She peered hard into the distance, hoping for a glimpse of Falkirk. It couldn’t be very far now. Before her anxiety could deepen, she saw a coach approaching. She stepped to the side, intending to let it pass, but instead it came to a stop before her.

The door opened, and she saw Whitmore beckoning. “Get inside, Miss Barrow. I’ll bring you home.”

She hesitated, for she didn’t want to go back. Tonight, she’d looked forward to a hot meal she wouldn’t have to cook and a house that was warm and cozy. Now it appeared that the weather had changed the earl’s plans.

With the greatest reluctance, she allowed him to help her inside the coach. Once the door was closed, his kind manner vanished. “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have a horse?”

“I could have walked.” She’d made it this far, hadn’t she?

“Were you planning to walk through a blizzard?”

What right did he have to be so angry? He wasn’t the one trying to walk across a muddy pasture in the snow. “I’ve no control over the weather, Whitmore. And I didn’t want to stay home.”

“I’ve postponed the dinner party. Few of the guests could come on a night like this. It’s becoming dangerous.”

She relaxed somewhat when she realized he was worried about her. The coach continued down the road, jostling her against the seat. Emily didn’t look at him, trying to keep him from seeing her frustration.

Her stomach churned at the thought of another night of potatoes. She tried to think of something amusing to say, something witty. But all she wanted to do right now was bawl on his shoulders like a little girl. Her evening of escape was already over, and she couldn’t push aside the bitter disappointment.

While they continued back to Hollingford House, she studied Lord Whitmore. Cool and collected, he was nothing like the young man she’d known so many years ago. There was a shield to his demeanor, as though he were a statue, molded into the shape his father had wanted.

“You never came to see me, all those years before,” she said slowly. “We used to be friends." The hurt balled up inside her, and she forced herself to continue. "I know you must have visited Falkirk. Why did you finally come to pay a call now?”

He studied her, his gray eyes discerning. Almost as if he were trying to find a reasonable explanation. He reached forward and drew the folds of her cloak together. “I should have come to see you. There are no excuses for my absence.”

But Emily knew the reason. The marquess ruled his son with an iron rod, and she wasn't good enough for him. She still wasn't. And now she wished he'd never come at all, making her wish for things she wouldn't have.