mother’s outrage at his sudden disappearance, was also a list of reminders. Stephen was supposed to apply for his marriage license, use the suggested betrothal ring for his proposal when he returned to London, and speak to Viscount Carstairs about permission to wed his daughter.
My God, he hadn’t even asked anyone to marry him. Least of all Miss Lily Hereford, the Viscount’s daughter and his mother’s current Marital Selection of the Season.
Stephen crumpled up the note and strode over to the drawing room fireplace, dropping the list into the coals. He’d marry whomever he pleased, whenever he wanted to. Not because it was his duty to do so.
He shoved the heirloom ring into his waistcoat pocket, remembering suddenly that he hadn’t made any of the arrangements for tonight’s dinner. “Farnsworth, I am hosting a small gathering this evening for the neighbors. Inform Cook to make the necessary preparations, and see to the invitations, if you will.” After a brief pause, he amended, “Only those neighbors with married daughters, if you don’t mind.”
While the butler strode off to do his bidding, Stephen paced the length of the drawing room. The dinner party was nothing but a means of getting Miss Barrow out of Hollingford House. But he had no idea what to do with her after that. He couldn’t very well send her back to her brother, given Hollingford’s ever-present creditors and lack of funds. Perhaps he could locate an elderly aunt or cousin and send her off to be a companion.
It bothered him to see Miss Barrow this destitute. She had the same survival instincts as before, the willingness to roll up her sleeves and do what needed to be done. It appalled him to think of any woman living under those circumstances, especially a spirited one such as her.
Despite her ragged clothing and desperate circumstances, she remained as beautiful as the last day he’d seen her. Her blond hair framed a heart-shaped face with whiskey-brown eyes. The years had given her soft curves and a full mouth.
Damn it all, nothing had changed. He’d stayed away from her for so long, he’d forgotten the way she fired his blood. There was something wild about her, a recklessness that tantalized him. He’d wanted to touch her once again, to taste her bold mouth and…remember what it was like between them.
For the truth was, he still wanted her, even after all these years.
Ten years earlier
Stephen found Emily in his father’s stables that Christmas evening. She wore a faded rose gown, and her blond hair had been scraped into a topknot. Her eyes were swollen, and he couldn’t tell how long she’d been crying. A strand of straw stuck out in her hair, marring the silkiness.
Stephen moved to sit beside her on a bale of hay, still wearing black evening attire from dinner earlier. Emily’s skirts were spread out, and the gown was so many years out of fashion, it was likely one she’d inherited from her mother. The square bodice bared her skin, and the light swell of adolescent breasts pushed against the fabric. He jerked his gaze away, knowing he shouldn’t be looking at her in that way.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just needed to have a good cry.”
“What’s happened?” He drew up a bale of hay closer to her. It didn’t occur to him to worry about propriety or being discovered alone with her. This was Emily, the girl he’d known since he was seven years old.
“It’s foolish, really. I knew there wouldn’t be any presents this morning. But Mother told us to hang up our stockings near the fireplace.” She braved a smile. “They were empty when we woke up, just as I thought they’d be.”
Stephen reached into his pocket for an orange he’d gotten in his own stocking and offered it to her.
“I don’t care about that.” Another tear slid down her cheek, and she sniffled. “But if you could have seen my mother’s face…It broke her heart that she
My God, he hadn’t even asked anyone to marry him. Least of all Miss Lily Hereford, the Viscount’s daughter and his mother’s current Marital Selection of the Season.
Stephen crumpled up the note and strode over to the drawing room fireplace, dropping the list into the coals. He’d marry whomever he pleased, whenever he wanted to. Not because it was his duty to do so.
He shoved the heirloom ring into his waistcoat pocket, remembering suddenly that he hadn’t made any of the arrangements for tonight’s dinner. “Farnsworth, I am hosting a small gathering this evening for the neighbors. Inform Cook to make the necessary preparations, and see to the invitations, if you will.” After a brief pause, he amended, “Only those neighbors with married daughters, if you don’t mind.”
While the butler strode off to do his bidding, Stephen paced the length of the drawing room. The dinner party was nothing but a means of getting Miss Barrow out of Hollingford House. But he had no idea what to do with her after that. He couldn’t very well send her back to her brother, given Hollingford’s ever-present creditors and lack of funds. Perhaps he could locate an elderly aunt or cousin and send her off to be a companion.
It bothered him to see Miss Barrow this destitute. She had the same survival instincts as before, the willingness to roll up her sleeves and do what needed to be done. It appalled him to think of any woman living under those circumstances, especially a spirited one such as her.
Despite her ragged clothing and desperate circumstances, she remained as beautiful as the last day he’d seen her. Her blond hair framed a heart-shaped face with whiskey-brown eyes. The years had given her soft curves and a full mouth.
Damn it all, nothing had changed. He’d stayed away from her for so long, he’d forgotten the way she fired his blood. There was something wild about her, a recklessness that tantalized him. He’d wanted to touch her once again, to taste her bold mouth and…remember what it was like between them.
For the truth was, he still wanted her, even after all these years.
Ten years earlier
Stephen found Emily in his father’s stables that Christmas evening. She wore a faded rose gown, and her blond hair had been scraped into a topknot. Her eyes were swollen, and he couldn’t tell how long she’d been crying. A strand of straw stuck out in her hair, marring the silkiness.
Stephen moved to sit beside her on a bale of hay, still wearing black evening attire from dinner earlier. Emily’s skirts were spread out, and the gown was so many years out of fashion, it was likely one she’d inherited from her mother. The square bodice bared her skin, and the light swell of adolescent breasts pushed against the fabric. He jerked his gaze away, knowing he shouldn’t be looking at her in that way.
“I’m sorry,” she muttered, swiping at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just needed to have a good cry.”
“What’s happened?” He drew up a bale of hay closer to her. It didn’t occur to him to worry about propriety or being discovered alone with her. This was Emily, the girl he’d known since he was seven years old.
“It’s foolish, really. I knew there wouldn’t be any presents this morning. But Mother told us to hang up our stockings near the fireplace.” She braved a smile. “They were empty when we woke up, just as I thought they’d be.”
Stephen reached into his pocket for an orange he’d gotten in his own stocking and offered it to her.
“I don’t care about that.” Another tear slid down her cheek, and she sniffled. “But if you could have seen my mother’s face…It broke her heart that she
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