As she sat across from him, nibbling at the food, he saw the circles beneath her eyes, as though she hadn’t slept well. And was it any wonder, given the way she’d been living? It was unacceptable. Even if she were a complete stranger, he couldn’t allow a lady to live like this.

But Emily Barrow wasn’t a stranger—she’d been his closest friend once. And though years had passed, tonight it seemed like only yesterday since he’d seen her last. It was impossible to tear his attention away.

He found himself staring at everything about her, from the way she savored each bite of the food, to the way she tried to hide the jagged seams of her gown. She sat with her posture straight, as though she were a princess locked in a tower, waiting for someone to steal her away.

To distract himself, Stephen bit into one of the biscuits. He was startled to find it moist and delicious. Rich black treacle blended with ginger seamlessly, and he found himself reaching for another.

“What do you think?” Emily prodded the potatoes on her plate as though she weren’t certain she wanted to hear his reply.

“I’ll have to taste a few more before I decide if I like them or not.” He devoured the others and eyed the two resting on her plate.

“Don’t even think about it, Whitmore. Those are mine.”

“Are they?” He pushed his plate aside and eyed them with full intent to capture.

Emily grabbed both biscuits and tried to scramble away, but she got caught up in her skirts when she tried to stand and fell against the wooden floor. Groaning to herself, she rubbed her elbow and winced. “Take them. I surrender.”

He reached out and touched her arm gently. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine. You needn’t worry about me.”

He couldn’t stop himself from caressing her elbow, trying to ease the pain. Emily closed her eyes but didn’t pull away from him, as if she needed his hands upon her. Seeing her veiled yearning only intensified the dishonorable needs rising inside him.

Stop touching her. Leave her alone. He let go of her arm and stood, trying to put more space between them.

Outside, the wind howled, whirling against the chimney flue. “If my coachman doesn’t arrive with supplies tonight, I’ll send a small staff along with everything you need, tomorrow morning.”

She shook her head, already protesting. “Whitmore, you’re not responsible for me. I won’t take any charity from you.”

“This is about your survival, not charity. Why is it so difficult for you to set aside your pride?”

“Pride is all I have left.” She rose to her feet and went to stand beside him. The warm firelight illuminated her hair, the honeyed strands gleaming. Worry creased her face, and she avoided his gaze. “I can’t repay you.”