to see you.”

Emily stood and brushed the crumbs from the skirts of her new pale yellow morning gown. “I apologize, there must have been a mistake. I am perfectly well and have no need of a doctor.”

“My services have not been employed for your benefit, miss, but rather for Lord Devon’s. He wishes for me to confirm or refute your claim.”

Reflexively, she placed a hand on the slight swell just below her navel. “My claim?”

“Your condition, Miss Michaelson.”

He didn’t believe her. Stephen was of a mind that she was lying to him. Why else would he send for a doctor to confirm or refute her condition?

She had a mind to turn the doctor away. A woman was the best authority on the subject of her own body, after all. And she certainly had nothing to prove to this man.

But the path she must tread was narrow. With the new life inside her, she could not allow pride to guide her. That was no longer an indulgence she could afford. She needed Stephen’s assistance and if she must suffer through a thousand petty humiliations to get it, then that’s what she would do.

Emily nodded, halting Bess before she could duck out of the room. “Please stay, Bess. I should like a witness for the sake of decency.”

“Yes, miss,” Bess said, consigning herself to a corner of the room where she was likely to be out of the way.

The doctor began his examination with a series of questions regarding her courses, the state of her countenance and her sleep patterns. Then he commenced with the physical examination, which was blessedly short in duration. Kneeling in front of her, he felt her stomach, pressing on the little bump, feeling around for heaven knew what.

When the examination was complete, he rose with his mouth drawn into a frown—but one of deep concentration rather than displeasure. He cleared his throat. “I can confirm your suspicions, miss. You are indeed with child. Four months gone, I would say.”

He reached into the leather bag he’d brought with him and pulled out a small bottle filled with a mysterious red liquid. He handed it to her. “Half in the morning and the rest in the evening. There will be some discomfort, but not overly. If you bleed too readily, send for me at once.”

With that perplexing statement, he restored his instruments to his leather bag and prepared to leave. Emily halted him, holding the tonic up. “What is this you have given me?”

“A remedy for your condition,” he answered plainly.

She drew her brows together. “What manner of remedy?”

“It is a concoction of my own making that will cause you to miscarry safety.”

She stared down at the bottle. He wished to poison her. Her child. She glanced back up into the old man’s eyes, which seemed colder now that she realized his intentions. “Did Lord Devon request this tonic?”

“He would like a conclusion to this predicament without delay, as should you.” He lifted his bag and opened the door. “A dose of that and you will be well on your way to freedom. Good day to you.”

With that last declaration, he left the room. Emily turned to Bess, who was still standing in the corner. They were not friends. Indeed, Emily had no friends here. But Bess had shown Emily kindness—a smile here and curtsey there—where Mrs. Porter had only offered scorn and suspicion.

“Freedom.” Her hand fell to her stomach protectively. “As though my babe were nothing more than a hindrance to be discarded.”

She felt numb, too astonished to think straight. How could he be so cruel?

Bess stepped forward. “There is talk in the servant’s quarters that Lord Devon will soon be wed.”

Emily sat on the edge of the bed. So that was it, then. He was to be married and wished to avoid any embarrassments. She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. The man she’d known in Scotland never would have cast her and her child away so callously. How could she have been so mistaken about his character?

“I offered to leave and never bother him again,” Emily said in a daze. “But he insisted I stay. Perhaps this had been his plan all along. To keep me here until he could remedy the situation and then toss me away.”

Of course, he would not want a bastard child weighing on his conscience. Emily had told Stephen she would disappear, but perhaps he was worried the child would show up years from now, demanding money.

Bess shook her head. “Lord Devon is not such a man. I have only known him to be good and fair.”

In Emily’s experience, men cared nothing for the consequences of their own actions. Members of the aristocracy even less so. No, his actions were born of pure self-interest. Weeks ago, she wouldn’t have thought so, but now she was sure of it.

“Who is he to marry?”

As Lady Evelyn’s lady’s maid, Emily knew of all the prominent families. Often, she knew far more of their affairs than even her mistress. Servants lived for gossip and intrigue—as much, if not more, than their betters.

“Miss Daphne Westgate,” she said. “Though a formal announcement has yet to be made. She is here now, at Durham House , visiting with her companion, Miss Pearce.”

“They are here, right this moment?” Emily blinked.

They must be the guests Mrs. Porter had mentioned when Emily first arrived. It was now clear why he wanted Emily and her child dispatched as quickly as possible. His mind was clearly occupied with richer prospects.

Her mind wandered to the woman Stephen would soon marry. She did not know Miss Daphne Westgate at all. Perhaps she had only recently come out.

“How long will they stay?” Emily asked.

“They’ll be staying on through the end of the week, until after the Tisdale masquerade on Saturday evening.”

“Oh, I see,” Emily said. Bess gathered up Emily’s tray and moved to leave. Emily halted her. “Can I ask you to turn a blind eye while I go down and take a walk in the garden? I vow not to escape.”

“I wish I could, miss, but someone would be bound to see you and I would be dismissed directly. I have a younger brother and sister to think of. I’m sorry, miss.”

Emily shook her head. “No, I am sorry. I should not have pressed you.”

“Good day,” Bess said, leaving Emily alone.

It was late evening before the door opened again. The fire was burning low, and she’d just crawled out from beneath the fur-lined throw blanket to add more logs to the fire, when she heard the hinges creak. She turned to see Stephen standing in the doorway.

Despite her best efforts, her heart leapt when she saw him. He wore a blue striped waistcoat and matching jacket, black breeches and a pair of polished Hessians. His hair was combed back, away from his face. He was the model of poised, aristocratic refinement. And she detested him.

“My lord.” She smiled tightly. “Foregoing knocking all together now?”

No response. Lovely.

With huff, she said, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Dr. Locke has confirmed your suspicions. You are four months gone, it would seem.”

She stiffened, the humiliation of Dr. Locke’s visit still fresh in her mind. “Perhaps you would also like to inform me that snow is cold and water is wet.” She glanced down at her hands. “I have not taken the draught, if that is what you wish to know. Nor am I likely to. So you can walk right back out that door and leave me to my own company.”

He placed the books he had been holding on the round inlaid table beside the fire. “I brought you these. I didn’t know what you’d prefer, so I selected a bit of everything.”

Gold lettering on the spines revealed the books to be Pride and Prejudice, Shakespeare, Byron and a few books on the history of agriculture. She could read well, but rarely employed it to leisure. As a rule, from sunup to sundown she had countless chores to tend to, even while she was living with her aunt. There was never time to read for the pure pleasure of it.

And if by some miracle there was time, she read only one book. The stories of which were as familiar to her as her own thoughts—a collection of folk tales by the brother’s Grimm, given to her by her uncle.

“I would thank you, but I know your efforts are entirely self-satisfying. Idleness breeds mischief, does it not? You would prefer to keep my mind occupied.”

He didn’t deny her claim. Instead, he changed the topic. “Are you well?”

She lifted a brow. “With exception of near constant nausea, I am perfectly well, thank you.”

He spread his legs shoulder width apart and clasped his hands behind his back. Perhaps the gesture was a habit, but it made him seem even more powerful and imposing. This was the man the world saw. Cold and unwavering. The Viscount of Devon. The man who did not take no for an answer.

He was so different from the man she had come to know in Scotland. Though, to be fair, he was nearly unconscious over half the time. Perhaps that was why she’d liked him so well.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. When he was awake, they had laughed at the absurdity of their predicament and what a nightmare the muddied roads had been. Though he lay on his back and could see little, he had certainly felt the carriage crawl over every rut and pebble.

And at some point during their journey, when he had doubtless been pondering his own mortality, he’d confided his fears, his hopes for the future. He had bared his very soul and Emily had been the lucky recipient.

The man before her now was a stranger and yet, beneath the austere facade, she knew the man from Scotland remained. Or perhaps that man had simply been an illusion. A fantasy strung together by false memories and foolish hopes.

“Is there something you wished to discuss, or are you simply here to make certain I take my tonic?”

His gaze fell to the small, untouched bottle on the nightstand. “The doctor prescribed that tonic for you?”

“He did indeed.”

“Then why should you not take it? Surely it will not harm you.”

Anger welled in her chest and she struggled hard to keep from lashing out. Could he truly be so ignorant? Servitude had required her to conceal her true feelings. She used that skill now to hide her anger behind a veil of nonchalance. “Me? No, I imagine not. But as I am sure you are aware, the babe would not fare so well.”

His eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

“It will cause me to miscarry the child,” she said evenly. “The doctor made it very clear that such an outcome was your particular wish.”

He tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose. At length, he lowered his head and caught her gaze. “Is that truly what you think of me? That I would wish for the miscarriage of a child.”

She was quick to note he’d said a child, not his child.

“That is what the doctor said. His meaning was plain.”

“Then he mistook my words.”

Though he sounded sincere, she wasn’t entirely sure she believed him. Why would she? He had every reason to wish her and the child gone.

She stood. “Did he?”

He walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders, looking directly into her eyes. “Yes,” he said calmly. “He did.”

There was something in his countenance, a sincerity in his eyes, that reassured her. He was telling the truth.

They stood that way for a long moment—his hands on her shoulders, his gaze fixed on her face. At length, he said, “It’s the strangest sensation.” He brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “To have a connection with someone, to feel it deep in your bones, but have no memory of its creation.”

The turn of conversation was so odd and unexpected, that it rendered her speechless—an admittedly rare occurrence.

Without preamble or explanation, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. Instinctually, she sucked in a breath and jerked her head back. She was not accustomed to anyone—handsome or not—coming straight at her face without warning.

With a rumble deep in his throat, he hooked one arm around her waist, pulled her flush with his body and kissed her again. This time, she was prepared for it. This time, there was no pulling away. She sank against him and surrendered to his mouth.

His lips were soft and warm as they moved over hers, gently coaxing her mouth open. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, and slid it against hers, provoking a flood of longing that she felt all the way to her toes.

His hand slid from her waist to her backside, pulling her lower half more securely against him. His erection pressed against her belly, insistent, and it fed the burning, white-hot flame wending its way through her body. The V between her thighs ached with wanting.

You mustn’t melt. You mustn’t melt.

She need only tell him to stop, and he would, but for some inexplicable reason the words were caught in her throat.

Dipping his head, he nipped at the sensitive flesh just beneath her chin. Sharp, exquisite pain echoed through her, and she sucked in a shallow, uneven breath.

He forced her against the bed so that the backs of her knees pressed against the wood frame. His hot mouth skimmed her neck, her chest as his hands tore at the tapes on her bodice.

“No,” she said. “No, please. We cannot do this.”

“Of course we can,” he rasped against her skin. “Why should we deny ourselves?”

She swallowed and nodded, marveling at how soft his lips felt against hers. Yes, why should they deny themselves?

No. She could not do this.

Twisting her head, she pushed against his chest and arched away. “My lord. Please.”

That persuaded him to release her. He leaned back, allowing his arms to fall limply at his sides.

“I’m sorry,” she said. Her fingers trembled as she cinched the tapes of her bodice and retied them.

“The fault is mine. I should do better to restrain myself.” He flashed her a grin. “But you are so damned beautiful.”

Her cheeks heated and she glanced away. If she stared at him too long, she feared she might abandon her position. “I hear congratulations will soon be in order,” she said by way of shifting the conversation. “You intend to propose to Miss Westgate.”

“You have an informant. One of the servants attending you, I imagine.”

“Well, yes. But do not be displeased with her. Her conversation is my one source of consolation,” she replied.

“If she has any regard for her position here, she will be more discreet in future.”

“I gather Miss Westgate’s visit is the reason for my confinement. No doubt, you are afraid I will turn her against you with my tale of woe.”

“The situation is of a delicate nature,” was the only answer he offered.

Was it possible he harbored true affection for Miss Westgate? He had been engaged to someone else entirely not four months ago. Surely his affections could not have transferred to Miss Westgate so quickly.

“Do you love her?” She held her breath, unsure if she truly wanted an answer.

He regarded her skeptically. “What a question. Why do you care to know?”

Emily touched her bruised lips. “I confess, I am curious about the nature of your connection. Are you well acquainted?”

“I know very little of her, in truth. Our attachment is purely material.”

“But surely you must know something of the woman you intend to marry.”

Emily was far too familiar with the elite. Rarely did they marry for affection or admiration. Those who had the freedom to do so were fortunate indeed. But surely, in this case, there was at least some degree of mutual regard.

“She plays the pianoforte proficiently,” he said.

Emily shook her head. He truly knew nothing of his intended’s character?

“Yes, but what of her interests, her desires?”

He tilted his head back and sighed. “Her interests and her desires are of little consequence to me. As are mine in her view, I would imagine. Our attachment is little more than a business arrangement.”

For the first time since arriving, she felt a pang of sympathy for him. “What a deplorable way to live.”

He shrugged. “It is the way distinguished families have been marrying for hundreds of years.”

She scrunched her nose at that. “That is hardly an argument for living in misery with a spouse you scarcely know.”

“I would not expect a maid to understand,” he said shortly.

She straightened, stung by his brusque dismissal. She was only a maid. How could she possibly understand the complexities of his superior world? That was the inference and it made her angry.

“Indeed, my lord,” she said curtly. “That would take insight and reflection, two traits you are clearly lacking.”

He tilted his head down, eyebrows drawn together tightly. “You are rather impertinent. You presume to tell me what the son of an earl is lacking.”

“On the contrary, I presume nothing. I merely speak what I see.”

He shook his head and pushed out a breath. “I regret to tell you I will be unable to visit you this evening. If there is anything you need, Mrs. Porter or one of the maids will tend to you. They have been instructed to provide whatever you may require.”

“What I require is my liberation,” she countered.

“Emily, to what purpose?” His voice dripped with frustration. “What could you possibly want for that you do not have here?”

“Fresh air and conversation, to start.”

He didn’t seem overly moved by her request, but he nodded. “Very well. I shall send a servant to escort you on walks.”

She huffed. “How very generous of you.”

Of course he would congratulate himself for being charitable—instead of seeing this for what it truly was. Unfair imprisonment for fear she would poison Miss Westgate against him.

“You said you cannot visit me tonight. Why? Are you attending a dinner party? A ball, perhaps?”

He hesitated, narrowing his eyes, but in the end, he must have decided there was no danger in telling her. “The theater. Miss Westgate wishes to see Othello.”

He didn’t appear cheered by the prospect. “Do you not enjoy the theater?”

“I would much prefer an evening with my ledgers, but Miss Westgate is anxious for activity.”

Emily had been to the theater several times with Lady Evelyn and had concluded that playhouses were much too hot and confining. Indeed, even the play—whatever it was on any given night—was never diverting enough to hold her interest.

“Then you shall have my sympathy,” she said sarcastically. “I shall sit here, alone, pining for your good company.”

“I shall come to you tomorrow,” he said again.

She glared at him. “I shall wait with bated breath.”