11

Emmie woke in the early hours and lay a while, feeling disorientated and ill at ease. These feelings were not unfamiliar after spending the last few days on the road. This time, however, recalling where she was did not allay her anxiety one bit. She shivered slightly in her bedsheets. Vance Park seemed to her an austere and grand place. The task of making it feel like home was already daunting.

Recollections of the night before flitted back through her mind, the house with all its columns and Palladian windows, and those huge stone lions guarding its front steps. Once inside there had been the entrance hall with its marble relief sculptures of heroes and monsters, its gold-painted ceiling all decorated with gods. None of it seemed comforting or remotely welcoming.

Emmie had never cared much for the Greek gods, or did she mean Roman? She always got them mixed up. Darling Pinky had never thought their shenanigans suitable for the schoolroom. They were always doing such cruel and extraordinary things, even the ones who were supposedly beneficent.

Rolling onto her side, Emmie tried to make out the layout of the room in the early morning light, but the truth was, she had not had a good enough look at it the night before to map it out. No, instead of appreciating her luxurious new quarters, Emmie had taken a bath, then crept under the covers and extinguished the light. She had been tired and dispirited, and this morning she still felt the same way.

It was no good, she had to face facts. She was in the bedroom of Viscountess Faris, lying in her bed, and the truth of it was, she felt like an imposter. What on earth was she doing here? she asked herself despairingly. She must have been mad to accept Jeremy’s proposal! How in the world was she supposed to conduct herself now she was his wife?

This great big house with its army of servants bewildered her. It was true, she had lived in a fancy London townhouse before, though that seemed a lifetime ago and hardly compared with an estate like this. She would not even have Pinky beside her to help navigate the pitfalls, she reflected glumly, for Jeremy seemed determined to deprive her even of that familiar comfort.

She hoped Hannah was alright. She did not know precisely where her friend was at this moment. That housekeeper had borne her off last night. Colfax had carried Teddy off to his nursery, and as for her husband, well, he had disappeared, too, after informing her he had his own rooms to retire to and kissing her hand.

Emmie supposed that was the sort of world she lived in now. She sighed. Why on earth had he not married someone who would take all this in her stride? Then she remembered. He had tried that, and it had not worked out. No doubt that had put him off titled brides. Rolling onto her back, she strove to remember just what it was he had wanted from her.

A respectable marriage had featured heavily in his requirements, in order to expunge the scandal of his divorce. Well, tucked away here in the country, so far from London, it was unlikely that she would commit any solecisms bad enough to reach the ears of high society.

Emmie had never been one to make tongues wag anyway. Except for that one unfortunate period of her life, she thought, her face reddening in the dark. How ironic that should be the only time she had previously spent in Jeremy Vance’s company!

Hastily abandoning this unprofitable line of thought, she returned to the original. Now, what else had he asked of her? Slowly it came back to her. To be the sort of wife who would foster good relations with his neighbors and the local community, that was what he had said. He wanted the sort of wife who would sit on charitable committees. Emmie’s heart quailed slightly at the prospect but after all, how hard could it be? Doubtless this was the biggest house hereabouts and most organizations would welcome its mistress with open arms.

What else? To be a good stepmother, that went without saying. At least, she hoped she could uphold that part of the bargain without too many problems. It was true, she had precious little experience of maternal relations herself, with her own mother having died so long ago, but she hoped she would find her way with an open heart. She was already fond of the child, and Teddy seemed to welcome a new stepmother in his life.

After all, if the boy was to be believed, it was he who had put her forward as a likely candidate for the role. She flushed again, thinking of Lily Skellern regaling her stepson with embarrassing tales of her debut. For a moment, she almost took pleasure in remembering Lily’s mortified face at the wedding. Almost. Then she thrust the woman resolutely from her mind.

It showed a kind nature that Teddy had wanted his father to make reparation to her, even if the notion had been somewhat misguided. His apple truly seemed to have fallen far from the proverbial tree. His parents, when young, had been selfish and hedonistic with seemingly little regard for others. At least, that was how they had appeared to her at the time. Teddy, she thought warmly, was cut from a different sort of cloth.

A normal parent would not have indulged his son in the matter of his remarriage, of course. Who ever heard of a father allowing his child to pick out his wife? But then, Jeremy Vance was not conventional, nor never had been. He did as he pleased, and to hell with the consequences!

Then again, maybe she did him an injustice and the passage of time had altered him somewhat. Perhaps he truly believed he had had wrongs to right. She stirred uneasily; in some ways he did seem to have mellowed. On their journey here, he had been politeness itself and most assiduous in his dealings with Pinky. She could not imagine the Jeremy Vance of old being so kind.

Perhaps, now matured and wiser, he did feel some pangs of guilt about his former conduct. That might have been what swayed him into accepting Teddy’s demands. Feeling suddenly rather cold, she hitched up her bedsheets and took a deep, steadying breath. Would she feel better this morning if she had spent last night in her new husband’s arms?

Color crept into her cheeks as her mind wandered back to their wedding night. His presence in her bed had been far from familiar or comforting and yet, if she was honest, it had not been as jarring as she might have expected either. Recalling now her own behavior she felt a slight pang but at the time it had not felt awkward. Or at least not as awkward as it might have been.

In truth, Jeremy had seemed to revel in her embrace, and he had not tried to hide that fact from her. He was usually so easy and offhand in his manner that to see him so focused on her and so driven…it had been quite the revelation. It had been a heady feeling indeed to know that she could affect him so, but perhaps she had given herself too much credit. She had a vague idea that men were not so discerning as women when it came to such matters.

Still… He could not have faked such a strong response to her, surely? He had been so extraordinarily passionate, but it was not just that, she thought slowly. He had seemed, well, thrilled to finally be with her like that. And in the aftermath, he had seemed so happy and relaxed that it had quite disconcerted her. She had not expected the easy affection and the avowal that he had missed her all this time. Now that part had been jarring to her. To claim such a thing… It could not possibly be true. Could it?

She breathed out and tried to consider the matter impartially. To be fair, he always made it plain that he took pleasure in her company. Even in the old days, he had sought her out in plain view of everyone. Still, back then, they had all thought he was singling her out to make an object of fun out of her. Even she had thought so. She had just been too dazzled to resent it too much.

Now, suddenly she was not so sure. Could it be that all along Jeremy Vance had wanted her fiercely? She found herself breathing hard. Her instinct was to recoil from such an astonishing notion, to upbraid herself for an idiot. Even as a green girl of eighteen she had not been stupid enough to believe her personal attractions were equal to even half of her fellow debutantes.

But if so… If so, then why had he made such a target of her? He had been bored, she acknowledged. He had been ripe for mischief. And yet…why her? Suddenly, she recalled Lord Atherton’s astonishing words on her wedding day. What was it he had said? Something about her embodying Jeremy’s every physical ideal.

She still could not quite grasp that as a concept. It seemed so very unlikely. And yet, when she had asked him if the Venuses of his collection were very fleshy, what was it he had said? That is the way I like them. Emmie bit her lip. If he had spoken the truth, then that meant the reason he had singled her out all those years ago was simply because he had been attracted to her.

Again, she thought of Lord Atherton’s words to her on the dance floor. He was attracted to you, like a moth to the flame, and I believe you were in much the same condition. Well, in any case, things have worked out for the best, much the same as if the natural conclusion had been drawn all those years ago.

The natural conclusion . For some reason the phrase resonated with her and made her think of their wedding night once again. Something nagged at her, as though she had overlooked some vital clue to her new husband’s nature. Once more she recalled his almost ecstatic relief at the consummation of their union.

It had not been mere pretense. Jeremy had reacted as though they had finally reached the culmination of something they had set in motion long ago. A conclusion both desirable and long awaited, something he had devoutly wished for. Remembering his fervent, intense reaction to her, she felt a dawning realization. Lord Atherton had spoken nothing but the truth. Jeremy Vance was extremely attracted to her, and probably always had been.

Slowly, Emmie sat up and hugged her knees. He had wanted her then, and he wanted her now. The realization left her almost dizzy. If that were true, then she need not feel so hopelessly inadequate in her new position. Her wretched situation had simply enabled Jeremy to get something he had wanted all along, nothing more, nothing less. The idea was an oddly liberating one.

Oh, no doubt Teddy’s feelings had played a part in his decision, along with the necessity for a respectable wife who would smooth things over for him. But after all, if she possessed something at least that he wanted, something that she already possessed, then hopefully he would grant her some grace in the other areas where she did not match up to his ideal.

And Emmie could surely throw herself wholeheartedly into these new roles of wife and mother. It was the least she could do after he had rescued her from penury and disgrace. If she showed willing, surely Jeremy would show patience with her numerous shortcomings. The notion cheered her immensely. He had certainly been courteous toward her in their recent dealings. Perhaps he would continue to do so.

She felt her spirits perk up hopefully before a cold little voice whispered in her ear. If he finds you so irresistible, then why has he not slept with you once since your wedding night? That brought her up short. Emmie gave her head a little shake. She needed to have more confidence in herself. Letting her share a room with Pinky on the road had doubtless been due to courtesy. Last night was harder to explain away but after all, could that not also be due to consideration?

A knock on the door startled her. She lurched upright and fixed her eyes on it. A familiar golden head peered around the door.

“Good morning, Emmeline,” her husband said. “Can I come in?”

“Oh yes, of course,” she answered, feeling quite flustered.

He came into the room at once, resplendent in a long smoking robe of quilted black and gold. He was clearly en dishabille , for his curling hair was not in its usual immaculate style but looked tousled, tumbling around his brow. Predictably, it did not detract from his good looks.

He sat down first on the bed, and then swung his legs up and lay down flat beside her, crossing his ankles and placing his hands behind his head. He turned his head to look at her, asking politely, “How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you,” she answered.

“You found the bed comfortable?”

“Yes. Have you, er, been awake long?” she asked, determined to hold her own in the conversation. He nodded, but did not elaborate, his eyes running over her, making her skin prickle. Noticing the direction of his gaze, Emmie glanced quickly down at the neckline of her nightgown but found all was decent.

“Did Madame de Flores make you any new nightgowns, Ballentine?” he asked casually, and Emmie flushed. “What?” he asked, noticing her embarrassment. “You’re surely not so bashful, wife, that the mere mention of nightgowns can put you to blush!”

“Certainly not!” she responded, feeling stung. “I just thought, well, that you were—”

“Admiring your magnificent bosom?” he suggested lazily.

She turned quite bright red. “Well, yes,” she admitted, “but now I find it was merely the tattiness of my nightgown that caught your attention, which is not at all flattering.”

He gave a sudden laugh. “If I could see your bosom to admire it, then I would,” he assured her. “But alas, I cannot through that horror of a nightdress.”

“Madame promised to send on the rest of my trousseau. I lost track of what she was making but it’s possible there may be a nightgown included.”

“Let us devoutly hope so.”

“I am sorry you find it so repellent,” she retorted with more than a hint of sarcasm.

“I don’t find it remotely repellent,” he countered swiftly. “I am merely trying to be accommodating. Let me know if my efforts are not appreciated and I will drop the semblance at once.”

Emmie pounced on his words gratefully. So, he had been trying to be thoughtful! She sagged against the pillows with relief.

He slid his slippered foot across the mattress to nudge her own concealed beneath the covers. “I wish you would tell me what you are thinking, Ballentine,” he said slyly.

After all, why not? “Is that why you did not sleep in the same bed as me last night?” she asked frankly.

For a moment he looked quite stunned, and Emmie could not hold his gaze. “Do you see that door over there, Ballentine?” he asked, nodding toward the opposite side of the room.

Emmie glanced in that direction and saw a discreet door, papered over like the wall. “Just about,” she answered.

“It connects my bedroom to yours,” he explained.

“Oh?”

He nodded. “The key is on your side,” he said significantly. When Emmie continued to gaze at him blankly, he elaborated. “If you are agreeable to a conjugal visit, then you must unlock the door to let me know that fact.”

“Oh,” Emmie repeated, “well, no one explained that to me.”

The expression on his face wavered. “I have a suspicion I am going to regret asking this,” he said, “but would you have unlocked it last night?”

“Yes,” she admitted simply.

He groaned and covered his face with his hand. “Emmeline, how could you do this to me?”

“You know I am not yet familiar with the finer points of marital etiquette,” she said defensively.

“Yes, I suppose that is true,” he admitted, peering through his fingers at her. “But even so…”

“Why do you not have a key for your side?” she puzzled aloud. “What if I am agreeable and you are not?”

He gave a choked laugh. “Then, I suppose I simply would not try the door.”

“Yes, but— oh !” she said, feeling suddenly foolish. “Oh, I see.”

“I am almost afraid to ask at this point,” he admitted, “but what is it that you see?”

“Well, that you may come through the door to my side, but I may not pass through it to intrude on yours,” she said awkwardly, plucking at the coverlet.

He hesitated. “That is certainly the convention,” he agreed, “but I cannot imagine I would bar your way if you did venture my side of the door.”

Emmie opened her mouth to ask if Lady Amanda had never walked through. Thankfully, she suppressed the impulse in time. She felt faintly horrified with herself. She might not know much about married relations, but she knew such a question would have been highly indelicate.

“I thought I would give you a tour of your rooms,” Jeremy said casually.

“Rooms?”

He nodded. “All the ones on this corridor are your own private quarters.”

“Oh.” Good grief. “Are they all like this one?” Emmie asked, casting her eyes around the opulence of the bedroom. It reminded her of One Thousand and One Nights with its walls in a pattern of cobalt blue leaves and orange flowers. Hanging from the ceilings were many brightly colored glass lamps in the Turkish style and in the middle of the room was a low table surrounded by plump tasseled cushions.

He shook his head. “Heaven forbid. Amanda had them all done out in different themes. Whatever took her current fancy.” He gave her a smile. “You look rather out of place amid all this, Ballentine. Like you wandered in here looking for your maiden aunt.”

She threw him a startled look. “No doubt the excessive modesty of my nightgown is at fault.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” he agreed.

“It’s a very lovely room,” she ventured. “Won’t you be sorry if it is all changed on my account?”

“No,” he said. “I would be disappointed if you did not put your own stamp on the place.”

“Because the setting does not suit me?”

“Because currently it has no good associations for me,” he corrected her gravely. “Have you your robe?” he asked abruptly.

Scooting over to the edge of the bed, she glanced about for her trunk. “Um…”

“Your bags will have been unpacked already. He nodded toward a door painted with orange and blue flowers. “In there.”

Emmeline stood up and made for the door, her bare feet sinking into the luxurious rug. Instead of finding a closet, she found the door led into a huge dressing room, complete with several large wardrobes, empty shelves, and chests of drawers. A triptych of three large vanity mirrors lined the far wall, throwing back her reflection at her. He was right, she did look rather lost.

“Do we share this room?” she called back over her shoulder as she peered into one wardrobe and found her few dresses already hung up and neatly pressed.

“No, I have my own,” he answered from the adjoining room.

Catching sight of her dressing gown, Emmie hurried to retrieve it, wrapping it around her and fastening the belt. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted her humble carpet slippers on a fancy shoe rack and hoped the maid who unpacked them had not noticed their threadbare state.

She hurried back into the bedroom, almost bumping her head on a low-hanging lamp. “I’m ready.”

Jeremy was over by the window now, drawing back the orange velvet curtains to reveal tall windows. “What do you think of your view?”

Emmie moved to join him as it had been too dark to appreciate it the night before. Her room looked out onto a green vista dominated by what looked to be a miniature temple, surrounded by a grove of trees. “Goodness, what is that? A summer house? It’s very grand.”

“The folly,” Jeremy explained. “My father had it built on the occasion of his marriage. As a gift for his bride.”

“Oh! Did your mother like it?”

“I have no idea. They were divorced by the time I was two.”

Emmie strove to hide how taken aback she was. She had not known that his own parents were also divorced. On impulse, she slipped her hand into his, squeezing his fingers. He looked surprised, lifting their grasped hands to regard them with a strange expression on his face before shooting her a quick smile.

“Come along,” he said, leading her out of her bedroom, still clasping her hand in his. “All the rooms down this corridor are yours,” he reiterated, opening first a door which was another entrance to her dressing room. Wordlessly, he closed it again and opened another which revealed a large bathroom decorated in elaborate mosaic style tiling and dominated by a large claw-footed tub.

“I took a bath in here last night. Is it just for my use?” she asked, quite startled. He nodded. “Well, it’s a far cry from the communal bathroom in Winkworth Street,” she remarked, making him smile.

The next door led to a large private sitting room lavishly populated with black lacquered furniture, Oriental in style. “This is where you write your letters, receive your own personal guests etcetera,” Jeremy said, leading her into the middle of the room.

Emmie gazed around in wonderment. She had never seen a room quite like it. There were elaborately painted cabinets filled with little jade curios, a large ormolu bureau, a six-paneled screen decorated with samurai warriors and many gilt chairs inlaid with mother-of-pearl which looked impressive, if not exactly comfortable to sit in.

On the walls hung oil paintings of exotic birds, flaunting highly colored plumage, and two deep purple chaise longues were set on either side of the fireplace. Overall, the effect was so intimidating she could never imagine relaxing in such a room.

“It’s, well, all very beautiful, but rather imposing somehow.” She was tempted to lower her voice. It almost felt like she was intruding into someone else’s space.

Jeremy flashed her a wry smile. “Wait till you see the state rooms downstairs.”

This was far from reassuring, but she attempted to rally. “What a pretty little table,” she said, glancing down. It had a charming chinoiserie effect, though now she looked closer at it she fancied it was a decorated tray set on a stand.

“Apparently, it’s an opium table,” Jeremy said dismissively.

“Oh!”

“Disregard the furniture,” he said. “You can have it all done out as you like.”

Emmie paused. “But what would you do with it all?”

“Stuff it in the attics I expect. I think Teddy has a fondness for the cabinet of curios. He might have that.”

“I see,” she said doubtfully, though all she really saw was that money was no object to Jeremy Vance. Suddenly, she remembered the furniture she already owned. “I have that furniture on its way from Bath,” she reminded him. “Do you suppose it will have arrived already?”

“I’ll ask.”

She glanced about the room, trying to imagine it emptied of all its treasures and filled instead with the leftovers she had preserved from her days in Porchester Square. She felt a terrible conviction it would not be an improvement.

“I’m not even sure that my father’s old things would look well in here,” she admitted in a rush of confidences. “He liked solid respectability when it came to furniture. It’s all terribly cumbersome and rather ugly.”

Jeremy laughed. “If that’s how you feel about it then why, pray, did you bring it with us?” he asked, quite reasonably.

Emmie bit her lip. “I suppose it was sentiment really. Some of it has been with me since I was a child. My father must have paid a good deal of money for it at one time.”

“So, you are sentimental, are you, Ballentine?” A strange smile played about his mouth, and he sounded more curious than censorious.

“I suppose I must be.” She thought briefly of the rosewood box she owned and its shaming contents from the past and swallowed. “About some things at least.”

“What sort of things?” he asked, looking intrigued. “Apart from ugly furniture.”

“Actually, I do not think I am particularly sentimental,” she said decisively. “Pinky collects clutter like you would not believe, dried flowers, tickets, painted cards, all sorts of ephemera. I have been a good deal more disciplined over the years to prevent such accumulation. Really, I have only ever preserved the odd letter here and there.”

“Whose letters?” he asked casually. “Stockton’s?”

Emmie gave a dismayed gasp. The wound was still fresh, and it felt like he had unexpectedly poked it. “I used to preserve Humphrey’s letters, yes,” she admitted with careful dignity. “However, when I learned of his perfidy, I consigned them to the fire. I felt I had no right to keep letters from a married man.”

“Very right and proper,” Jeremy responded at once. “I now have yours to him in my possession by the way.”

“In your possession?” she repeated blankly.

He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Naturally, I demanded them when I returned your ring. It is customary, I believe, in such events as a broken engagement.”

Emmie’s thoughts whirled. A hundred questions sprang to her lips. What did he say? How did he look? She did not dare utter any of them aloud. As it turned out, she did not need to.

“As a matter of fact, he was not home when I called. Instead, I spoke to his able partner in crime. To dear Clara , the wife of his bosom.”

Emmie gave a faint gasp. “You met her?”

“I did. I gave her a false name, of course, I thought it best to keep things discreet.” His gaze seemed to dare Emmie to question him further. When she lowered her eyes, he carried on thoughtfully. “Clara had quite an eye to the main chance, if I am not mistaken. I suspect she might be the brains of their union. She would not hand over your letters until I flashed the ring. Then she forked them over alright. Slipped your ring right onto her finger.”

Emmie flinched slightly and Jeremy stopped talking. In truth, it had not even occurred to her to demand the return of her letters. The idea of Humphrey doing anything dastardly with them still seemed ludicrous, despite everything she now knew.

Would Clara have perused her letters too? she wondered with faint horror. Would she and Humphrey have laughed at them together, thinking her their dupe? She felt slightly queasy at the idea. She suspected they would have been a dull read, filled as they were with her daily worries and money-saving schemes.

In the novel she and Pinky had recently sat up till midnight reading, the heroine had written her letters to her lover in either storms of ecstasy or of despair. The hero had kissed the pages on receiving them and clutched them to his breast. Humphrey’s and her letters had been quite a different sort of correspondence.

“You haven’t read them, have you?” she heard herself ask with sudden misgiving.

“Why, Ballentine! I have been raised a gentleman,” he reproached her. “How could you dream of asking me such a thing?”

She eyed him suspiciously while he pretended not to notice. “Where are they?” she asked awkwardly. “You have put them somewhere safe?”

“Of course, I packed them in my trunk, but they’re in a locked drawer in my room now. I will return them to you whenever you want.” He hesitated, then asked, “If I had written you letters, Ballentine, would you have preserved them?”

She gave him an incredulous look. “My lord, we both know you never so much as scrawled me a note.” Good grief, how could she allow her voice to sound so stupidly wistful? If she was not careful, he would guess everything, including that she still had all those old dance cards bearing his bold signature. “I think you are romanticizing our past somewhat,” she said with an awkward laugh.

He did not say anything for a minute, just released her hand. “Would you prefer that I did not?” he asked in an offhand voice. “If you’re finding it tiresome, I could always dispense with the fond reminiscences.”

Emmie could not speak for a moment. She felt suddenly out of her depth, as though she had strayed into dangerous waters. “I could hardly ask that of you,” she said hesitantly, “not when the very reason you married me was to reassure your son on that score.”

“But you would, if you could?” he asked in a tense voice.

Was he annoyed? She knew he enjoyed alluding to their ridiculous past together. It was all a great joke to him. She lifted her chin. “Nothing so dramatic.” She hesitated. “Though, to tell the truth, I would consider it a great favor if you no longer alluded to the Hawfords’ ball.” The worse night of my life , she thought but did not voice.

He went very still and for one horrible moment, she thought he would refuse. Then he shrugged. “Nothing could be simpler, Emmeline,” he said succinctly. “Consider it forgotten. I won’t raise it again.” He smiled but somehow it was not remotely reassuring. She looked at him, trying to gauge his mood. He quirked a brow at her. “Come, we have much to do this morning, and you have not yet breakfasted.”

“Have you breakfasted?” she asked in surprise. He surely had not ventured downstairs in that elaborate dressing gown, had he? She had a lurking suspicion he was naked beneath it. She could see not the smallest hint of a nightshirt poking out of it.

“I never eat breakfast,” he said dismissively, leading the way out of the fancy sitting room. He did not offer her his hand and she did not quite have the nerve to reach for it this time. Instead, she followed him back to her bedroom, devoutly hoping this was the last time any mention of that wretched night would sour things between them.

On reaching her room, they found Teddy loitering outside the door. “There you are,” he exclaimed, sounding aggrieved. “I knocked and knocked but could not make myself heard.”

“That is because we were not in there,” his father explained, placing a hand on his curly head. “I was just showing your stepmother her rooms.”

Hearing a step in the corridor, all three of them turned to see a neat maid approaching, carrying a loaded tray. “Ah, here is Lottie with your breakfast,” Jeremy said.

Teddy turned to Emmie immediately. “Can I take breakfast with you, Mama?” he asked, plucking at her sleeve.

“Of course,” she answered, once she had recovered from the surprise of being addressed thus. She opened the door to let him dart inside.

“You may regret that,” Jeremy said dryly. “He’ll talk your ear off and make lots of crumbs.”

“I don’t mind, I have previously breakfasted with Master Teddy and remain undaunted,” she said, throwing the door open wider for the maid Lottie to pass through.

“Will you take your breakfast in bed or at that funny floor table, milady?” the maid asked hesitating on the threshold.

“On the table!” Teddy clamored, and peering into the doorway, Emmie saw he had already seated himself there upon one of the cushions.

“The low table will be fine,” Emmie answered. “Thank you, Lottie.” She turned to Jeremy. “Are you not coming in?” she asked, a faint challenge in her voice.

“I don’t eat breakfast,” he repeated, though she noticed he loitered still outside her door.

“For the company, then,” she suggested. He shook his head but did not walk away. “Have it your own way,” she said lightly, then turned and walked into her new bedroom, swallowing down her disappointment.

Really, if he meant to deprive her of Pinky’s company, the least he could do was provide his own by way of exchange! Making for the table, Emmie lowered herself onto the cushions opposite her stepson. “I wonder, Lottie, if you have heard anything of my friend Miss Pinson this morning?” she enquired.

The maid, who was kneeling now, was busy transferring items from her tray onto the table. “Oh yes, milady,” she said comfortably. “She’s taking breakfast with Mrs. Cheviot in her private parlor. Getting along famously, Annie said they were.”

“Mrs. Cheviot is the housekeeper here, I believe? I think I met her last night.”

“That’s right, milady, for thirty years all told.”

“What’s this? Bacon and eggs?” Teddy asked hopefully, peering under one of the silver cloches. “Kippers!” he pronounced with disgust. He lifted another lid and pulled a face. “This must be meant for the nursery, Lottie,” he said grandly. “Take it away.”

Emmie peered across the table to see what had caused his displeasure. It appeared to be a bowl of porridge. Lottie ignored his high-handedness. “ This one’s bacon, eggs, and devilled kidneys,” she said, placing the dish next to Emmie. Teddy’s aspect brightened at once. Setting down the final few items, a pot of tea, a pot of coffee, a jug of cream, and a sugar bowl, the maid straightened up. “Is there anything else I can fetch you, your ladyship?” she asked politely.

“I think you must have thought of everything,” Emmie responded, looking down at the crowded tabletop.

“Another coffee cup, please, Lottie,” Jeremy said, sliding onto a cushion next to Teddy. Emmie’s spirits rose precipitously.

“Right away, my lord.” She curtsied and hurried out of the room.

Teddy sent his father a sidelong look. “You’re eating with us, Papa?”

“Simply enjoying the company, my son,” he replied, his eyes on Emmie as she took possession of the teapot.

“Tea, Edward?” she asked politely.

He nodded. “With milk and sugar. Mama—I mean, my other mama, would never let me eat in here,” he commented, peering into the little jars of jam, curd, and marmalade. He dropped one of the lids and sent it careering into the sugar bowl.

“I wonder why,” Jeremy said dryly, moving the milk jug away from him to safety.

“She said I always gave her a headache before noon,” Teddy replied, quite unabashed. “Do you get headaches, Mama?” This was directed at Emmie.

“Very rarely,” she assured him. “It is a good thing you have both joined me, for I could not possibly eat even half of this spread.”

“They are simply trying to ascertain your likes,” Jeremy replied. “What do you like, Emmeline?” he asked, fixing her with a very blue gaze.

“Tea and toast, and maybe an egg,” she answered, ignoring his pointed tone and reaching for the sugar bowl.

Jeremy smirked, pulled a plate toward him, and doled out half of the bacon and eggs for Teddy.

“Not that spicy sauce, Papa!” his son protested with a grimace.

“ I know,” his father replied, carefully avoiding the devilled kidneys. He pushed the plate toward Teddy and then lifted another lid to reveal sliced toasted bread. He lifted this and set it down next to Emmie as she stirred her tea. Then he flopped down onto his side propped up by cushions, seemingly content to watch them eat.

It was such a strange setting, Emmie thought, watching Jeremy loll on velvet cushions in his golden robe. He looked like a character out of a picture book. A spoiled princeling in a magical kingdom. “This is rather fun, like having a picnic,” she commented aloud, buttering her toast.

Teddy grinned at her, his mouth full of egg. “Let’s have all our meals here,” he suggested hopefully.

“Certainly not!” Jeremy retorted. “How would you like it if we took over your nursery for every meal?”

“I should not care.” His son shrugged. “Besides, I rarely eat my meals there these days. I’m too big,” he boasted.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. “Do not listen to him, Ballentine,” he cautioned. “This is mere flummery. Teddy frequently takes his meals in the nursery though perhaps not as often as he ought. He is growing sadly spoiled.”

“You should not call Mama that,” Teddy said disapprovingly.

“Call her what?” Jeremy looked startled.

“By her surname,” Teddy elucidated, reaching for a slice of toast.

“Why should I not?” Jeremy enquired. “Do you not address your closest friend as Arbuthnot?”

Teddy paused as though flummoxed, then he seemed to identify the issue. “She is not your friend , Papa,” he responded sternly. “She is your wife.”

“Why can she not be both?” Jeremy asked, but when Emmie’s gaze flew to his face, he was not looking in her direction.

“She just can’t,” Teddy insisted, still frowning. “It stands to reason.”

“Nonsense. Aunt Mina calls your uncle by his surname,” he pointed out.

Teddy opened his mouth as if to argue and then closed it again. “Ye-es,” he agreed uncertainly after a moment’s reflection. “I suppose she does.” He looked thoughtful. “You mean, she calls him that because Uncle Nye is Aunt Mina’s best friend?” he asked.

“Do you know, I rather think he is,” Jeremy concurred.

“Are you speaking of your sister and her husband?” Emmie asked as Lottie reappeared to set down another cup and saucer before disappearing again.

“Uncle Nye is Papa’s brother too,” Teddy put in as Jeremy murmured the affirmative, helping himself to coffee.

Emmie had just decided he must mean brother-in-law when Jeremy cleared his throat. “Half,” he said hurriedly. “Different halves,” he added with a dismissive gesture. “I’ll explain later.”

At this point Teddy sat up with an exclamation. “The key!” he said, pointing at the door which led to Jeremy’s suite. “It’s this side now!” He looked around the table with wondering eyes. “Papa always keeps it locked and on his side of the door!”

Emmie looked toward Jeremy, who had briefly closed his eyes. He opened them again, looking rather pained. “Teddy,” he said. “Do be quiet and eat your breakfast.”