Her stomach tightened with fear. Maybe he didn’t want anyone else to know about their marriage. But, no, that wasn’t possible. She’d lived here for nearly a fortnight, long enough for London to be well aware of her presence.

Did Whitmore still want her to remain his wife? She didn’t know his intentions. He’d sent the flowers and numerous dresses that she hadn’t worn. But perhaps that was only to compete with Freddie Reynolds’s courtship, not because he cared for her.

If she were a better wife, she’d attend the ball at his side. She’d face her fears and fight for their marriage. But she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to conduct herself. It was impossible.

Not to mention, he didn’t want her there. No, that wasn’t right. He’d said it wasn’t necessary for her to attend. But what if she did come?

Think, Emily. There was only one day. Not enough time to prepare herself. Her mind whirled while she began pouring the batter into greased pans. She picked up a tin of candied almonds for the cake tops, and Stephen filched one. Out of instinct, her hand covered his to stop him.

He halted, amusement in his eyes. “Am I not allowed to have one? Or did you want it for yourself?”

His teasing startled her, and she didn’t protest when he slipped the candied almond into her mouth.

The act made her body tighten, made her want to drag him closer for a kiss. But no, she couldn’t do that.

Emily dried her hands on her apron, masking the sudden pulse of trepidation. Self-doubts multiplied, making her wonder why she was even considering this. The earl couldn’t know how cruel society could be. As his wife, she would be scrutinized and found wanting.

“I’ll see you at dinner.” He took a handful of candied almonds with him, striding away. Another dinner, another conversation. Another empty bed.

Emily closed her eyes. It was time to take a chance on what she really wanted.

Chapter Nine

Someone was following him. Though it seemed an unreasonable suspicion with all the hired hacks and other carriages out on the road, Stephen couldn’t shake the heavy premonition.

The evening air held the coolness of spring, and a low fog obscured the road. Flickering gas lights shone through the mist, while another carriage drew closer.

He ordered his driver to take them past Grosvenor Square toward Hyde Park. The man was one of the newer servants sent over from Rothburne House, but he was a friendly enough sort. They rode in silence for half a mile, perhaps more. No one appeared to be traversing the same path. In time, he was forced to admit he’d been wrong. When they reached an area toward the lake, the carriage slowed to a stop.

“Take me to Rothburne House,” he told the driver.