by Stacy Henrie
Lord Hadwell had adored Alder, for whom he’d had such high hopes, and the boy’s death had supposedly been very difficult for him, not the least because he had no other sons at the time. With his wife delivering four daughters in a row, the likelihood of the title passing to someone else had been a reality until Emmett was at last born. But despite Emmett’s best efforts to heed his father’s counsel and do all that was asked of him, he still questioned whether he’d ever measure up to what Alder would have been as a future marquess.
Would becoming an MP change that? Would this be the thing that made Lord Hadwell truly proud of Emmett at last? He may not have won his wife’s unwavering approval, but this could secure his father’s. The possibility was too great to dismiss, whether he was enthused about politics or not. He had welcomed and embraced the challenge of improving things on his own estate. As an MP, he’d be at the forefront of improving things for the whole country. There was quite a lot to be said for that.
Likely sensing his tension, Bran sat up and put his head on Emmett’s knee. “Since the election isn’t for another two years,” Emmett said, scratching the dog behind his ears, “I could wait to start campaigning until my estate was up and running—”
“No, no.” Waving away Emmett’s words with his hand, Lord Hadwell resumed his pacing. “That isn’t soon enough. You must start now, especially since you’ll need to improve the public’s opinion of you before you ever begin campaigning.”
He needed to improve the public’s opinion? Had the marquess heard the same rumors Emmett had? A chill crept through him that had little to do with the cool air inside the study. “I’m not sure what you mean, Father.”
“How does it look to the county”—the marquess’s voice increased in volume with each word—“for a future MP to spend the holidays away from his own wife?”
Emmett’s jaw went slack at the accusation, then tightened with barely swallowed anger. It wasn’t his wish for Clare to go to the villa. He hadn’t sent her away, at least not intentionally, though he’d begun to wonder if there might be wisdom in some time apart.
The moments of strain between them, which hadn’t started until after Clare’s first miscarriage, had grown more pronounced for some time now. It hadn’t helped to hear someone remark at a party last week that his wife had only agreed to marry him to obtain a title—and that, in the absence of an heir, Clare was preparing to begin a separate life away from him.
Emmett hadn’t wanted to believe such rumors. Especially not after the blissful two weeks he and Clare had spent together at Barksley Hall at the end of October and into November. He would have asked her to extend her stay longer, except Emmett hadn’t felt right about her sleeping in the servants’ quarters as he planned to do while the main rooms and bedrooms were being renovated. However, in his wife’s absence, he had begun to wonder if things were as resolved as he’d hoped or if the closeness they had shared those two weeks had been much like their honeymoon—more a dream than reality.
After she’d returned to Hadwell House, work on the estate had thankfully kept his focus elsewhere, at least until Clare’s letter had arrived. In it, she’d told Emmett that she wished to spend the holidays somewhere warmer. Her plan was to depart for Sicily in three days. The announcement had greatly hurt and surprised him. Worst of all, it had given new strength to his misgivings about their relationship. It wasn’t until he’d overheard the gossip last week, though, that Clare’s decision to leave England finally made sense.
“What are you saying?” Emmett hoped he sounded more curious than frustrated. His father did not condone outward bursts of emotion.
Lord Hadwell sat at his desk once more. His light-blue eyes, the same color as Emmett’s, gleamed with satisfaction. “You will leave immediately for Sicily.”
“I won’t arrive before Christmas. That’s four days away, and it takes five to get to Taormina.”
The marquess’s smug look only increased. “It makes no difference if you are actually in Sicily for Christmas or not. The idea is that you are going. That will be the first step to building a more positive political image. An image that includes a happily married couple.”
The dread inside him iced over into a solid mass. “A happily married couple?”
“Yes, Emmett,” Lord Hadwell snapped. “How else do you think you’ll obtain the votes you need? It certainly won’t be on your merits and parentage alone. You need that beautiful, rich American wife of yours and her charming smile to win votes. That’s why you are going to Sicily: to convince Clare to return to England forthwith.”
Emmett kneaded his forehead with his fingers in an attempt to think clearly. His father was asking too much this time. It was one thing to agree to go into politics, something Emmett believed he could actually come to enjoy. However, it was another matter entirely for him to go to Clare, convince her to come back with him, and then parade around England with her as if they were the contented couple they clearly weren’t. But he knew better than to voice such an argument. His father didn’t need more evidence that his only remaining son always fell short of the mark.
“If she won’t listen . . .” The words were barely spoken aloud, but the marquess evidently heard him.
“Nonsense. Be as charming as you were when you were courting her, and she’ll agree.”
That hadn’t been about artifice back then. “Is it really necessary that she return now?” Perhaps he could wait and see what Clare said in her first letter from Italy before he started on what might become a fool’s errand—for both himself and her.
“I have failed you if you cannot grasp the importance of this.” Lord Hadwell shook his head as if disappointed with himself. Emmett knew better. His father was really saying Emmett wasn’t up to snuff—not sufficiently intelligent or insightful to understand why his wife needed to come back to England as soon as possible.
Uncertainty warred with determination inside him. His task held as much potential for failure as it did success, and yet he had to try. If Emmett could convince Clare to return with him, his father would surely be proud of him. Although, at what cost? The distance between him and Clare might grow worse, at least in private. He missed her, even after everything that had happened, but how did she feel about him? His father had been clear about what he wanted from Emmett. But with Clare, Emmett didn’t know anymore what she wanted.
“Very well.” He managed a strained smile as he stood. “I shall leave for Sicily tomorrow.” If nothing else, he would get to see Clare sooner than he might have otherwise.
Lord Hadwell gave the desk a victorious slap, then rose to his feet as well. “That’s my boy.”
The happiness Emmett felt at the small bit of praise lasted only until he and Bran reached the door. “One more thing, Emmett.” The marquess circled his desk. “I’ve arranged for a reporter to accompany you and your valet to Italy. He’s the son of an old friend and will be writing stories about you and Clare as a couple for the London Times.”
His father had already arranged things with a reporter? That meant the marquess had been quite confident what Emmett’s answer would be, regarding both pursuing a political career and going after Clare. He wasn’t sure whether to feel pleased or dismayed by that fact. But one thing Emmett did know—he wouldn’t show up to the villa with a reporter in tow. That wouldn’t be fair to his wife.
“No reporter,” he said, facing his father directly.
His heart thumped faster at the marquess’s look of surprise. He hadn’t challenged his father in such a way in more than eighteen years. Doing so now poked painfully at Emmett’s fear of his father’s disapproval, but he wouldn’t back down. If he did, he would be denying Clare the time to prepare for a more public life as the wife of an MP before any sharp-eyed reporter began hounding her with questions. Emmett might not know how she felt about him, but he still cared enough about her to do this.
Lord Hadwell scowled. “You need this sort of press right away.”
“I’ll go and convince Clare
to come back to England with me, but I won’t have a reporter tagging along with us.”
The marquess didn’t stop glaring, but he did concede after a long moment’s pause. “Fine. I will tell the reporter his services are not yet required.” He shook a finger at Emmett. “But you had better be on your way the instant breakfast concludes tomorrow, or I will change my mind.”
“Thank you, Father. I will.”
Emmett headed upstairs, Bran beside him. Should he have his valet, Rushford, pack a suitcase or a trunk? How much time would he need in Italy? He wasn’t sure. But whether it took a few days or a few weeks, he would do everything in his power to be successful.
*
Taormina, Sicily, December 1908
From her painting spot among the ruins of the ancient amphitheater, Clare Herschel Markham, the Countess of Linwood, could view the city’s beauty spread out below. Sunlight illuminated the blueness of the ocean, and where there weren’t stone buildings, the hills still boasted greenery. In the distance, the snow-topped volcano, Mount Etna, inspired as much fearsome respect as it did awe.
When finished, this painting would be Clare’s fourth, and she’d only been here for two weeks. Apparently the spark of creativity she’d feared had been erased over the last year had just been lying dormant. Her second morning back in sunny Sicily, Clare had woken with the almost-forgotten need to put brush to canvas. And so she had.
She dabbed a lighter shade of blue across the stretch of sky. The walls of the amphitheater framed one side of the scene. The other featured the city, the hills, and the ocean.
Her completed paintings, those back home in New York and the few she’d created since her wedding to Emmett, were all landscapes—save one. She’d attempted a portrait of her husband during their honeymoon in Taormina. Clare had placed him on the bench that circled the fountain in the villa’s walled garden. And while she didn’t think it an exact likeness of the handsome Earl of Linwood, with his dark-blond hair and broad shoulders, she prided herself on having captured Emmett’s light-blue eyes perfectly. At least the way they had once looked, full of delight and adoration.
His mother, Lady Hadwell, had taken an instant liking to the portrait and wanted it displayed at Hadwell House instead of in the Linwoods’ house in London or at their recently purchased estate, Barksley Hall. Clare had complied, up until she’d made her decision to leave England. The night before her departure, she’d slipped downstairs after the family was asleep, removed the painting from the frame, and replaced it with one she’d done of Hadwell House. Only Bran, Emmett’s dog, had witnessed the change.
Clare hated to add to the family’s list of disappointments when it came to their daughter- and sister-in-law. But for reasons she hadn’t been ready to name, she’d wanted the painting of Emmett to come with her to Italy. If nothing else, it reminded her that they’d once shared happiness instead of only loss, regret, and failure.
“I suppose we ought to get back,” she said, turning to look at her lady’s maid, Miriam, who sat reading nearby. “If we’re late for lunch, Signora Russo is sure to give us both a thorough scolding.”
The eighteen-year-old girl, two years Clare’s junior, shut her book and hopped up. “She does sound a mite more cross when she speaks Italian.”
Clare smiled in agreement as she stood to gather up her painting supplies. In truth, the villa’s cook and housekeeper had a warm heart and maternal way about her that reminded Clare of her own mother. But there was nothing like a good meal left waiting until the food turned cold to incite Signora Russo’s strongest disapproval. That, and eating very little of the woman’s generous cooking.
“Allow me, my lady.” Miriam hurried to take the easel from Clare’s grasp.
She gave in but didn’t relinquish her paints or canvas. “I may be with child, Miriam, but I can still carry things.”
“I know, my lady. It’s just that . . .” The girl let her voice trail off as she glanced away in obvious embarrassment.
It was just that the other two times Clare had been pregnant this year, she’d miscarried. Miriam had largely been the one to hold Clare’s hand and let her cry. The caring letters from her parents had helped, but it wasn’t the same as having them nearby, eager to embrace her while she wept.
She’d longed to share her feelings with Emmett, but he hadn’t empathized with her grief, especially after the second miscarriage. He hadn’t seemed to notice her pain or feel any of his own. And that was why Clare hadn’t yet told Emmett about this pregnancy. If she miscarried a third time, there wouldn’t be a need for a discussion anyway. She would simply weather the sorrow and pain alone, here in Italy, without fear of Emmett not understanding. No need for him or any of his family to know she’d failed—yet again—to fulfill her duty to produce an heir.
Still, Clare was hopeful and prayerful that this pregnancy would be different. She had good reason to feel more confident this time around. The doctor she’d consulted back in England had suggested that wintering in a more temperate climate may well increase the likelihood of Clare remaining with child. So she had made the impromptu decision to return to Sicily at once.
Their driver, Alessandro Russo, was waiting with the wagon as Clare and Miriam left the amphitheater. The man helped them stow the paint supplies in the back, then turned to Clare. “Ready, Signora Linwood?”
She nodded. “Sì. Grazie.” He helped her onto the seat. Clare carefully balanced her canvas on her lap while Miriam climbed into the back of the wagon.
Soon they were rolling along the cobbled streets toward the villa. A wave of queasiness had Clare gripping the side of the wagon, but she welcomed the feeling too. She hoped it was an indicator that she was still pregnant, at least for the moment. Signora Russo’s delicious fare and special tea typically eased the worst of her sickness throughout the day.
A group of dark-haired, olive-skinned children raced past the wagon, their giggles rising above the clatter of the wheels. Clare watched them before they darted around a corner up ahead. The familiar yearning to be a mother, to watch her own children running about, filled her with a physical ache.
As an only child, she’d often dreamt of having a home with lots of children. A home filled with the same laughter and warmth she’d known growing up—one far different from what she’d found at Hadwell House. When she’d faced the difficulty of bringing a child to term, her dreams became more modest. If she could only have one child, as her parents had, then she would choose to be as grateful and content as they had been.
Any child would be a cherished blessing. A boy would, of course, be a particular cause of celebration for her husband’s family, who needed an heir. However, if this baby was a girl, Clare wasn’t sure she wished to raise her daughter in England. Maybe they could remain in Sicily instead, far away from the place where she’d struggled and failed to fit in, far away from the stigma that a daughter wasn’t as valued among the gentry as a son.
The villa came into view, with its balconied windows and grand stone staircase running in parallel curves on either side of the front door. An unfamiliar wagon, with a horse and donkey as its team, sat out front.
Clare let Signor Russo help her to the ground and rounded the vehicle to collect her paint box. “Miriam, do you recognize that wagon?”
The maid shook her head as she picked up the easel. “Are you expecting company, my lady?”
“No.”
Clare’s friend Helena had also come to Sicily for the holidays. But Helena was hosting a birthday party for her husband, the Viscount Vickley, tomorrow night at their villa in Messina. It wasn’t likely the young woman would make the two-hour train ride to see Clare in Taormina, when Clare was expected at the viscount’s home this evening to help with the preparations. Maybe the visitors were relatives of the Russos. Though Signor Russo made no comment about the mystery guests as he drove the wagon toward the stable.
Clare led the way up one of the staircases and through the front door. It had taken her a little time to a
djust to not having a butler as they’d had in London and at Hadwell House. But after hiring and overseeing a staff of fifteen at her and Emmett’s London residence, Clare had come to appreciate the villa’s small contingent of servants.
Voices drew her toward the open doorway of the drawing room. Signora Russo wouldn’t have allowed her relations to settle there. The older woman insisted on entertaining them in her domain, the kitchen.
“Should I take your things upstairs, my lady?”
Clare handed Miriam her canvas at the same time someone inside the drawing room moved into her line of sight. Someone with light-blue eyes and a face she knew well.
In her shock, Clare accidentally dropped her box of paints. It hit the floor with a thwack, with two immediate results—Emmett looked directly her way . . . and the box upended its colorful contents onto the marbled tiles. Heat scoured Clare’s face as she and Miriam crouched to right the mess. Signora Russo entered the foyer and told Clare not to worry about the clutter, but Clare ignored her. She needed something for her trembling hands to do.
“May I help?” she heard Emmett ask, though Clare didn’t lift her gaze above his shoes.
She couldn’t speak or nod or shake her head. He wasn’t supposed to be here. What if he learned she was pregnant? Nausea grasped at her again, and she knew she was going to be sick.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. Rushing to her feet, she clapped a hand to her mouth and rushed up the stairs, away from her husband.
London, April 1907: Twenty months earlier
Her cheeks flushed from dancing, debutante Clare Herschel navigated the crowded ballroom to where her mother sat in a chair along the periphery. The dance wouldn’t be over for some time yet, but her mother already looked weary. Clare couldn’t blame her. The past three weeks had been a constant whirlwind of social engagements and late nights that rivaled Clare’s debut into New York society.
