Chapter One
Hollingford House, England
1850
Well-mannered ladies were not supposed to chop wood. They were supposed to paint with watercolors, embroider cushions and pray for the day when they landed a rich husband.
“I wouldn’t mind having that rich husband now,” Emily Barrow muttered to a fallen log as she struggled to lift the heavy axe. It was freezing outside, unusually cold for early February. The clouds brooded overhead, threatening snow. And since she had no coal and didn’t want to burn any more of the furniture, she’d decided to attempt chopping wood in the forest. It was not going well.
“Servants would be nice, too. A footman, perhaps.”
But then, she’d had to dismiss all of the household help. There simply wasn’t any money left. Her brother, Daniel, had spent most of it on the governess he’d hired to care for his two children. Which was as it should be. Emily could cook for herself, bargain for what she needed and make do with what she had. She was nearly twenty-five, a woman firmly on the shelf. There would be no husband to rescue her from this drudgery.
But she would survive, even if it meant becoming a servant herself. And that predicament wasn’t too far away, unless Daniel returned.
Emily bit her lower lip and heaved the axe skyward. With a resounding thunk , the dull metal bit into the wood. It would have been satisfying, except that now she couldn’t get the axe out of the wood.
“Stupid axe,” she muttered, pulling with all of her weight against the trunk. She let out a growl, wishing the blasted thing would let go.
Behind her, she heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Probably Mr. Barmouth from the village, come to demand payment for the flour and sugar she’d bought a week ago. Without turning around, she asked, “Could you please help me with this?”
Dove-gray gloves reached around for the axe. She lost her breath when she saw Stephen Chesterfield, the Earl of Whitmore, standing before her. Dark brown hair framed a strong jaw and steel-gray eyes. Her pulse quickened at the sight of his firm mouth.
“You’re back,” she breathed.
Immediately, she wished she could knock her head against the tree. Not a polite hello, how are you, I haven’t seen you in ten years . No, she’d blurted out the first words that came to mind.
And, good heavens, she’d just asked an Earl to soil his hands by hefting an axe.
“Miss Barrow.” Lord Whitmore grasped the handle of the axe and wrenched it free of the wood. For a moment, he stood, eyeing the blade. “Are you planning to use this against me if I give it back to you?”
“Now, why would I do that?” She tried to behave as though nothing were wrong. Her heartbeat galloped in her chest, her face burning with embarrassment.
“Because I left you and never said goodbye.” He leaned the axe against the fallen trunk.
“Oh. That.” She waved her hand, as though he hadn’t broken her heart into a thousand pieces years ago. “Well, that was then.” The Marquess of Rothburne had caught them kissing in the stables. It had been enough for him to pack his eldest son off to Eton before the summer holidays had ended. She hadn’t seen him since.
“What brings you to Hollingford House?” she asked brightly. Pretend as if nothing’s wrong.
“I am visiting Falkirk. Escaping my meddling family,” he admitted. “I hadn’t seen you in so long, I thought I’d stop to pay a call. But no one answered the door.”
“The footman must not have heard you,” she offered. Because he lived over five miles away and had been dismissed last November.
Lord Whitmore glanced again at her fallen axe. “Do you require assistance with the wood?”
A lie poured from her mouth. “No, no. It’s fine, really. I was just…trying to see if I was strong enough to lift the axe.” Not because the house was freezing cold, and she desperately needed the wood to build a fire. No, no, that had nothing to do with it.
Whitmore looked as though
Hollingford House, England
1850
Well-mannered ladies were not supposed to chop wood. They were supposed to paint with watercolors, embroider cushions and pray for the day when they landed a rich husband.
“I wouldn’t mind having that rich husband now,” Emily Barrow muttered to a fallen log as she struggled to lift the heavy axe. It was freezing outside, unusually cold for early February. The clouds brooded overhead, threatening snow. And since she had no coal and didn’t want to burn any more of the furniture, she’d decided to attempt chopping wood in the forest. It was not going well.
“Servants would be nice, too. A footman, perhaps.”
But then, she’d had to dismiss all of the household help. There simply wasn’t any money left. Her brother, Daniel, had spent most of it on the governess he’d hired to care for his two children. Which was as it should be. Emily could cook for herself, bargain for what she needed and make do with what she had. She was nearly twenty-five, a woman firmly on the shelf. There would be no husband to rescue her from this drudgery.
But she would survive, even if it meant becoming a servant herself. And that predicament wasn’t too far away, unless Daniel returned.
Emily bit her lower lip and heaved the axe skyward. With a resounding thunk , the dull metal bit into the wood. It would have been satisfying, except that now she couldn’t get the axe out of the wood.
“Stupid axe,” she muttered, pulling with all of her weight against the trunk. She let out a growl, wishing the blasted thing would let go.
Behind her, she heard the crunch of footsteps in the snow. Probably Mr. Barmouth from the village, come to demand payment for the flour and sugar she’d bought a week ago. Without turning around, she asked, “Could you please help me with this?”
Dove-gray gloves reached around for the axe. She lost her breath when she saw Stephen Chesterfield, the Earl of Whitmore, standing before her. Dark brown hair framed a strong jaw and steel-gray eyes. Her pulse quickened at the sight of his firm mouth.
“You’re back,” she breathed.
Immediately, she wished she could knock her head against the tree. Not a polite hello, how are you, I haven’t seen you in ten years . No, she’d blurted out the first words that came to mind.
And, good heavens, she’d just asked an Earl to soil his hands by hefting an axe.
“Miss Barrow.” Lord Whitmore grasped the handle of the axe and wrenched it free of the wood. For a moment, he stood, eyeing the blade. “Are you planning to use this against me if I give it back to you?”
“Now, why would I do that?” She tried to behave as though nothing were wrong. Her heartbeat galloped in her chest, her face burning with embarrassment.
“Because I left you and never said goodbye.” He leaned the axe against the fallen trunk.
“Oh. That.” She waved her hand, as though he hadn’t broken her heart into a thousand pieces years ago. “Well, that was then.” The Marquess of Rothburne had caught them kissing in the stables. It had been enough for him to pack his eldest son off to Eton before the summer holidays had ended. She hadn’t seen him since.
“What brings you to Hollingford House?” she asked brightly. Pretend as if nothing’s wrong.
“I am visiting Falkirk. Escaping my meddling family,” he admitted. “I hadn’t seen you in so long, I thought I’d stop to pay a call. But no one answered the door.”
“The footman must not have heard you,” she offered. Because he lived over five miles away and had been dismissed last November.
Lord Whitmore glanced again at her fallen axe. “Do you require assistance with the wood?”
A lie poured from her mouth. “No, no. It’s fine, really. I was just…trying to see if I was strong enough to lift the axe.” Not because the house was freezing cold, and she desperately needed the wood to build a fire. No, no, that had nothing to do with it.
Whitmore looked as though
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