He trapped her hands, filling her with every inch of himself. The fierce rhythm kept her breathless, her body shuddering with the roughness of his lovemaking. With their hands interlaced, he penetrated, his weight pressing her into the bed. Faster he moved, driving himself deep within until Emily cried out at the sensations that poured through her. A rising ecstasy fragmented her body until she grasped the sheets, her core milking his length.

After he met his own release, he kept moving gently within her. At last, he lay atop her, his body still joined with hers.

I love him, she realized. And he’s going to leave me again.

“Don’t go back to London,” she whispered. “Please stay.”

“I have to.” Slowly, he withdrew from her, then moved to hold her in his arms. “But I’ll stay for this night.”

“I’d rather go with you, than be left behind again. Surely if I travel with Nigel, we’ll be safe. The man has enough money to hire an army.”

“And I’d spend every second worrying about you.” Stephen shook his head. “No. You’ll stay here. I’m going to meet with Lord Carstairs in a few days. Find out what he knows.”

“Another reason why I should come. I don’t want Miss Hereford laying her pretty gloved fingers upon my husband.”

He chuckled and caressed her hair. “In a ballroom fight, I have no doubt you would be the winner, my dear.”

She didn’t smile. He didn’t know how hard she’d been working, trying to learn all about becoming a countess. Did he think she would embarrass him in public?

She didn’t ask about the will again, not really wanting to know the answer. For now, she wanted him to hold her until morning. Eyes dry, her heart filled with apprehension. It was hard to sleep, just thinking of Stephen in danger.

In the morning, she awakened to find an empty space beside her. She touched the sheets, feeling the warmth where his body had lain all night. Lowering her cheek, she closed her eyes as if to imagine him there once more.

And when at last she opened her wardrobe to choose her morning gown, every single pair of her shoes was gone.

“You wanted to see me, Whitmore?” Carstairs rose from his chair in the parlor where the footman had bidden him to wait. A tea service awaited the two men on a side table, along with a plate of biscuits.

“I did, yes. Please make yourself comfortable.” Stephen gestured toward the chair again. He offered a smile in greeting, though he was wary of the viscount. He’d asked Carstairs to meet him at Rothburne House, rather than his own residence. It was unlikely that Carstairs would attempt an attack in so public a venue—especially if he had been involved with Hollingford’s death or the attempt upon his own life.