The Accidental Countess

Michelle Willingham

THE ACCIDENTAL COUNTESS

Copyright © 2025 by Michelle Willingham

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was previously published by Harlequin Enterprises Ltd in 2010. This is a new edition and all World English rights belong to the author Michelle Willingham.

Cover art by Dar Albert, Wicked Good Designs.

An Accidental Seduction

A Prequel Novella

Chapter One

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 nursemaid 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.