Nigel had hired dancing masters and tutors, true to his word. Emily absorbed every bit of information, determined not to be defeated by her earlier failures. She spent hours learning how to be a countess, determined to win the battle against the ghosts of her past.

Living with her uncle was like living with Father Christmas. He had bought not one pony, but two—a black one for Royce and a white one for Victoria.

Emily had protested that Victoria would not need it since she had only just begun taking her first steps. With her arms outstretched for balance and her chubby legs bowed, Victoria seemed determined to master walking within a few weeks. But Nigel did not want Royce to receive gifts that Victoria did not also have.

Though she felt uncomfortable about his generosity, her great-uncle ignored her protests and bought whatever he wished. His wealth appeared endless, and despite what he’d said, she couldn’t quite let go of her resentment about her family’s years of struggling.

Maybe Daniel and her father had spent all the money. Maybe it had been lost at the gaming tables. But the fact remained: regardless of what Nigel had sent, she’d not seen a penny of his support.

That night, she buried her face in the coverlet, warming her feet with the hot brick placed by the maid. She was restless, and she reached out toward the empty side of the bed.

Her heart thudded when the door to her room creaked open. Emily swallowed hard. “Anna?” she whispered.

There was no reply. She shrank beneath the coverlet, her hand closing upon the flannel-wrapped brick. Blood pounded in her veins at the idea of an intruder entering her bedchamber. By God, she wasn’t going to cower beneath the covers while someone tried to slit her throat.

As soon as the person drew near enough, Emily sprang into motion, cracking the brick across the intruder’s head. At the contact, a man yelped.

Cursing with pain, he slid to the floor. “I should have known you’d do something like that.”

The familiar voice of her husband transformed her fear into dismay. “Stephen?” Horrified, she lit the lamp.

He clutched his head, blood seeping from his temple. “I suppose this is a quicker way to die than from poison.”

“What are you doing in my bedchamber?” She found a handkerchief and pressed it to his head.

“Visiting you. I see you haven’t forgiven me for going off to London.” He groaned when she increased the pressure to stop the bleeding. “Nigel seems to be taking good care of you.”

“He is,” she admitted. “But I don’t like staying behind while you’re alone in London. You could be hurt or killed.”

“You nearly killed me just now,” he pointed out.

She flushed at the words, embarrassed by what she had done. “It’s a good thing my aim did not strike true.”