Stephen’s throat constricted, but he did not move to comfort the child. It was as though his feet were locked in place. He was not the child’s father, nor his guardian, regardless of what Emily might claim. It was not his place to interfere. And it was better for the boy not to expect comfort or coddling from others.

His own father had taught him just such a lesson until he had learned how to suppress tears. The future heir could not cry or show any emotion. His father had beaten it out of him until Stephen had become a model of composure.

When the boy’s sobbing eased into the heavy breathing of sleep, Stephen took a step forward. He lifted the coverlet over the child, then left as silently as he had come.

The sun had not yet risen, but the sound of rain spattering against the stone house brought Emily a sense of comfort. The scullery maid Lizbeth lit the fire, and a flickering warmth permeated the room while Emily mixed the bread dough.

She knew the servants viewed her with a mixture of curiosity and discomfort. A baron’s daughter should never venture into the kitchen to work. But it was a deep need within her, to be useful. Giving orders to the household staff made her uneasy, for she had practically been a servant herself until recently.

She had done her best to keep the family together after Papa had died. Her brother Daniel’s business failings were a constant source of anxiety, but Emily had learned to suppress her criticism. None of their relatives would help them, not after—

She closed her mind, not wanting to think of the devastating scandal. She had done what she had to, bartering at the marketplace after Daniel had gambled away their finances.

He’d been grieving for his wife, a man out of his head. She’d forgiven him for it, even if it meant sacrificing her own marriage prospects.

But now she was married. It should have brought her a sense of security, a sense that everything would be all right. But how could it be when her own husband didn’t remember her? It meant that any feelings she’d thought he held for her had been shallow. If they had ever been real at all.

Emily kneaded the bread dough, letting its rhythm sweep away her fears and troubles. The familiar yeasty smell eased her tension, and she let the mindless task grant her time to think.

Whitmore might send them all away. She was torn apart, so frustrated with him for abandoning Daniel. And yet, she was more afraid of what was to come now. She needed the earl’s protection for the children. But more than that, she felt emotionally bruised that he’d forgotten their marriage so easily. She rested her forehead upon a floured hand. Somehow, she had to make the best of this.