Doorway To His Heart
Doorway To His Heart
He stopped a breath away from her lips, his gaze pinned to hers, and decided that she would have to make the final move. 
She leaned closer as he held his ground. He felt her uneven breath against his lips.  She swayed back a little, and for a moment he thought she would turn away, then her mouth pressed against his.  The subtle trembling of her lips, the way she slid her arms tentatively around his neck, spoke more of her feelings than any words ever could. 
She was afraid of her new life, for that is what it was, like a child learning to walk.  He owed her nothing for the pain she’d caused him over the years, but he could not turn his back on her.  He’d loved her once, or thought he had.  Perhaps he still did.  And yet he sensed this was something different, a new love, one just beginning to grow in his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to him as he deepened the kiss.  On a moan, her body folded into his, her delicate curves pressing against him.  Her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a growl of pure need from deep in his throat. He’d been without a woman for so very long.  Years of celibacy had taken its toll. Celibacy that she demanded, for she knew he would never take a mistress, and she would not have him in her bed.
 
Doorway To His Heart

 
Doorway To
His Heart
 
by
 
Jo Barrett
Doorway To His Heart
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
 
Doorway To His Heart
 
COPYRIGHT 
   Ó
    2010 by Jo Barrett
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
 
Cover Art by
   
     R.J.Morris
 
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
 
Publishing History
First English Tea Edition, 2010

Published in the United States of America
Doorway To His Heart
For Mom
I miss you.
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
Prologue

 
 
The applause grew to a wondrous crescendo as the audience came to their feet.  Tears hung in Emily’s eyes.  She knew their ovation was mostly out of kindness due to her losing battle with cancer, she’d not played as well as she once could, but she cherished every moment.  It was her last concert, her goodbye, and this was theirs.  With an unsteady bow the curtain fell, and her career as a concert pianist came to a close.
With a heavy heart and weary body, she made her way to the dressing room with the help of one of the stagehands.  To be honest, he practically carried her.
“Thank you, George,” she said with a sincere smile.
“My pleasure, Miss Mayfield.”  He removed his arm from her waist, made sure she was steady on her feet, then disappeared among the bustling workers backstage.
She managed to get into her street clothes, although not without some serious cussing.  She was far more tired than she’d thought she’d be. 
“I hope I can still take that trip tomorrow,” she murmured, holding on to the back of the chair as she wriggled her feet into her shoes. 
Lila, her agent, had arranged for her to go on one last excursion to the English countryside. She loved the symmetry the gardeners of the large country estates had created long ago and so carefully tended.  They always settled her, gave her peace, a reprieve from the frantic concert schedule she’d kept up for five years.  That was one of the reasons she’d decided to return to England for her last tour.  Although American by birth, England felt more like home, and she couldn’t wait for tomorrow, mostly because she knew she’d never see it again.
Reaching for her jacket, she grumbled, “Stop thinking negatively.  It doesn’t help.”
“You ready?” Lila asked, as she entered the dressing room.
Emily sighed at her reflection in the mirror.  The wig wasn’t really her style, but it was better than walking around bald, a result of the chemotherapy, and it kept her head warm. 
With a nod to her friend, they left the theater and rode back to the hotel in silence.  Emily was beyond words, and they both knew anything said at this point would sound trite. 
After a light dinner Emily barely touched, they retired for the night, each hoping that tomorrow would be a good day, not one filled with fatigue and pain, but it was inevitable.  Emily hadn’t the heart to tell Lila how much she hurt, that even breathing seemed a chore.  But she’d take her pills, just enough to take the edge off, not enough to make her loopy, and breathe in the sweet smell of the English countryside with her friend by her side.
Unfortunately, when morning came, Emily knew the trip would be more than difficult.  But determined to go out, she forced herself out of bed and put on a bright smile for her friend.  Lila would insist Emily stay in if she knew how horrible she felt.
“Are you sure about this, Em?”  Lila knelt in front of her and slipped Emily’s tennis shoes on to her feet.  “You really should rest for a few days before you take on something so tiring.”
“I’m sure.”
Lila looked up after tying the laces.  “You barely made it out of the theater last night.  Hell, you barely made it off stage.”
She grinned and patted her friend’s shoulder.  “I have to do this.”
Lila’s eyes filled with tears.  “Then we make arrangements for a wheelchair,” she said, her voice rough.
Shaking her head, she said, “No wheelchair.  I’ll be in the car for most of it, anyway.  It’ll be okay, Lila.  Everything will be fine.”
With a grim smile, Lila stood and helped her out of the hotel and to the car.  Emily watched the city skyline shrink to rolling hills as her pain meds finally kicked in.  She rolled down her window and took a deep breath.  She was almost home, she mused, then laughed at the absurd thought. 
Home
    
    , an interesting concept.  She didn’t have one in the real sense of the word, with her parents long gone, her traveling non-stop, but today, for some reason, she truly felt like she was going home.
That was the poet in her, she thought.  The realist knew what it actually meant.  She was close to the end of her life.  Her death was not far away, weeks at most.  Then she would truly go home.
Lila pulled to a stop in a small parking area beside a massive manor house, jarring Emily from her thoughts.
“This estate was owned by a viscount,” Lila said, reading from the guide the travel agent had created for them.  “Although still privately owned and occupied, the descendants allow for limited tours of the main floor of the house and gardens.  So, do you want to go inside or just tour the grounds?”
“All of it,” Emily said, hurrying to climb from the car.
“Em, slow down.  It’s not going anywhere,” Lila said, rushing around the car to help her.
“No, it isn’t.  But I feel like I have to hurry.”
Lila clutched her arm.  “Em—”
“Oh, Lila, no,” she said, hugging her friend.  “I didn’t mean it that way.  I’m fine.  Really,” she lied.  “But this house,” she turned to look up at the enormous structure, “there’s just something about it.”
Lila chuckled roughly.  “Yeah, you want to live here.  Like you’ve wanted to live on every estate you’ve ever seen.  You’re hooked on these places, it’s like a drug,” she joked.
Laughing, they made their way inside with Lila supporting most of her weight.  Her friend did her best to be interested in the tour guide’s oration, but she said she’d seen one big house she’d seen them all.  Emily knew her only concern, her only reason for going through them was for Emily, and she deeply appreciated it.
After a few rooms, the guide’s words seemed to ebb and flow around her, until they became nothing more than a low hum, like that of a lazy bumble bee.  Her legs grew weaker with every step, they’d been quivering since she’d gotten out of the car, but she had to see this house.  She had to be inside this house.  Although she suspected it was likely the last she’d ever see, there was something special about it.  She grinned at the thought.  It was her favorite by far, but…
“I need to sit down, Lila,” she whispered, as the room began to spin.  “Just for a minute.”  But her legs lost their will to work, and she collapsed to the floor.
“Emily?  Em!”
She looked up at her friend and the richly ornate ceiling over Lila’s head and smiled.  “I’ll miss you,” she whispered, then closed her heavy lids.
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter One

Emily opened her eyes and tried to focus on her surroundings.  Something was very wrong.  Where were all the blinking, bleeping machines?  Why was she at the hotel instead of at the hospital? 
She vaguely recalled sirens, someone shouting out orders, and Lila crying.  Somewhere amid the chaos she’d given up the fight and let the blackness take her.  But surely they would’ve taken her to the hospital, or had she recovered enough to be sent home?  Maybe she’d only been tired after all. 
Maybe…wait.  This wasn’t her hotel room, she realized as she gingerly sat up.  It was a beautifully appointed room, but it wasn’t where she and Lila had been staying.
“Oh my.  You’re awake,” a voice said from the doorway. 
Emily blinked a few times and brought the young woman into view.  She didn’t recognize her at all, but what on earth was she doing dressed like that? 
“I’ll fetch his lordship,” the woman said.
“His what?” she asked, her voice gravelly, but the woman hurried out the door without a response. 
Emily shifted her legs to the side of the bed, pausing only a moment when a wave of dizziness caught her unaware.  With a steadying breath, she stood.  Her legs were a bit wobbly, but she managed to make it across the room to the hearth.  A warm fire burned in the grate.  Where in the world was she? 
Noise from the doorway drew her around, but she held firmly to the mantle for balance. 
A tall man, lean, and rather handsome, wearing a neck cloth and weskit of all things, strode toward her.  He didn’t seem happy.
“You should not be out of bed,” he said. 
He reached for her, and she backed away, her shoulders bumping into the mantel.
“Where am I?”
His brows drew together.  “In your room.”
She warily shook her head.  “This isn’t my room.”
His eyes narrowed.  “Return to bed.  You’re overwrought.”
“Not until you tell me where I am.”  She held fast to the mantle, but her strength was fading.  Her gaze darted from his to the others standing behind him, all of them wearing the oddest clothes, and their faces were pulled into worried frowns.  “Who are you people?  Why have you brought me here?”
The handsome one seemed to make some mental decision as his stern features relaxed. 
“We’re here to help you.  Now, you must get back into bed.”  He reached for her again and she jumped back, rattling the fire poker in its stand. 
“No!”  She snatched up the poker with her shaking hands and waved it in front of her.  “Get back.  I don’t know what you want from me, but I’m not staying long enough to find out.” 
She eased toward the door, willing her legs to obey her, but they had other ideas, as did her head.  The room was spinning wildly.  “Just stay—back—all of—you.” 
The poker slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter and her body followed, but the man scooped her up before she completed her descent.  She felt his warmth, inhaled his scent, and it oddly soothed her. 
“Who are you?” she rasped, fighting off the blackness closing in around her.
“No one you need fear.”  The rumbling of his voice echoed through her weary body. 
“Name,” she said, gripping the lapels of his coat, struggling to speak.
He laid her down on the bed and pulled the covers to her throat.
“Please,” she breathed, her strength nearly gone.
His cool gray eyes peered into hers.  “Viscount Westmore.  Your husband.”
She tried to shake her head, she had no husband, and even if she did and for some reason couldn’t remember, she knew without a doubt he wouldn’t be a viscount.  But her strength deserted her completely, and she was lost to the blackness once again.
“Watch her closely, Martha.  In this state she may injure herself,” Viscount Westmore said.
“Yes, my lord.”
Barnaby looked at his wife one last time before leaving the room.  He doubted she was playing at one of her games this time.  She seemed almost innocent when she’d looked up at him from her drooping lids.  He saw confusion clearly in her crystal blue eyes and fear.  Still, it would be best if he kept a careful watch on her.  His wife was a devious witch, one he dare not underestimate.
****
Emily opened her eyes to the same room she’d thought she’d dreamed.  The bed, a more luxurious comfort she’d never known, not even in the five star hotels she’d stayed in, encapsulated her weary body.  But those people, she thought and sat bolt upright in the bed.  Who were they? 
She looked around the room again, it was exquisitely furnished with antiques.  Even the wallpaper was over a century old.  All those tours of old English homes had taught her a thing or two about vintage decor.
“Well,” she whispered to herself, “whoever you are, if you wanted to hurt me, you wouldn’t have put me in here.” 
“Good morning, my lady.”
Emily jumped at the sudden appearance of a young woman. 
“Um, good morning.” She vaguely remembered her from yesterday or had she been out of it longer than that?  Either way, just because the room was nice, and the woman seemed pleasant enough, didn’t mean there wasn’t something severely wrong. 
“Would you like your breakfast now, my lady?”
And what was with the my lady stuff?  “I—um, yes that would be nice.”
The woman moved to the side of the bed and Emily leaned away, leery as she reached out then pulled on a silk rope hanging by the bed. 
Emily let out her pent-up breath.  She needed to get a grip, or better still some answers.  “Who are you?”
The woman’s pleasant round face twisted into a worried frown.  “Martha, my lady.  Your maid.  Don’t you remember?”
“Right.  My maid.  Sure.”  Okay, she’d play along for a while.  “And how long have you been my maid?”
“For five years, my lady.” 
The woman’s expression grew more worried with Emily’s questions, so she decided to back off a bit and play dumb. 
“I’m sorry,” she said with half a laugh.  “I’m afraid I’m—I’m a little confused.” 
The maid smiled softly.  “It isn’t any wonder you’re a bit out of sorts. You’ve been terribly ill.”
Yes, she was ill, very ill, but now… she felt fine.  Well not fine, but not in any real pain, just tired.  “Um, what illness did I have, exactly?”
“I—I don’t know, my lady.  Only that you slept for days.  We were afraid that—well, it’s no matter now.” 
Martha did know, but for some reason wouldn’t say, Emily was sure of it. 
Another woman, a few years younger by the looks of her, appeared bearing a tray as Martha propped her up in the bed and adjusted the covers.  This one was timid and literally quaking in her boots.
“Thank you, Phoebe,” Martha said and took the tray.  The young girl disappeared as if death were chasing her. 
Death.
   
     It all came rushing back.  Death had been chasing Emily.  She’d been dying of cancer.  Then there was the concert, and Lila, and her trip to the country, but how did she end up here?
Martha placed the tray across her lap.  “Here you are, my lady.  After a hearty breakfast, you’ll feel right as rain in no time,” she said and moved across the room.  Emily followed her with her gaze until Martha unblocked her view of the mirror above the vanity, lodging a gasp in her throat.
Little did Martha know Emily would never be right again.  The woman staring back at her from the mirror was not Emily Mayfield. 
She lifted her hand and touched her cheek, although pale, it was a pleasantly shaped cheek, but it wasn’t hers.  Nor were the nose or eyes—the hair. 
“My God,” she breathed.
“I’m sorry, my lady, did you say something?” Martha said from the doorway.
Emily swallowed then shook her head and the woman left.
“Okay,” she whispered.  “There’s a perfectly good explanation.  I’m either dead or—I’m in a comma!  Of course! ” 
She took a few calming breaths, glad to have solved the mystery.  It was just a little hallucination, nothing to worry about.  After all, her hair was gone from the chemotherapy, so it made perfect sense to create long flowing locks for herself, although she wasn’t sure why she’d decided on blonde instead of her own shade of brown.  And her eyes looked blue, while hers had been green.  She warily lifted the neckline of her nightgown and examined her body. 
“Huh, not bad,” she muttered, but it wasn’t what she was used to.  A barely there bust, even when she was healthy, and mostly skin and bones after all the treatments was the norm, but this—it was a shapely, nicely endowed body, and completely unbelievable. 
She dropped the neckline with a frown.  “Why all the changes?  Why not just dream I was healthy?”  Her stomach grumbled.  “Can you be hungry in a coma?”
She thought for several minutes as her stomach continued its growling.  Well, food seemed to be what she needed, so she’d eat.  What else could she do?  Never having hallucinated before, she wasn’t too sure how it all worked.  After all, what could it hurt to enjoy it?  So far it was nice.  Really weird, but nice.
She lifted the fork to her lips and waves of pleasure washed over her.  Just the thought of food like ham and eggs usually made her nauseous, but no more.  She dug into the fare with gusto, savoring every morsel as it slid over her tongue.  It had been so long since she’d enjoyed the simple pleasure of eating.  “This dream is a keeper,” she mumbled around a bite of ham.
As she ate, she looked more closely at her surroundings.  She did love the old manor houses scattered all across England, which might explain the decor, including a viscount, and the absence of the cancer was an easy guess.  No one would wish that on themselves, but why the new body?  Why not dream up her old self? 
She glanced at the long tapered fingers and wondered if they could play the piano as well or perhaps better than her own.  Her fingers had been one of her trials.  They were often too short to perform certain complicated pieces, but she’d overcome the disadvantage.  Oh, she wasn’t the toast of the town by any means, but she had a following of a sort, and she relished her limited success. 
“Okay, so longer fingers make sense, but the whole package?”
She set the tray aside after thoroughly cleaning her plate and settled back against the pillows as she tried to make sense of everything.  Images, memories perhaps, she wasn’t sure, drifted through her mind. 
There was that odd sense of walking through a mist after she’d collapsed.  She recalled passing a woman, and she’d been smiling, but she never looked at Emily.  She just kept on walking, her destination, a strange glowing door, was all she seemed to see. 
Emily snapped her head up and looked at her reflection.  That was the woman she’d seen, the one in the mirror!  But who was she?  And why had she taken on her appearance in her dream?  Had she seen the woman somewhere on tour and plucked her out of some forgotten memory?
Wanting a closer look, she eased from the bed and steadied herself on the various pieces of furniture as she crossed the room to the dressing table.  She sat on the small cushioned stool and looked more closely at her reflection. 
“I don’t know you,” she whispered, certain she’d never seen the woman before, except for that odd misty memory. 
She picked up the brush and ran it through her sleep-tangled hair, surprised that the pull and tug stung just as it would if it were real.  But how could she be feeling everything if it were only a dream?
A small pillow of hatpins sat to the side.  She pulled one from the velvet and with gritted teeth, pricked her finger.  “Ouch,” she hissed.
Shoving her finger in her mouth, she returned her gaze to the mirror and stared in awe. 
“No, it isn’t possible.  A nurse probably just stuck me with a needle or something,” she muttered around her sore finger.  She was in a coma in some hospital somewhere.  And yet a distinct chill raced across her skin.  Would a nurse have pricked her finger? 
“No,” she muttered, shaking her head.  “She would’ve stuck a needle in my arm.” 
That realization had her rushing back to bed and pulling the covers up over her head. 
How could this be?  Could she be dead and this was a sort of heaven?  If so, then death was something far different than she’d ever imagined.  But why take on the form of a shapely blonde?  It wasn’t as if she’d been unattractive—before.  She was comfortable in her body, when it was healthy.  Mostly, and as ludicrous as it sounded, she didn’t feel dead.
With her lips growing numb from her nibbling, one final possibility popped into her head.  Easing the covers aside, she sat up and looked once again at the stranger in the mirror. 
Was it possible that she’d somehow been given a second chance?  Through some twisted form of reincarnation, had she been given a healthy body and a new life to live?  If so, then why backward in time, which she assumed by the antique clothes, and her superb but historic surroundings?  Why not forward?
She slowly shook her head at her reflection.  “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered, a crooked grin on her lips.  She was alive and she was enormously grateful. 
Her eyes looked heavenward and she whispered her thanks.  “But if this is a dream and I’m in a coma, I’d like to stay here ‘til it’s over if you don’t mind,” she added, just to be sure.  It was a much nicer place to leave behind than a cold antiseptic hospital room.
A small noise caught her attention.  At first she thought nothing of it, a house this size, one she assumed was rather large and with a full staff made noises.  This, however, was a breathing noise.
She turned her head and caught sight of a pink ruffle sticking out from behind a chair nearest the door.
She’d have to set things straight with everyone she’d met so far.  Waving a poker at them wasn’t a good way to begin.  She didn’t want them thinking she was a nutcase, but this, she suspected, was someone she’d yet to meet.
“Hello,” she said, attempting to coax out her not-so-stealthy pint-sized visitor. 
A little blonde head peeked out from around the chair.  “They said you were awake.”
“Yes, as you can see I am.”
The child stepped into view, but made no effort to move closer.  She actually seemed wary of her, the fire poker incident apparently having reached her small ears.
“They also said you were mad,” the little girl said, and her eyes shot wide as she dodged back to her hiding place.
Emily let out a rough chuckle.  “It’s all right.  I’m not about to blame you for something you overheard.  But you really shouldn’t repeat everything you hear,” she said softly.  “It’s not polite.”
“You’re not angry?” she asked softly from her hiding place.
“Of course not.”
She peeked out from around the chair.  “Is it true then?  Are you mad?”
Now that was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?  But regardless of what she believed, be she dreaming or reincarnated, she didn’t want to frighten a little girl, so she decided to play along. It was her only option, and this child with her blunt way of speaking might just be the person she needed to help her get her bearings in what could be her new life.
“I’m not crazy, but I am…confused,” she said.
Her pretty little face scrunched up in uncertainty.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Emily asked.
That drew the child out and she nodded.
“I don’t remember who I am, where I am, or anything?”
Her pretty blue eyes widened.  “You don’t?”
“No, not a thing.”
“Is that why you talk funny?”
Ah, yes, her accent.  She’d have to work on that.  At least it wasn’t too far off, she’d moved about so much doing concerts, she’d dropped most of her Americanisms, but she definitely didn’t sound like English Gentry, and if she had in deed taken over another woman’s life, she needed to make some adjustments to her speech and her behavior. 
“Yes, um, I’m sort of relearning how to do things.  Starting over,” she said.
“That doesn’t sound like fun,” the child said.
Emily shook her head gravely.  “No it isn’t.  But you could help me.  If you want to,” she hurried to add.  “You could tell me things.”
The girl eased to the foot of the bed.  “I don’t know a lot.  I’m only six.”
She smiled at the child.  “I’ll bet you know more than I do.  For instance, I didn’t know you were only six.  You look much older and are far brighter than I would’ve thought for your age.”
She straightened her spine and smiled brightly.  “Papa says I’m smart.”
“I’m sure he’s right.  And, um, Papa is the Viscount Westmore?”
She nodded with a worried frown.  “You really don’t remember, do you?”
So this beautiful little girl was her daughter—sort of.  All of it was very confusing, but she’d deal with things as they came at her as best she could. 
“No, I don’t,” Emily replied.  “But it’s our secret, all right?  If your papa knew, he might send me away, and I don’t want to go away.  Do you understand?”
“Oh, Papa wouldn’t do that.  He’s a nice man.  He would want you to get better.”
“I’m sure he would, but he and I might disagree on how I should go about accomplishing that.”
“Oh.”
“So will you help me and keep my secret?”
She nodded.
“Thank you.  What’s your name?”
Her brows rose and her eyes widened.  “Michelle.”
“Michelle.  That’s a lovely name.  And, um, do you know my name?”
The girl blinked and said.  “Millicent.” 
“And I’m—I’m your mother?”
She nodded slowly.
Emily rested back against her pillow, marveling at her situation.  She was now a wife and mother.  Two things she’d not accomplished in her life, but had intended to, once her career slowed down.  Of course she hadn’t met the right man, but then she’d thought she had time.
“How come you remember how to eat?” Michelle asked with a glance at the tray. 
“Well, there are some things, I suppose, we just don’t forget.  They’re second nature, like breathing.  We just know how.”
“Are you still sick?”
“Not really, no.  But I’m not quite ready to—to—”  She had no idea what she was supposed to do.  She had no experience at being a viscountess, healthy or otherwise.
“Dress?”
“Yes, dress,” she said with a smile.  “I’m still a bit tired.”  And completely out of my element.
“So you’re not going to die like they said?”
Emily blinked at that, not quite sure how to answer.  “I honestly don’t know.  Everyone dies at some point, but I feel fine.  So I don’t think I’m about to die anytime soon,” she said with a grin, somehow knowing she was right.  She was healthy, for the first time in a very long while.  She could feel it.
The little girl tilted her head as she studied her.  “You look different.”
“I do?”  She glanced at the mirror over the dressing table and touched her cheek.  “Different how?”
“Well,” she said, squiggling up onto the foot of the bed.  “You don’t have those lines around your mouth anymore,” she said, her fingers circling in the air toward Emily’s face.  “Or that funny bump between your eyebrows.”
She laughed.  “I think I like the improvement then.”
Michelle’s eyes widened and her mouth fell lax as she stared at Emily. 
Emily sat bolt upright.  “What is it, sweetie?  What’s wrong?  Are you sick?” She’d never had any close family, just a few friends, and she’d never been around children much.  But the look on Michelle’s face struck a bolt of fear straight to her heart.
The child shook her head slowly.  “You smiled.  And laughed.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do that before,” she said with awe.
“You haven’t seen—oh sweetheart,” she fell back against the cushions with a giggle.  But the humor quickly died in her throat. 
What sort of woman was this Millicent Westmore?  And what had really been wrong with her?
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter Two

Emily decided to explore her new life, having come to the conclusion this was no dream.  She’d been here for days and her health had only improved, and yet that could mean she was dying.  Still, she was determined to move forward and quit thinking of her death—birth—or rebirth.  It was a new day, a new world, and she would join it with a smile on her face.
  First, however, she needed to get dressed and went to the armoire to search for something to wear, although certain she wouldn’t have a clue how to get into any of the gowns.  Regardless, she needed to get out of her room.  She’d had enough confinement to last her several life times. 
Although Michelle visited often and was a tonic to her restlessness, her husband had not appeared since that first day.  She was growing more and more curious about the man who appeared in her dreams, the man Michelle idolized as a daughter tended to do.  The sense of rightness as he’d held her wouldn’t go away.
She pushed the viscount from her thoughts as best she could and fumbled through the massive dresses and all the accoutrements. 
“No wonder ladies had personal maids in the old days.”  Lacings, buttons, and whatnot, she was most definitely not looking forward to a corset, but escaping the four walls of her room was a goal she refused to give up. 
“Perhaps I could bypass that undergarment without too much notice,” she muttered.  Of course it would be scandalous for a lady in the middle of the nineteenth century to go without, but she’d do her best to avoid the thing.  Assuming she’d lost weight since her—Millicent’s—illness, she could hopefully get into a dress without the masochistic device.  She shook her head as she looked through the dresses. 
“What women would do to look thin? What they still do, will do, whatever,” she said with a giggle.  Adjusting to the time change was going to take a lot of getting used to.
A shawl fell from a hook to the floor of the cabinet and she bent to retrieve it, but it snagged on something.  Digging deep behind the dresses she found an ornate box.  She pulled it from the back of the armoire and placed it on the dressing table and sat down.  It was a beautiful piece of work, the painted detail of a man and woman in seventeenth century garb sitting in a garden was exquisite.  She attempted to lift the lid, but found it locked. 
“A key,” she mumbled.  Where would Millicent stash the key?  The jewelry box perhaps?
After a not too lengthy search she found the key and opened the box.  “Not too stealthy there, old girl,” she said, lifting what appeared to be a diary.
Leafing through the elegant scribblings, hoping to have a clue as to the woman she’d become, her jaw fell open.  The lurid content, the explicit detail, turned her stomach.  She’d gleamed from Michelle that Millicent was an unkind woman, but she had no idea that she was an adulterer with some rather graphic sexual tastes. 
No wonder the viscount hadn’t bothered to visit her since that first day.  He probably knew about Millicent’s illicit liaisons with someone called Francis and wanted nothing to do with her.  And frankly, she couldn’t blame him.
As Emily read on, she learned more than she ever wanted to know about her predecessor and her kinky side, but it gave her a clear insight into the woman and this life Emily had stepped into.  A life she was not going to waste the way Millicent had.  She had a lovely daughter, a handsome husband, clothes, comforts, all the things many women in this time would sell their soul for, and yet Millicent still wasn’t satisfied. 
She wrote on and on about Francis, whom she was apparently in love with, but he’d run off when he’d been caught with another woman by a man not willing to turn a blind eye the way Barnaby had.
“Barnaby,” Emily whispered, hearing her husband’s given name for the first time.  It sounded friendly and warm.  How could Millicent do the horrid things she’d done to him?  The insane woman actually orchestrated ways in which to embarrass and humiliate the man. 
Although she’d only seen Barnaby once, Emily remembered every detail clearly, she realized with a slight blush, and had a growing respect for the man.  To live with such an awful woman, to face the world and know they had to be talking and laughing behind his back had to cut deeply. 
With a grim frown, she read on.  For a moment, a very brief moment, she felt sorry for Millicent and the pain she felt from Francis’ betrayal.  She’d taken to her bed after making her last entry, wishing for death.  She seemed to actually beg for it. 
Emily’s gaze shifted to the bottle of medicine by her bed.  After Martha had asked if she wanted any, she realized what it was.  She didn’t need or want any laudanum, although Millicent had obviously used it. 
“But if she wanted to die so badly, she could’ve taken the entire thing and—Good Lord,” she whispered and hurried to the bedside.  Lifting the bottle, she realized it was nearly empty.  Had Millicent tried to kill herself? 
Her thoughts whirling around her, she looked at the small book in one hand and the bottle in the other. 
“Or perhaps she succeeded,” she murmured.
No, that didn’t make sense.  If Millicent had died, then they would have both been walking in the same direction, toward the light, or so she assumed.  But Millicent must have been very close to death.  A death she craved.  So whoever was in charge of these things, decided that they would switch places, granting one the life she yearned for, and the other her death. 
With a determined stride, she crossed to the chamber pot still by her bed and poured the remains of the laudanum into it then tossed the bottle into a wastebasket.  She glanced at the diary in which Millicent had painstakingly recorded her lurid thoughts, her vengeful games, even her disdain for her daughter, still clutched in her hand. 
“No one should ever read this,” she murmured.
“I brought you some tea, my lady,” Martha said, then nervously glanced at the diary.  “I’m sorry, my lady.  I didn’t mean to disturb you.”  She quickly shuffled back to the door.
“No, don’t go, Martha.”  Emily moved to the fireplace and tossed the horrid book into the flames.  She watched with satisfaction as the pages curled and turned to ash.  Millicent was gone, and this was now her life.
Satisfied that nothing readable could be recovered from the hearth, she turned and smiled at her gaping maid.  “Would you be kind enough to help me dress?” 
“Yes, my lady,” she said, quickly covering her shock.  She placed the tea tray on a table before the hearth then moved to the armoire, and proceeded to pull out an unusual concoction, not something Emily would’ve chosen for herself.  Evidently Millicent’s tastes and hers were nothing alike in any way.  Which, she suspected, was a good thing.
“I don’t think that one will suit, Martha.  I’d like to go for a walk in this glorious sunshine.  Something more, um, simple would be best.”
“Simple, my lady?”
Emily smiled and strolled over to the armoire.  “Yes.  Something that says, I’m happy to be alive.”  She fingered a dress with tiny blue flowers covering it.  “I think this one, don’t you?”
“But, my lady, you—you hate that dress.  I was going to destroy it like the others,” she rushed on, “but then you became ill and I never had the time to—”
Emily patted her maid on the shoulder.  “It’s all right, Martha.  And I’m very glad you didn’t destroy it,” she said, pulling it out for a better look.  “It’s perfect.” 
“It is?  I mean, of course, my lady.”
She glanced back at her maid, who seemed more nervous than usual.  “Martha, why do I have the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?”
“I—I—”
Emily sank to the small settee, the flowered dress cascading over her robe.  “You haven’t destroyed any of the gowns Mi—I told you to, have you?”
She dropped her head.  “No, my lady.  After his lordship caught me burning the first batch some time ago, he told me to give them to any young ladies in the village who couldn’t afford a proper dress.”
Emily smiled as the generosity and intelligence of the viscount warmed her heart.  Not only was it kind to give the dresses to those in need, he knew Millicent would never venture anywhere near the locals’ circles to see them, so she would never know. 
And then there was Michelle.  The light in that little girl’s eyes when she spoke of her papa was all she needed to see to know Barnaby was a good man.  He had to be with the years of pain he must have suffered at the hands of his horrible wife.
Martha was still standing before her, her head bowed and her hands wringing. 
The woman gasped as Emily reached out and took them in hers.  “It’s all right, Martha.  You did what the viscount instructed, I’m not angry with you.  Not in the least.”  The young woman blinked several times and Emily grinned.  “But it does propose a problem,” she said, dropping Martha’s hands and gazing sadly into her wardrobe. 
Every one of the dresses, well almost every one, was awful.  Dark sinister colors with miles of flowing crepe.  Being a pale, fair-haired woman, she’d look like a vampire in them, something she suspected was Millicent’s true calling, if her diary was any indication. 
“This is the only dress that I can see, other than that deep blue ball gown,” she said, pointing at the elegant work of art, “that I like.  And I obviously can’t go around in this one everyday or that one every night.  And it seems a bit too formal for dinner at home, don’t you think?”
“Yes, my lady,” Martha whispered, glancing between the wardrobe and Emily, something obviously on her mind.
“Martha, you wouldn’t still have some of those other dresses, the ones I used to not like, still hidden away somewhere, would you?”
For the first time since she’d met the woman, the maid smiled bright, setting her green eyes to sparkling.  “I’ve a trunk full, my lady.”
“Wonderful!  Could you have it brought in?  I’d love to have a fresh new look at them.”
While awaiting the trunk to be brought in, Martha helped Emily into her only appropriate gown then fixed her hair, but with careful instruction from Emily.  She didn’t want the tight high bun that accentuated her sharp features, Millicent’s usual hairdo, but something softer, more like the Gibson girl look, although she doubted it was in style yet.  Martha was a bit flabbergasted, but did as she was told.
“You look lovely, my lady,” the maid said, after Emily finished getting into the morning dress with the blue flowers.
“That’s sweet of you to say, Martha.  I couldn’t have achieved this without you,” she said, patting at her hair.  It was perfect.  She felt wonderful, fresh and new, and—well—pretty.  It was vain to think of herself that way, but she’d felt the opposite for so long.  It was a welcome change.
There was a knock at the door. 
“Place it over there,” Martha said, showing the two men where to put the trunk. 
They did as they were told, then turned to leave, but the younger one paused, his mouth gaping open as he caught sight of Emily.
She could only assume she really did look different than the old Millicent, and when she smiled the boy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
The older man grabbed his arm and shuffled him toward the door mumbling, “Mind yerself, lad.”
“Thank you for bringing in the trunk, gentlemen,” Emily quickly said with a wide smile.
They both cast her a glance, shock evident in their eyes, then hurried out of the room.  Emily made a mental note to learn their names later. 
Her walk postponed with the arrival of the trunk, she and Martha spent the rest of the morning wading through miles of fabric, each a new delight to Emily’s eyes.  With Martha’s help, she decided to alter a few of the dresses—some had a bit too much flounce for Emily’s tastes, but over all she had a wardrobe that would suit the new Viscountess Westmore, which prompted a question.  Why did Millicent have these gowns made if she didn’t like them?
“Isn’t it interesting how you can like one thing one day and not the next,” Emily said, hoping for some telling response from Martha. 
The maid didn’t know about her lack of knowledge.  That was still a well-kept secret, she hoped, between her and Michelle.  And although she got a good deal of information from the diary, the day to day stuff and other less important but intricate details were going to take some time.
“Oh, yes, my lady.  I’m so glad you’ve changed your mind.  Especially considering the amount of money his lordship paid for these and you not wearing them once, ‘tis a crime.”  Martha froze in mid fluffing of one of the gowns, her head down. 
Emily knew Martha had spoken out of turn for her station, thus the reason for her silent terror, but the little slip-up was a telling sign that Martha was growing unconsciously comfortable with Emily, her happy babbling a distinct indication.  And that was a good thing. 
“You’re absolutely right, Martha.  I’ll never understand why I did that.  And I can honestly say I will never do that again.” 
Emily stood before the long mirror with one of the gowns held under her chin.  She could only assume the dresses were the result of Millicent’s little fits.  She enjoyed hurting Barnaby in any way she could, and his wallet was obviously one of her favorite targets.
She glanced at Martha still sitting on the floor eyeing her. 
“I’m a changed woman, Martha,” she said with a laugh and swirled around still holding the dress to her chest.  “And I plan to look like one too.” 
Martha smiled back.
Phoebe, the younger housemaid, appeared and said something, but only Martha seemed to understand.  The girl spoke barely above a whisper in Emily’s presence. 
“Do you wish to have nuncheon downstairs, my lady, or have it brought up to your room?” Martha asked.
“Downstairs?  Oh, I think that’s a wonderful idea,” she said with a smile.  “Thank you, Phoebe.”
With a shaky curtsy, the young girl left.
“Martha, we really need to work on Phoebe’s self esteem,” Emily said.  “I can’t hear a word she says.”
“But her brogue, my lady.  You hate it.” 
“Brogue?”  Oh dear.  This was really going to be hard to hide from Martha, but she had to try.  If the servants knew about her missing memory, Barnaby would be certain to hear of it, and she didn’t want to risk his reaction. 
“As I said, Martha, I’m a changed woman.  The things I’ve said and done, the rules I laid down prior to my illness are no longer important.  We need to start fresh,” she said with a smile.  “Yes, that’s it.  Just like my wardrobe.  Let’s start over, as if I’d just married the viscount and come to live in this house. All right?”
Martha blinked owlishly, but nodded. 
“Good.”  Emily placed the last dress in the closet and closed the armoire doors. 
“What do you want me to do with these, my lady?” Her maid asked, holding several of the ugly gowns.
“Oh, well that is a problem.”  They weren’t suitable for young girls, simple country girls at that, she thought, touching the satin and crepe.  “Do you suppose we could alter them into something more suitable to young ladies?  I’d hate to waste such expensive fabric, but the designs are—” she sighed.  “Well, they’re just awful.”
Martha’s brows rose.
“Well they are,” she said with a laugh.
Martha giggled.  “They are a bit unusual.”
“I’m sure with you at my side we will come up with something.  We just need a well-stocked sewing box and some imagination.  Let’s start on it tomorrow, all right?  Right after breakfast.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Now, I’m starving—uh, famished.”  Her contemporary slip-ups were going to be a problem, but she’d work on it. 
With a smile at Martha’s quizzical look, she spun on her heels and left the bedroom with a bright spring in her step.  She faltered only a moment, not quite sure which way to go, but noted the daylight at the end of the hall, and walked toward it.  How to find the dining room once she got down stairs was another problem entirely. 
“Well, I’ll wander ‘til I find it,” she murmured.  At least she’d be able to get a feel of the house that way.  And she’d been on enough English manor tours to have a basic idea of the layout.  It couldn’t be too hard. 
She hoped.
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter Three

Barnaby rubbed his brow, his mind on his latest problem, or rather his recurring problem.  Millicent was up to something.  He’d overheard Chandler and Daniel’s hushed whispers about her not acting normal when they’d delivered a trunk to her rooms, which could only mean she was scheming again.  Something new, no doubt, to torment and humiliate him.
With a sigh, he rose from his desk and made his way toward the dining room for the midday meal.  Dread weighed down every step with impending return of the battlefield that was his home.  As unkind a thought it was, he’d at least had a reprieve, for however brief a time during Millicent’s illness.  But no more.  She was recovered, according to Martha, and he would have to live with her, no matter what.  He’d made a vow before God, and he would not break it.
“Hello,” a soft voice said.
Barnaby paused in mid-stride and looked up at the vision on the stair.  “Millicent.  You look—you look much recovered.” 
“Thank you.”
He didn’t dare give her a compliment, she’d only throw it back in his face.  But she did look lovely, more so than he could ever recall her being.  Soft and touchable. 
“Is something wrong?” she asked, descending the stairs.
Bright blue eyes looked up at him with the same innocence he’d seen days before still reflected there.  It was unnerving.  “No, nothing is wrong.”
She smiled, and he sucked in a silent breath.  Had he ever seen her this way?  Of course she’d smiled over the years, an alluring, knowing, calculating smile, but never like this.  It was—it was a real smile.
“Are you on your way to lunch, uh, nuncheon?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then will you escort me?”
His brow furrowed with the onset of a headache. 
“Of course,” he replied, and lifted his arm.  He would play along for now. 
Her hand touched his sleeve as she descended the last step, sending an odd jolt up his arm.  He refused to believe it a spark of interest, but derision instead.
They silently entered the dining room, and he released her, allowing a footman to hold her chair for her.  The loss of her touch was a relief, he told himself, not a disappointment.  Her demeanor, her smiles, the fact she seemed—different—than before would not sway him.  He would not be taken in again by her trickery.
“Enjoy your meal, Madame,” he said with a small bow and moved to the other end of the table and took his seat.
Emily smoothed her brow, afraid the bewilderment on her face might be misconstrued as something else, but the table was a mile long and they sat at opposite ends! 
How sad, she thought, realizing her predecessor’s dislike for her husband and his dislike of her was far greater than she’d imagined. 
They lived together in the same house, shared a daughter, but apparently did everything they could to avoid one another, which would explain the look of shock on Barnaby’s face when she met him coming down the stairs.  The problem, however, was how many changes could she make to her behavior before he or someone else got wise to her?
Deciding it would be best to keep a low profile around her new husband for a while, she quietly ate her food.  Or tried to. 
Several times he caught her staring at him, bringing a hot flush to her cheeks as she dropped her gaze.  His coloring was that of a man who enjoyed the outdoors.  Michelle had told her how he liked to ride, surveying the estate.  His broad shoulders filled his jacket to perfection.  He would look regal, she mused, sitting astride his horse, his powerful thighs squeezing—
His fork clattered against his plate, interrupting her dangerous thoughts.
“Is there something you wish to discuss, Millicent?” he asked with a scowl.
“I—um—well, I—that is to say—”
He angled his head slightly with one lone brow cocked.  She ignored her rapidly beating heart.  Lord, he was gorgeous. 
But he despised her—Millicent, which meant nothing would ever develop between them.  The disappointing fact settled in her chest. 
“I’m just happy to be up and about, enjoying the change in scenery.”  Enjoying looking at something I can never have. 
She tried to smile without looking like an idiot.  She’d just met the man, why would she desire him so much so fast?
He blinked a moment then returned to his lunch.  His dark hair caught the light seeping in through the windows behind him, and she wondered how the sun-warmed waves would feel sifting through her fingers. 
Dropping her gaze, she took a long, deep and silent breath.  She must be losing her mind to think that she had feelings for him.  Lust, she supposed, was understandable, he was beyond handsome, but there seemed more to it than that.  Had Millicent’s diary shaded her thoughts about the man?  Perhaps she’d made him out to be some sort of saint or martyr?
Oh for pity’s sakes. 

    It doesn’t matter what I think.
   
     She scowled at her food, having completely lost her appetite. 
In an effort to escape the pressing tension in the room, tension she’d caused with her staring, she stood.  Barnaby rose, and she gave him a shaky nod and a smile, which he returned with only a narrowed glance and bow.  He wanted nothing to do with her, and she would have to live with that, regardless of how much she wished things could be different. 
She paused at the door and turned to the nearest footman.  “Please thank the cook for an excellent meal.”
The man’s eyes widened just the tiniest bit before he bowed.  “Of course, your ladyship.”
Emily didn’t dare look at Barnaby.  She’d just done something completely out of character, she knew it by the look on the footman’s face, but hopefully it was such a small thing that he wouldn’t be overly concerned.  And after all, lunch had been good, although she couldn’t seem to eat much, what was the harm in saying so?
She hurried to find Michelle and see if they could take in some of the beautiful day outdoors, anything to keep herself occupied and to stop thinking about her husband.  She would dream about him though, she was certain.
****
Barnaby refrained from dropping his jaw at her departure.  What was the woman up to?  Compliments to the cook?  And all that staring.  She looked at him as if she’d never seen him before.  Her latest game was definitely a new one, he’d grant her that, but she would not win. 
Rubbing his brow with the onslaught of yet an even greater headache, he made his way back to his study.  Dropping into his chair, he spun around to face the window and let the warmth of the afternoon sun ease his pounding head. 
Michelle’s laughter wafted in through the open window, and he smiled, his wife forgotten.  He leaned forward in his chair to look out, and nearly fell to the floor. 
Michelle and Millicent sat in the dark summer grass playing with a kitten.  He’d never in his life seen the woman behave in such a way, sitting on the ground with no blankets or cushions.  Why, she wasn’t even wearing a bonnet!  She never went outside without covering her head, refusing to allow the sun to darken her fair skin even the slightest. 
Then she laughed.  She actually threw back her head, the sun catching in her golden tresses, and laughed like a young maid.  In that moment, so rare he dare not examine it too closely, she was warm, vibrant, and breathtakingly beautiful.  The most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
There was a distinct stirring in his loins and an increase in his pulse.  Disgusted with himself, he spun away. 
“Whatever you are at, Millicent, you will not win,” he growled.  But their continued laughter tormented him to the point of near madness, forcing him to find solace in another part of the house.
In his haste, he turned a corner and bumped into Millicent’s maid, Martha.  He moved to catch her before she fell as she was somewhat burdened with a sewing basket, various fripperies, and a hideous gown.
“Oh, your lordship, I’m sorry!”
“It’s quiet all right, I wasn’t watching my stride.  My mind was on other things.”
Smiling with a faint blush, she said, “As was mine, my lord.”
“Yes, I presumed as much,” he said, glancing at the items in her arms.
“Oh, yes, I’m afraid I’m a bit baffled as to how to alter this one.”
“One would presume you need only take it in, as I know my lady wife has lost considerable weight since her illness.”
“Oh no, my lord.  She wants me to make it over for one of the young ladies in town.  She wants to make over all her dresses and give them away.”
He refrained from rubbing his pounding temples.  “You mean to say, she no longer wishes to wear any of her dresses?”
“No, sir.  She wishes to wear the old ones she cast off before her illness, and make the newer ones over.  She even intends to help me with the chore,” she said, her eyes wide.
“Help you?  As in sewing?”
“Yes, my lord.  Oh, she is so much different, if you don’t mind my saying, sir.  It’s as if she were a different lady all together.  She even said so herself.” 
“I see,” he replied, his temper simmering.  What the devil was she up to this time? 
“Are you all right, my lord?  Is there something I can get for you?”
He forced a small smile, not wanting the maid to think his anger was directed at her. 
“No, thank you, Martha.  Do as my wife has directed.”  He stepped to the side and started down the hall, but paused.  He looked back over his shoulder to find her watching him.
“Martha.  If you notice any other—changes in regards to Lady Westmore, report them to me.  Understood?”
“Yes, my lord,” she replied with a curtsy.
With a nod, he continued toward his rooms to find a bit of relief, and a place to think.  Something very strange was going on, and he prayed it did not involve his daughter.  Her welfare was his upmost concern.
****
Emily went in search of Michelle, as was her way after she and Martha had worked on the dresses for a few hours.  The child was a delight, a breath of fresh air, and she sorely needed just such a distraction. 
Dining with her husband had proved as difficult as lunch, as it did each day for nearly a week.  So Emily decided to avoid the dining room or rather avoid dining with Barnaby whenever possible.  She couldn’t keep from staring at the man, and she had a terrible time remembering to sound like English Gentry. 
“Maybe if I hadn’t seen him with Michelle,” she muttered, clearly recalling his smile as he twirled his daughter around the room.
She’d found the library and was returning to the parlor with a book on etiquette, thinking it might help her learn to fit in better, when she’d heard Michelle’s delighted squeal.
Emily paused in the hall, just to the side of Barnaby’s study door and peeked inside.  He was twirling Michelle about the room the way her own father had done to her when she was a little girl. 
This was the man she wanted to know, the smiling, happy man, the man who loved his daughter and delighted in her company.  But it was a wasted wish, she knew.  Her attraction to him was ridiculous, they didn’t even know one another.  Not that he was aware of that fact.  But listening to Michelle talk about her papa, how much she adored him, and seeing him look so carefree, had Emily wanting to know him.  After all, they were married.
She’d pulled silently away from the doorway and went to the parlor, but never succeeded in getting him out of her thoughts. 
“And I still haven’t,” she said, climbing the stair to the nursery. 
She wondered if Barnaby missed Millicent, the original woman he’d married.  Well, the woman he thought he’d married.  Surely he wouldn’t have married her if he’d known what she was truly like, but there hadn’t been much in the diary about their early years together, and the one-sided point of view didn’t really give her any good information about him.  Only that he doted on Michelle. 
Emily silently wished he’d dote on her in a very adult way. 
“So not going to happen,” she grumbled. 
She took a deep breath, pushed the disheartening thoughts aside, and stepped into the nursery, hoping her surprise picnic with Michelle would make her feel better, but in less than a heartbeat her smile faded.
“But ‘tis a luvely dress,” Phoebe said pleadingly.
“I won’t, I won’t!”  The usually pleasant child tossed her dress to the floor, then proceeded to stomp on it.
Phoebe, poor thing, stood there wringing her hands. 
Michelle, satisfied she’d made her point, plopped her little fanny down on the bed, her arms crossed.
“I’ll get the sack fer sure, I will,” Phoebe muttered, lifting the damaged gown from the floor. 
So, some of Millicent has worn off on her daughter.  This will have to be rectified immediately
   
   .
“Don’t be ridiculous, Phoebe,” Emily said, moving deeper into the room.  “I wouldn’t dream of letting you go.  You’re much too valuable.”
The maid blinked, and Emily would swear she saw tears creeping to the edge of the girl’s eyes. 
She crossed to the young woman and examined the dress.  “And you are quite right.  It is a lovely dress.  What a shame it’s ruined.”  She peeked at Michelle from beneath her lashes, noting the child’s now quivering bottom lip. 
“I think I can mend it, yer ladyship,” Phoebe said, her voice soft.
“No, no, Phoebe.  I fear it is truly beyond repair,” she said with a sly wink at Phoebe, who nearly fell over in a dead faint.  “I think you should take it out to Mr. Chandler so he can burn it.”  She tsked and shook her head.  “What a shame.”
Thankfully, Phoebe seemed to catch on, or so she hoped, by the look on her face.  The dress was most definitely repairable.  With a nod and a curtsy, and a tiny smile, Phoebe left the nursery.
Emily turned to the child, now sitting with her head down, sniffling and shaking.  Whatever reaction she expected from Millicent, it had Emily’s blood boiling.  To frighten a child so much that she literally shook, was reprehensible. 
Still, Michelle did deserve a good talking to at the very least, but she doubted it would have any effect.  No, she needed to try a different tactic with her new daughter and somehow find a way to remove the fear. 
“Now, let’s see what you shall wear today,” she said, examining Michelle’s wardrobe.  She deliberately chose one of her plainest dresses.  “I think this one will do nicely.”
Several minutes later, a somewhat calmer but sulking child by her side, she guided Michelle to the kitchen.
“Good morning,” Emily said when they entered and the room fell still.  “Mrs. Hatch, I’m afraid our plans have changed for today.  Michelle and I are no longer going on a picnic.”  From the corner of her eye she saw Michelle’s head snap up then drop once again with her bottom lip stick out further than before. 
She hated to do it, but the child had to learn a lesson, and she wasn’t about to spank her, although the thought had crossed her mind.  The girl’s shaking had definitely stopped that, not to mention she had a feeling if Barnaby heard about it, he’d do more than just send her away.
“Then you’ll be dining in the nursery, my lady?” the cook asked, her voice not quivering as much as it had earlier that morning when she’d asked for the picnic basket to be prepared.  Likely Phoebe, who stood nearby, had already passed along the news about what had happened in the nursery. 
Emily was about to say yes, when an idea formed in her mind at the sight of a large bushel of apples sitting on the floor by a bucket of water. 
“No, Mrs. Hatch, I think Michelle and I shall eat in the kitchen today.”
A collective gasp was heard around the room.  Definitely not appropriate for a viscountess and her daughter, but a lesson was about to commence, and the kitchen was the best place to start.
“Yes, my lady,” Mrs. Hatch said, her face contorted in confusion.  Turning, she swatted at young Daniel to clear a place at the table.  But before he could move away all the recently cleaned apples atop it, Emily stopped him.
“Are these for tonight’s dinner, Mrs. Hatch?”
“Yes, I was going to make a few pies, my lady.”
“That’s an awful lot of apples for a few pies,” she commented.
“Well, um, some are for—for the Donners.”
“The Donners?”
The cook dropped her eyes.  “Yes, my lady.  Since Mrs. Donner passed last spring, and having all boys, George, I mean, Mr. Donner hasn’t had anyone to cook regular for him.”  Her gaze snapped up.  “But his lordship told me I could.  He insisted we help the Donners.  He—”
Emily raised her hand with a small smile, stopping Mrs. Hatch’s hurried explanations.  “And his lordship is absolutely right.  Without a woman to care for them, and likely still grieving, I suspect the Donners need all the help they can get.”
Once again, mouths fell open and gazes widened, it was so funny, she nearly laughed, but restrained herself.  That might send them running out the door.
“Yes, my lady,” cook murmured.
“I’ll help,” Emily announced, and seated Michelle at the table then sat down beside her as all eyes watched in stunned fascination.  She reached for the knife and began peeling an apple.  “Daniel, would you bring me two bowls, please?”
The young man rushed to the opposite end of the table and grabbed a pair of bowls, then almost reverently placed them before her. 
“Thank you.”  Emily dropped the peels into one bowl and began slicing the apple into pieces in the other.  She ignored all the amazed faces, and handed Michelle a piece of apple.  “Here you go, sweetie.  A little snack to hold you until Mrs. Hatch can take a moment to fix your lunch.”
Cook spun away and frantically prepared the meal from the basket she’d packed, while Michelle took the slice and slowly put it into her mouth, her gaze never leaving Emily’s face.  Michelle’s meal appeared before her and she turned her attention to her food, but not without several confused glances at Emily. 
“Do you wish to have your meal now, my lady?” cook asked.
“No, I can wait ‘til later.  We’ve quite a few apples to peel first.”
Mrs. Hatch nodded and after several minutes of Michelle quietly eating, the kitchen returned to its natural rhythm and Emily let out a silent sigh of relief.  One more step forward, she thought, but she still needed to deal with Michelle.  The child was no longer shaking but was still afraid.
“Michelle, do you know where apples come from?” Emily asked, as she peeled another apple.
“The trees,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. 
“Ah, but who planted and tends the trees to make sure they’re fruitful?”  She could feel all the ears in the room straining to hear their conversation, but she didn’t mind in the least.  With luck, they would learn a few new things about her today, and hopefully begin to accept her and forget Millicent. 
“The gardener takes care of the trees,” Michelle said. 
“And they came to be in the kitchen how?”
“Daniel helps pick them. I’ve seen him carry in lots in big baskets.”
“And the apples are then washed and peeled and sliced for the pie, aren’t they?  Like I’m doing now?”
“Um-hmm,” the child mumbled around a bite of apple.
“Then what goes into the pie?”
“Lots of things,” Michelle said, her feet waving back and forth beneath the stool she sat upon.  Emily grinned, glad to see she was once again comfortable in her presence.
“You mean things like, sugar, and cinnamon?”  The little girl nodded then sipped her milk.  “And where do those things come from?”
“Town.  Mrs. Hatch puts it all together and bakes it ‘til it’s yummy,” she rubbed her belly with a milky grin.
Emily smiled at the child.  “It is yummy.  But how does she cook it?”
Michelle shrugged her shoulders.  “In the stove.  Isn’t that right, Mrs. Hatch?”
The cook looked up from where she was rolling out the piecrust and grinned.  “Yes, lamb, that’s how I cook it.”
Michelle turned back to her with a proud smile, but Emily shook her head.  “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?”
Her adorable little face scrunched up as she peered up at her.
“The woodsman had to give us the wood to burn in the stove,” she explained.  “And a tins man had to make the pan so Mrs. Hatch could put the pie in it.  A cow gave the cream.  A farmer milled the sugar.  The cinnamon came from far away, thousands of miles, just to be in the pie.  Do you suppose it got here by itself?”
Michelle’s brow furrowed.  “No, someone brought it, and Papa bought it.”
Emily nodded at the child, seeing that she was beginning to understand.  “With money earned from the land and all the hard work the many people who live here put into it.  You understand now, don’t you, Michelle?  The apple pie you love so dearly and made so expertly by Mrs. Hatch, is really the work of hundreds of people, if you look at it from a certain point of view.”
Michelle dropped her head guiltily.  “It’s the same for my dress, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sweetheart.  The same.  A farmer had to grow the cotton and harvest it.  A weaver had to weave it and dye it.  A dressmaker had to purchase the fabric to make the dress, and again, many people worked very hard on the estate so your papa could buy you the dress.”
“And Phoebe has to clean it when it’s dirty and mend it when it needs it,” Michelle mumbled.
“Yes, she does.”
The child got up from her chair at the table and crossed to Phoebe standing by cook helping her prepare his lordship’s lunch.  “I’m sorry I wasn’t nice.”
Phoebe smiled down at the child.  “That’s all right, luv.  We all have our bad days,” she said with a smile and a wink.
Michelle beamed and skipped back to Emily’s side.  “Can I help make the pies?”
“I don’t see why not.  Extra hands are a blessing in the kitchen.”
Mrs. Hatch wrapped Michelle up in a doubly folded apron to protect her dress and within moments, she was planted on her fanny on the floor scrubbing apples in the bucket by Emily’s feet then handing them up to her.
“Tell me another story, Mama.”  The room had gone still and Michelle warily eyed Emily from the floor.  “I mean, Mother,” she said quietly.
Emily held back her growl at her predecessor, Michelle wouldn’t understand.  She barely did.  How could she not have loved this child?  She pulled back her anger at the woman who’d come before her, and smiled down at her new daughter who had tucked her chin down into the apron as she slowly washed the apples.  It would seem Millicent could do nothing but berate the child at every turn.  No wonder she was so upset when she’d witnessed her tantrum.
Emily touched the child’s shoulder and cursed silently at Michelle’s flinch.  “Michelle, I made a terrible mistake before.  A lot of mistakes, and telling you to only call me mother was one of them.  If you’d rather call me mama then that’s perfectly fine with me.”
Her spine straightened slightly.  “I can?”
“Of course you can, sweetie,” she said, brushing a finger down the child’s soft cheek.
She beamed brightly.  “Being sick really did make you different, didn’t it, Mama?”
“You could say it saved my life, little one,” she laughed, and tweaked her daughter’s nose.
The room let out a relieved sigh.
“What the devil is going on here!” Barnaby bellowed and the room went still once again. “What is my daughter doing on the floor behaving like a scullery maid?”
“Learning,” Emily said through clenched teeth.
“Of all the insane,” he grumbled.  “Michelle, go upstairs this instant.  Phoebe, see that she gets cleaned up properly.”
The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and took Michelle by the hand.
“But Papa—”
“Upstairs.  Now.”  He turned to Emily at the table.  “And you, Madame, will join me in my study this instant.”  He spun on his heels and left the kitchen.
“Millicent, if I had you here right now…” she grumbled to herself as she rose and followed in his stormy wake. 
She knew he hated her, Millicent, but it was damned annoying to be blamed for a past that wasn’t her fault.  If he’d only give her a chance, maybe they could live together in some sort of peace.  Although, she admitted, her avoiding him wasn’t helping matters. 
But then at dinner, when she tried to start up a conversation, he sternly suggested that they eat in silence.  There was no doubt he would prefer to eat alone, or with a mistress.  She wouldn’t blame the man for having one, she thought, then slapped that idea away, not liking how it made her feel.
“Maybe I really am crazy,” she whispered as she entered his study.
She took a stand before Barnaby’s massive desk and waited.  She had to be careful with this man.  He had the power to do with her whatever he liked, in this time she was his property.  It rankled terribly, but it was a fact.  Her only comfort was in knowing he would not beat her, or else he would’ve done so to Millicent.  That would’ve been in her diary for certain, but he could send her away if he chose, and she hated the thought of being separated from Michelle.
He lifted his gaze from the desktop, his cool gray eyes a sea of turbulence.  His strong jaw clenched a time or two as his gaze raked over her face.  He was such a striking man. 
“Millicent, I’ve overlooked much in the past,” he growled, then cleared his throat.  “But I cannot—will not let you abuse my daughter.”
“Our daughter,” she said firmly.
He slammed his hand on the desk as he shot to his feet, making her jump.  “You will confine your sick games to the adults and leave Michelle alone.  Or else I shall ship you off to Blandon and be done with you.  Do you understand me?”
“Quite clearly.”
With a disgusted sigh he sank back into his chair, ending the interview.  Emily spun on her heels and marched to her room, holding back her tears.  Even if she’d tried to explain what he’d seen in the kitchen, he wouldn’t believe her.  Perhaps it would be best if he did send her to Blandon, wherever that was.  If she was to endure his disgust at every turn and not be allowed to spend time with Michelle, she may as well be in solitary.
****
“I’m sorry I lost my temper, pet,” Barnaby said to his daughter as she lay silently in her bed.  He’d meant to merely kiss her goodnight, but knew that his behavior early that day, his fear of what his demented wife was doing to his precious girl, had frightened her.
“Then you’re not angry with me anymore?”
“I wasn’t angry with you at all.”
She climbed from the covers and into his lap, her little arms linked around his neck.  “That’s all right, Papa.  Everyone has their bad days,” she said seriously, and kissed him on the cheek.
He chuckled and hugged her tight to his chest.  “Yes, they do, poppet.”
“Does that mean I can help in the kitchen again?  It was fun.”
“Fun?”
She nodded, her pale curls bouncing about her cheeks then she made a face.  “Well, not at first.  Not until Mama told me the apple story.”
“Mama?  I see.”  A doubt, small but very insistent niggled at him.  “Perhaps you should tell me exactly what happened today.”
Michelle told of her bad behavior, along with a profuse apology to not behave that way again, and how Millicent had not punished her.  Then she told him about the apples. 
Barnaby sat stunned.  Never had his wife ever shown such understanding, such compassion, such interest in their daughter before.  She’d been changed ever since she awoke from her illness, almost a different woman entirely, but he feared it was another of her tricks.  Some sick joke she was playing on him.  But he hadn’t been there with Michelle, he wasn’t a part of the incident.  Could it be that she truly had changed?
“Papa, are you angry with Mama?”  Her bottom lip stuck out so far, he had to chuckle.
“No, sweetheart.  As a matter of fact, I think I may owe her an apology as well.”
He kissed her cheek and tucked her back beneath the covers. 
****
Standing at the window, Emily searched the evening sky for an answer to her problem.  She could strike out on her own, but knew full well she wasn’t prepared for anything of that sort.  She had no money, knew no one, and wasn’t about to seek out any of the friends Millicent mentioned in her accursed diary.
Her nerves so frazzled, she jumped at the sound of her door opening.  Barnaby strode into the room, an odd look on his face.  He’d changed his mind, she feared, and was sending her away.  Perhaps it was best.  Oh, how she wished she’d gone to Michelle after Barnaby’s lecture instead of keeping her distance until things had calmed.  Now she may never get another chance.
He clasped his hands behind his back, his lips pulled into a grim line.  “I have just left Michelle,” he said, his voice somewhat strained as he cast his gaze not on her but just over her shoulder.
A small wave of panic wafted through her.  “Is she all right?  Is she ill?”  She gripped the back of the chair to keep from rushing across the room and shaking the words out of him. 
His gaze shot to hers, a puzzled frown on his face.  “No, she is quite well.”
“Oh, thank heaven.”  With a relieved sigh she moved around the chair and sat down, her legs a little wobbly.  How had she come to care for the child so deeply in so little time?
“It would seem I owe you an apology,” he said, pulling her from her thoughts. “Michelle explained the day’s events to me.”  He moved to stand beside her, while facing the window.  “I—commend you on your imaginative way of dealing with her.  She can be a bit unreasonable at times.”
“Like her mother?” she asked quietly.
She felt his gaze on her, but she refused to look at him.  He might see something, something she didn’t wish to admit to herself. 
“Like both her parents,” he said.
She nodded with a small hidden smile.  “Then am I allowed to spend time with her?”
He spun around and faced her fully. “If you are playing at some game, Millicent, I beg you not to include Michelle.”
She looked up into his serious, almost pleading face.  “No game, Barnaby.  I swear it on my life.”
His features relaxed somewhat.  “Then you may continue.”  He crossed to the door and paused.  “Unless you give me cause to change matters,” he said, looking back over his shoulder.
“I won’t.”
With a nod, he was gone, and her heart slowed its rapid pounding.  She’d almost lost him. 
“No, no.  Michelle.  I almost lost Michelle,” she murmured, but knew it was only a half truth. 
She cared about him, as silly as it was.  She couldn’t explain it, she only knew it was true.  Perhaps she’d known it when he’d lifted her that first day and carried her to bed. 
Rubbing her head, she moved to the dressing table to take down her hair and ready herself for bed, willing away the silly wishes that plagued her thoughts.  She and Barnaby would never be together, not really.  He would tolerate her as long as she didn’t make any trouble.  It wasn’t how she’d hoped to live her life, her new life, but at least she had Michelle.
Martha appeared with a small tray. 
“You’ve not eaten a bite today, my lady.”  
Emily grinned at Martha’s fussing.  They’d become friends, or as close as a viscountess could come to her maid.  They’d altered a few dresses over the last several days, chatted and laughed, it had been wonderful.  She had more than just Michelle in this new life.  She would have to remember that.
“You need to keep up your strength.  We don’t want you getting sick again,” Martha continued, unaware how much she appreciated her chatter.  It helped take her mind off of other things, other people—and her lonely heart.
“You’re quite right, Martha.  I’ll be a good girl and eat all my vegetables and finish my milk,” she teased.
“Oh dear,” Martha gasped with a bright blush, realizing she’d been mothering her.
“Thank you, Martha,” Emily said sincerely and patted the maid’s hand.  “Thank you for caring.”
“Well,” she said with a nod, her eyes a bit glassy.  “Let’s get you out of that dress first, shall we?”
As Martha worked on her buttons, she chatted about nothing in particular, the weather, the pies and how Mr. Donner had been more than pleased with them.
“I’m glad to hear it.  I’m sorry I neglected to finish peeling the apples.”
“Oh, Mrs. Hatch was happy for the help, my lady.  Of course, she said you had no business being in the kitchen.  Wasn’t proper, she said.”
“I have to keep busy, Martha.  If I sit and stare out the window all day, I’ll go nuts.”
“Beg pardon, my lady?” 
“Um, I mean, I’ll go quite mad.”
Martha tucked her into a comfy chair by the fire and placed her dinner tray before her.  “Is there anything else you need, ma’am?”
“No, thank you.”
The maid headed for the door with a soft goodnight.
“Oh, wait.  Phoebe didn’t actually burn Michelle’s dress, did she?”
Martha turned as she stepped into the doorway.  “Oh, I’d nearly forgotten.  She plans to mend it tomorrow, but wasn’t sure what you wanted her to do with it when she’s done.”
“Oh good.  Tell her thank you for me, and that she can give it back to Michelle whenever she finishes.  There’s no hurry.  It won’t hurt Michelle to think it’s gone for a while.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said with a broad smile, and slipped out of the room and closed the door.
Emily settled back in her chair, and ate her meal with a grin.  And she did finish her vegetables, but with a very nice glass of wine.
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter Four

“Have the phaeton brought around, Wilkins,” Barnaby said, striding toward the stairs. 
Although there was no need to remind the butler that he and Michelle would be leaving for church within the hour, it was a regular event each Sunday, he didn’t wish to be late.  He had a position, a reputation to uphold, regardless of his wife’s nefarious activities.
Wilkins cleared his throat as Barnaby placed his foot on the first step. 
“Is there a problem?” he asked, the butler.
“Her ladyship will be joining you, my lord.”
“Her ladyship?”
“Yes, my lord.  Shall I have the carriage brought around?”
“The carriage,” he parroted, feeling the fool. 
Somehow she’d managed to confound him to the point of sounding like a blithering idiot.  First the dresses, then the apple incident, and now church.
“The carriage, my lord?”
“Um, yes, of course.  We will take the carriage.”
The butler nodded, hiding any sign of his own bafflement with the changes in his wife. 
It was no secret that Millicent did not attend church, not the village church.  She made her weekly visits to the chapel on the estate—alone, but never did she venture into the village.  She despised anyone not of her class.  But he suspected her reluctance to attend had more to do with the fact that the woman he’d married never rose from her bed until noon at the earliest. 
There in lay the conundrum.  Was she playing at one of her sick games, or had she truly changed so much?
He shook the questions from his mind.  It did him no good to ponder such things, but he would never cease his vigilant watch over her actions.
****
Emily had Martha pay extra special attention to her hair and gown.  She wanted to look perfect.  She knew this was a first for her and Millicent.  Everything had to be perfect. 
Michelle bounded into her rooms, her curls bouncing.  “Papa’s waiting downstairs for us, Mama.”
She turned with her heart full, loving the sound of “Mama” on Michelle’s lips.  She’d never realized how wonderful it would be to have a daughter. 
A slight pang of grief reverberated inside her with the knowledge that she would never have any other children.  Barnaby would never make love to her.
She managed a smile, in spite of her depressing thoughts.  “Well then, we shouldn’t keep him waiting,” she said and rose.  She collected her reticule and followed her skipping daughter down the stairs.
As with every meeting, every time she caught sight of Barnaby, her breath hitched in her throat.  Why couldn’t he have been ugly, or rude, or—or something other than wonderful?
Withholding a growl at her errant thoughts, she retrieved her wrap and then her hat from Martha.  Donned to go out, she took Michelle’s hand, who in turn, took hold of her father’s, her bright shining face looking up at both of them. 
Emily retained her grin amid the stormy gaze from her husband.  He either didn’t like sharing Michelle, or still believed her up to some trick.  She couldn’t blame the man, but she was getting really sick of it.  What did she have to do to gain the man’s trust?  Or was she hoping for the impossible?
Settled in the carriage with Michelle beside her and Barnaby across, she concentrated on the view, having not seen anything other than the immediate grounds around the estate.  Michelle leaned over and whispered into her ear as they neared the village, giving her as much information as a little girl could. 
Emily ignored the viscount’s scowl.  He didn’t like her new relationship with Michelle, and she understood his misgivings, but couldn’t he see how much she’d changed? 
The carriage clattered to a halt, and Barnaby assisted her down. 
“What was Michelle whispering about?”  He’d not wanted to ask, feeling it was nothing to worry overmuch about, but couldn’t restrain himself. 
Millicent cocked her head at him, an odd grin on her tempting lips.  “Girl talk,” she said, then proceeded toward the church.
With a shake of his head at another of her odd phrasings, he turned and lifted Michelle down from the carriage. 
Michelle took his hand and pulled him onward where she then took her mother’s.  Her impish face looking up at them both once again warmed his heart, and yet placed a pall over him at the same time. 
If Millicent were to return to the woman she was before, the woman who barely acknowledged she even had a daughter, it would break his little girl’s heart.
“We’re a real family now, aren’t we Papa?”
He lifted his gaze to his wife’s as she lifted hers.  Her lips turned up, and for a moment he felt a connection, an agreement that Michelle’s welfare was of the utmost importance.  That regardless of their circumstances, she would not suffer for it.
“Yes, a real family, poppet,” he said, as a smile, albeit brief, touched his mouth. 
Millicent’s gaze widened then warmed.  Dangerous thoughts settled in the forefront of his mind, but were thankfully dispelled by the approach of the vicar.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, your lordship,” the old man said, and shook his hand.
“Good morning.”
“It’s a great pleasure to see you up and about, your ladyship,” the old man said.  “We were all gravely concerned over your illness.”
“Thank you, you’re very kind.”
Feeling every eye upon them, Barnaby climbed the stairs and entered the church with his wife and daughter beside him.  The gossips would have a feast this day, but so far, Millicent was as gracious as she was beautiful.  Perhaps he would survive the day after all.
The service began, putting an end to all the whispering—for the moment, but he knew it would begin again at the end of the sermon.
Emily hadn’t missed the many heads bent together as they made their way to their box.  She knew all of it couldn’t be good, but she had caught a word or two about the dresses she’d helped Martha alter.  Perhaps there was hope for some of the people to learn to trust her, but she held out little hope for her husband. 
That odd moment outside, his almost pleading gaze regarding Michelle, and how it warmed once he seemed to understand, was only a blink in time, and the most she would ever receive from him.  But it had been wonderful and just as depressing because it would likely never happen again.
The vicar’s words echoed in the small church, and gave her a wisp of hope.  Faith, he’d said.  One must have faith.  After all, her being there was a miracle in itself, why couldn’t she be granted another just as amazing?
The service at an end, they rose and exited the church.  Barnaby shook hands with the vicar and a few choice others, brave enough to approach him, then hurried them to the coach.  She could only guess that he’d heard a good deal of the whispering as well, and hoped to avoid any direct confrontations, encounters the old Millicent reveled in.  Emily was saddened by it all. 
You made life hell for him, Millicent.  I hope you’re happy wherever you are, and I hope it isn’t all that pleasant.
As she lifted her foot to step into the carriage a horse and rider appeared bringing a smile so broad to her husband’s face, it nearly knocked her to the ground.  She caught herself against the carriage and watched as he strode with a light foot across the road to greet the newcomer.
The gentleman slid off his horse and gripped Barnaby’s hand in a firm, friendly handshake.  Both men slapped at each other’s shoulders, their longtime companionship as clear as the ringing of the church bells.
Michelle stuck her head out of the carriage window with a squeal of joy.  Emily caught her before she could jump from the carriage and dash across the road.
“A lady doesn’t run across roads, sweetheart,” she said, more to stall than to teach.  She needed information and quick.  She gripped the child’s hand firmly and slowly made their way to the edge of the road.
“Who is that?” she whispered.
Michelle ceased her bouncing and looked up at her.  “Oh, I forgot, Mama.  I’m sorry.  I’m just so happy to see Uncle Conrad.”
“He’s your father’s brother?”
“No, they’re just friends.  They went to school together, but I always call him uncle.”
“I see.  Well then, we should go greet him, don’t you think?”
She started to cross the road, when Michelle tugged her to a halt.  “But you don’t like him,” she said, a deep frown on her sweet face.
“Ah, but that was before,” she said with a wink, wiping the frown from her little girl’s face.
With the most pertinent piece of information, the man’s identity, Emily was able to recall a few choice facts from Millicent’s diary.  Dislike wasn’t exactly the correct sentiment. 
Millicent wanted the man in her bed.  They seemed to battle verbally at every turn, which excited Millicent and caused her desire for the man to grow.  Although there was no mention of him ever having slept with her, Emily couldn’t be too sure, and had to tread carefully.
Barnaby fell silent as she and Michelle appeared beside them.
“There’s my best girl,” Baron Stanton said, as he lifted Michelle up into his arms and tweaked her nose.  Michelle giggled and Emily smiled. 
If first impressions were worth anything, this man was much like her husband.  She had little doubt that he ever touched Millicent, and the sharp barbs he tossed the woman’s way were indeed intended to hurt, not excite.   Emily’s precursor had an overblown view of herself, that was certain.
“Are you staying this time, Uncle Conrad?” Michelle asked.
“That depends,” he replied, his gaze cutting to Emily. 
Uh-oh, something really nasty must have happened the last time he visited, she thought.  And she didn’t have a clue how to handle it.
Barnaby looked at her, a determined gleam in his eye.  “Of course you’re staying.  I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said, although his gaze never left hers.
She gave a faint nod and tore her attention from his to look at the baron.  “Nor would I.”  A genuine smile stole over her lips as she glanced at Michelle’s bright shining face.  “And I believe a certain someone would be sorely disappointed if you did not stay.”
Michelle threw her arms around the man’s neck.  “You will stay, won’t you?  Both Mama and Papa and I want you to stay, please?”
Baron Stanton cast a confused glance at Emily then to Barnaby, whose face was awash with its own share of confusion.
“Of course I’ll stay,” he said, turning his head back to the bundle in his arms and rubbed his nose with hers.  “I cannot disappoint my best girl.”
“Hooray!” Michelle shouted and hugged him tightly.
Barnaby gently pulled her from the baron’s arms but did not put her down.  “We’ll meet you at home,” he said, and started across the road, leaving Emily to follow.
She could feel the baron’s intense stare, it nearly bore a hole through her back.  Prayers, although silent, passed her lips that he would not be something other than she believed.  She didn’t think she could successfully thwart an old lover and still keep her secret intact.
****
Once they arrived home, Barnaby sent Michelle off with a maid to get her ready for nuncheon.  She would dine with the adults in honor of Conrad’s visit.  Surprisingly, his wife made no comment upon his unheard-of announcement and left them to tidy herself for the mid-day meal as well.
“Explain,” Conrad said, the moment the door closed to his study and they were alone.
“I have no explanation other than to say she’s not been the same since she awoke from her illness.”
“Her self-induced illness, you mean.”
He nodded and crossed to the fireplace and stared into the cold hearth.  “Nothing has been the same.  Her attitude, her clothes, even her speech is different.”
“I had noticed it was not as cold.”
He cast a glance over his shoulder at his friend.  Conrad had never liked Millicent, had warned him he’d chosen poorly when he’d told him he intended to marry her, but he’d been too blinded by her beauty.
Turning, he reached up and gripped the mantle, not liking what he was about to ask, but he had to do something to gain some semblance of peace to his war weary mind.
“I need you to ferret out what she’s up to,” he said.
Conrad’s eyes widened, then a frown fell over his mouth and he crossed his arms firmly in front of him.  “No, not even for a friend, my best friend, will I go near that harpy.”
“I only wish for you to speak with her, see if you can get her to tell you something—by accident.”
“Talk to her.”  He dropped his arms and sat upon the arm of the settee.  “If you recall, she prefers to ignore me, and has taken great pains to keep a vast amount of space between us for nearly a year.”
“She spoke to you today and not with malice.”
He sighed and turned his attention to the window.  “True.  Which makes her all the more dangerous.”
“If you won’t do it for me, do it for Michelle.”
Conrad’s head snapped around.  “What has she done to Michelle?”
Barnaby grinned at his friend’s vehemence.  He was as protective of his daughter as though she was his own. 
“Nothing yet.  She and Michelle have become quite close.  It concerns me, but so far only good seems to have come from it.”
Conrad’s eyes narrowed.  “And you allowed her this attention?”
He nodded, and told him all that had happened since his wife awoke.
“I see what you mean.  She has either changed, which sounds impossible to believe, or she is up to some new scheme.”  With a sigh, Conrad took his hand and shook it.  “I will see what I can discover.  For Michelle’s sake and for your peace of mind.”
Barnaby grinned with a sigh of relief.  “Thank you, my friend.  I shall owe you a debt.”
“A very hefty debt,” Conrad said with a laugh.
The gentlemen appeared in the dining room with grins on their faces.  That allowed Emily a brief moment of relief.  She knew she had to have been one of the topics they discussed, her difference from the previous Millicent was not easily ignored.
The gentlemen talked and doted over Michelle while Emily picked at her food, doing her best to remain the loyal wife, the good mother, the exceptional hostess, and decidedly invisible. 
She moved her food around her plate for the hundredth time.  God, she detested liver.  She hoped dinner would be more in line with her tastes, or else she’d have to make yet another visit to the kitchens in the middle of the night for something to eat.
Mrs. Hatch was a wonderful cook, and she hadn’t the heart to tell her that she couldn’t abide some of the things she made.  She assumed they were favorites of her husband’s, but too many more trips and she’d be caught for sure.
Her stomach rumbled and Michelle, seated beside her, giggled.  Emily managed to gently scold her with a look and a grin before the men noticed.  Although knowing she’d made a mistake, the smile was not wiped from the child’s face.  If only she could make such progress with Barnaby.
The meal came to a close and Michelle was sent to her room for a nap.  Emily wished to follow, but knew her place was here by her husband’s side. 
As they settled in the drawing room, Conrad turned a steady, cold gaze on her.  “How is Axley?” He took the glass of port offered by her husband.
Who on earth is Axley?
   
     She mentally ran through the names from Millicent’s diary, but this one wasn’t’ among them.  Could he be Francis?  She never did get the lover’s last name.
With a calm she didn’t feel, she lifted her sewing basket from the floor and retrieved an outrageous reticule she’d been altering for herself.
“I’ve not heard from anyone for some time,” she replied, which wasn’t a lie, she’d not opened a single letter that came to her.  She’d burned them all without opening them, recognizing the few supposed friends of Millicent’s.
His eyes narrowed as did Barnaby’s.  Perhaps she should’ve been more truthful, perhaps she should tell them both the entire truth.  She pricked her finger and flinched, and tried to focus on her needle work.
“Really?  I was certain I saw a stack of letters for you the other day in Wilkins’ hands,” Barnaby said, his tone chilly.  “And there were many sent while you were ill.  Perhaps your maid simply misplaced them in your rooms.”
Very well, they weren’t going to leave it alone, so she’d give them something to chew on.
She lifted her head, and looked Barnaby in the eye.  “No, she didn’t misplace them, I burned them without opening them.” 
The men exchanged perplexed glances, and she knew it would continue this way all afternoon, so she made a hasty retreat.  She wasn’t up for an interrogation. 
“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I will leave you to discuss more important things.  I have some gardening to do.”
She set aside her basket and rose to leave the room.  It was that, or blurt out all of her story and be sent to the nuthouse, and with what she knew of those sorts of places in this time, was a very bad idea.  Very very bad.
Barnaby watched her exit the room as if the hounds were after her.  If she were innocent of some treachery, would she not be calmer, steadier in her pace?
“What the bloody hell is going on with that woman?” Conrad sputtered.  “She would never so much as contemplate dirtying her hands with such a task as gardening.”
A weary sigh slipped from Barnaby’s lips.  “Much more of this and I shall lose what little wits I have left.”
Conrad placed a firm hand on his shoulder.  “We’ll find the answers, my friend.  I promise you.”
Barnaby knew that they would, but feared what those answers might be, because more than ever he wished his wife was a changed woman. 
“We should give her time to settle in whatever task she’s contemplating then seek her out—stealthily.  Perhaps she’ll show her hand in some way,” Conrad suggested.
He moved across the room and poured himself a small dram, anything to ease the tension in his shoulders and neck. 
Sneaking around his on home to spy on his wife, what a disgusting endeavor.

But his friend was correct, they needed to catch her in the act, whatever that may be.  He tossed back his drink then set aside the empty glass. 
“Let’s be about this business,” he grumbled, and left the parlor with Conrad on his heels in search of the confounding woman.
Their first stop was her rooms, where he questioned her maid.
“She came and collected a bonnet then said something about seeing Mr. Chandler, my lord,” Martha said.
With a nod they left to follow the trail.
“What do you suppose she would want with Chandler?” Conrad asked.
“A horse, no doubt.”  Chandler managed his stables, and was a good man, but until recently he’d not been agreeable where his wife was concerned.  They’d argued many times over her treatment of her horse and her demands on his stable hands. 
“Axley’s not returned, so she couldn’t be meeting with him,” his friend said.  “Perhaps a simple ride is all she seeks.  Something to get away from the two of us.”
“Millicent detests riding.  She hasn’t gone near a horse for more than two years since she was thrown.”
“A yes, I’d forgotten.”
They trod across the lawn and drive to the stables, only to find she’d already left, and not on horseback.
“What did she want?” Barnaby asked Chandler.
“She came to see to Daniel, mi-lord.  The lad sliced his hand open last eve and she was makin’ sure he was keeping the wound clean.”  He hung the rope he’d been coiling on a hook.  “She fussed over him like a regular mother hen,” he said, looking at Barnaby with almost as much confusion as he felt.
Rubbing his aching brow, Barnaby asked, “Do you know where she went?”
“Aye, mi-lord.  To find Mister Motts.”
With that he and Conrad were on her trail once again, neither saying a word about what they’d learned.  It was beyond anything they expected.
Millicent did not care about servants, about their health or well-being.  She only cared about herself.
The pain in Barnaby’s head grew.  None of these things were while in his presence.  None of these things affected him directly, so how could they be a part of one of her schemes to hurt him?
Finally locating the head gardener, they learned she’d appropriated a pair of gardening gloves, small hand shears, and a basket.  Apparently, Viscountess Westmore was going to cut flowers.  Roses, to be exact, her least favorite flower.
She’d demanded once some years ago, that all the rose bushes be dug up and burned.  Barnaby had managed to intercept that order before it took place and instead, had the ‘offending’ flower moved to another part of the garden where she rarely, if ever, ventured.
She’d not been the least bit pleased about that, but he stood firm.  His mother had tended the bushes with great care, they were her favorite flower, and he would not see his wife destroy one of his most cherished memories of his youth.
The memory of her hatred of the plant, spurred him on.  Although armed with small shears, she could do irreparable damage to the bushes.
“You don’t really think—” Conrad huffed as they jogged to the secluded flower garden.
“Without a doubt.”
But as they turned the corner hedge, the sight before them had them skidding to an awkward halt.
She lay upon the grass looking up at the sky, a basket filled with freshly cut roses and other flowers sat upon the ground beside her as did her bonnet.  Humming some unrecognizable tune, her fingers twirled a small blossom beneath her nose. 
The angle of the lawn and the side from which they’d entered allowed them to go unnoticed as they watched her with their mouths agape.
Barnaby stood stock still for several minutes enraptured by her, by the haunting melody he’d never heard before and by how deeply he wanted to lie down beside her.
Conrad tugged on his arm, pulling him from the entrance to stand behind the hedgerow.
“Tell me I did not just see what I saw,” Conrad whispered harshly.
“I am at a complete loss as well.”  He peered around the corner, still amazed, then looked back to his friend.  “There has to be some explanation.”  He shook his head and began the journey back to the house.  “There has to be.”
“Is she not—was she not allergic to flowers or some such?”
“Yes, or so she said, which leads me to believe my wife has never told a truth in her entire life.”
Conrad snarled a word that best described his lady wife, but at the moment Barnaby was having a hard time agreeing with it for once.  Seeing her lying in the sunshine, a contented smile on her face as she gazed at the billowing clouds in the sky, as if she had not a care in the world, as if life itself was ever so sweet, reminded him of a dream long forgotten. 
To have a woman he could love with his whole heart be his wife.
“Or she truly has changed,” Conrad said, interrupting his musings as they entered the parlor.
“I cannot believe it.”  He poured another larger drink and downed most of it in one gulp.
His friend took the snifter from beneath his hand and poured one for himself.  “Nor I, but the evidence is building.”
He looked him square in the eye.  “Evidence of change or evidence of some new perfidy in the making?”
With a sigh, he took a long sip and they both stared into space in thought.
What gain would she have in such a vast and complicated scheme?  Her previous games were blatantly obvious, she preferred it that way.  She wanted him to know what she was planning so she could watch him squirm.  But this did not even involve him.  Just as the incident with the apples in the kitchen.  Perhaps she had changed.
“No,” he slammed his glass to the tray.  He refused to believe it.  She was planning something, plotting some horrendous scheme to bring him to his knees.  “We must discover her plans.”
“And if we cannot?”
“Then I will send her to Blandon where she cannot do anyone any further harm.”
Conrad looked at him, thoughts prevalent in his eyes.  “You mean Michelle.”
“Yes, Michelle.”  And himself.
****
Her stomach growling loud enough to wake the household, Emily snuck down to the kitchen in her nightgown and robe, with a single candle to light the way.  The pigeon pie Mrs. Hatch served for dinner seemed fine to the men, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it.  The bird’s feet were sticking out of the thing!
A sick wave rolled through her stomach.  “Don’t think about it.”  It probably tasted fine, just like chicken, she thought with a snort.  But those darn feet—“Stop it,” she hissed, and pushed onward. 
She pushed open the kitchen door and peeked inside, finding no one around. 
“Perfect.”  She set the candle on the table nearest the large pantry and went inside to find her prize.  Bread and cheese, the very thing to settle her nerves and her hunger.
Turning to place her plunder on the table, she bumped into a solid chest and let out a small squeak of surprise.  She barely caught the food before it fell to the floor.
“Oh!  You scared me half to death,” she snarled, glaring up at the baron.  “What are you doing in here?”  She shoved past him and set her food on the table, then went in search of a knife.  He’d all but grilled her over dinner, getting nothing of any real importance from her, and all while Barnaby looked on.  It thoroughly ticked her off, and she was still angry with both of them, whether they deserved to be wary of her or not.
“I heard a noise and came to investigate.”
She glanced over her shoulder and looked at the man cast in the warm glow of candlelight.  He didn’t sound very convincing.  No surprise there. 
Her temper flaring, she propped her hands on her hips.  “You mean you followed me down here, hoping to get some dirt on me.”  She spun around and continued her search for a knife.  “Well sorry to disappoint you, Baron, but you’ve got zip.”
“Pardon?”
She winced, her blasted temper made her forget who she was supposed to be.  “I meant that you’ll not find any evidence that I’m in the midst of some liaison.”
“Hmm.”
“Is that all you have to say?  Hmm?  No apology for assuming the worst?” 
She found the knife, then grabbed a plate and went back to the table.  She noticed him backing up several paces. 
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes.”  With a shake of her head, she proceeded to ignore him and went to work on the bread and cheese. 
Once sliced, she went in search of a cup and poured some milk and made herself comfortable at the table.  Just as she lifted her cheese sandwich to her lips, she caught the look on Conrad’s face.  The man was beyond confused.
With a sigh, she set the sandwich back on her plate and waved to a nearby chair.  “Care to join me?”
He blinked a time or two, but made not a single move.
“Look, if you’re going to watch me eat, you may as well sit down.”
He glanced at the knife and she grinned with shake of her head. 
“Here,” she said, and slid it to the other side of the table where he stood.
  His head cocked to the side, he studied her for a moment, then eased into the chair.
“All comfy now?” she teased coarsely.
His brow furrowed, and she knew she’d broken ranks again, but dang it she was hungry! 
Deciding to ignore him, she plowed through her meal and relished every bite.  Somehow she would have to find a way to tell Mrs. Hatch about some of the things she’d rather not eat.
“What was the last thing you said to me?” he asked.
“I asked if you were comfortable.”
He shook his head.  “No, not this evening, the last time we met.”
“More interrogation?  How nice,” she said, acid dripping from her voice.  She’d had more than enough questions from the two of them to last her a life time. 
“Answer the question.”
“Or what?  You’ll go running to Barnaby and tell him I won’t play?”  His confounded look had her rolling her eyes.  “Fine.  The last time we met.  Let’s see.  Hmm.”  She pretended to think on it, then shook her head.  “Nope, can’t recall a word.  Why don’t you refresh my memory?” 
She knew by the look on his face, that something major had happened between them, which could only have happened right before Millicent took the laudanum since there was no mention of anything extraordinary in the diary.  Then again, Millicent was wacked, so who knew what was important to her from her point of view?
He sat back in his chair an odd expression on his face.  “You truly don’t remember, do you?”
A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.  Michelle.  “Should I?” she feigned, then sipped her milk.
One side of his mouth quirked up as did one brow.  “Yes, you should.  You threatened to have me castrated, among other things.”
A soundless oh formed on her lips as she lowered her cup to the table.  “Um, that wasn’t a very nice thing to say.  I apologize.  Well, I mean, that is if you didn’t deserve it, of course.”
She crunched her lids closed, knowing she wasn’t handling this conversation well at all.
A low but definite chuckle rumbled across the table.  She opened one eye to see the baron smiling.
“Michelle told me you’d lost your memory, but I didn’t believe her.  I thought you’d told her a tale, for some reason only you could fathom.  But I am beginning to believe it is the truth.”
A long hiss of air slipped from her lungs and she sat back.  “I didn’t think she could keep it a secret for long, but I tried.  So, I take it you’ve told Barnaby about this?”
“No, as I said, I thought it was just a fib you told the child.”
“You wanted to find out more before telling him,” she said with a nod. 
“I didn’t wish to worry him unnecessarily.”
“You’re a good friend.”
“I do my best.”
“So, now you know, what next?  He won’t believe it.  He’ll think I’m planning something,” she said with a disgusted sniff.  She fidgeted with the leavings on her plate.  “He’ll probably declare me insane and send me to an asylum, or to Blandon, wherever that is.”  She looked up at the baron, knowing her heart was in her eyes.  “I don’t want to leave.  I want to stay with Michelle and...I want to stay.”
“It’s hard to believe you, after all that you’ve done.”
“Yeah, problem is, I don’t know too much about that.  I know I was awful, that I cheated, I mean that I had affairs, and that I was a cold, selfish woman, but that isn’t me now.”
“How do you know of the affairs if you cannot remember?”
“A diary.  I found it in the wardrobe.  It wasn’t exactly filled with pretty pictures, so I destroyed it.  But, um, you were mentioned in it, but she didn’t say—well, we didn’t—”  She pointed at him then at herself.  “You know—we didn’t, did we?”
He grinned at her and shook his head. 
“Ah, good. That would be a little uncomfortable.”
“I was mentioned though?”
“Yes.  Um, she—that is, I seemed to think you were interested, that it was all some sort of flirtatious game.”
“You’ve said ‘she’ twice.  You truly see yourself as a different person, don’t you?”
She smiled and rose to put away the food and her dishes.  “The only thing that hasn’t changed is this body.  The rest is a complete makeover—um—completely new.” 
Conrad slid the knife into the block beside her where she stood.
She looked up at his handsome face, the cool moonlight on one side while the other appeared warm from the candle sitting on the table.  “Did you really think I would attack you with that, Baron Stanton?”
He grinned.  “One never ignores a threat from Millicent Westmore.  And call me Conrad.”
“Did I call you that before?”
He chuckled softly.  “That and other names I dare not repeat.”
She giggled and moved to collect the candle.  “Are you going to tell Barnaby?”
“He has a right to know.”
She sighed.  “Yes, I suppose he does.”  Moving to the door, she asked, “Are asylums really as bad as they say they are?”
“He won’t send you to an asylum.”
She paused and looked at him over her shoulder.  “He has a thousand reasons to do it.  You and I both know that, and he’d be justified in doing so.”
His jaw clenched with the apparent weight of his duty.  She moved through the door, into the dark hallway, and toward the stairs.  Conrad followed.  “Blandon perhaps.”
“I thought as much, but have heard of husbands finding ways to have their wayward wives committed.  But you do what you have to do, Conrad.  You’re his friend, he trusts you, and you shouldn’t betray that trust.  I’m not—I’m just,” she turned away with a sigh.  “I’m just Emily,” she said softly, more to herself than to him.  Not his wife or his friend.
“Did you say Millie?”
“What?”  She stopped half way up the stairs.
“You called yourself Millie.”
Realizing he’d heard her mutter, but incorrectly, she played along.  “Oh, yes.  A nickname, one I had as a child I suppose.  Just popped into my head.”
He followed her up the stairs.  “It suits you, somehow, this person you are now.  May I call you Millie?”
She laughed softly and started up the stairs again.  “Whatever tricks your trigger.”
He chuckled as they paused before her door. 
“Answer me this,” he said.  “Why did you not send for something, rather than stealing down to the kitchens in the middle of the night?”
“I wouldn’t dream of waking the staff just because I wanted a midnight snack.  That’s just silly.”
He grinned.  “The old Millicent wouldn’t have had a second thought, but you wouldn’t have been hungry if you’d eaten this afternoon or earlier this evening.”
She scrunched up her nose at the reminder of the meals.  “I detest liver, and the pigeon pie, well the feet you see—I just couldn’t bear to eat it,” she said with a shiver.
His shoulders shook with silent laughter.  “You are definitely not the woman you were.  You loved liver in all its variations, and as for the pigeon pie, I recall it to be one of your favorites.  Barnaby detests liver and is not overly found of pigeon, but in the past, you have—let us say—been sorely displeased when those particular dishes weren’t served on Sunday.  Heaven only knows why you took such great pleasure in ruining meals.”
“What a bitch.”  She covered her mouth, forgetting to be a lady, but she was so tired.  The entire thing was wearing pretty thin. 
Conrad only laughed harder.  “That you—she—was, Millie.  That she was.”
She smiled wide.  “Well, the first order of business in the morning is to have a very long talk with Mrs. Hatch.  The old me can’t be allowed to ruin any more meals or I’ll starve.”
“I know Barnaby will be greatly relieved with a revised menu, assuming you choose more dishes to his taste.”
“Oh, well, that may be a problem.”
“I will devise a list for you, Millie.”
“You will?  Oh, Conrad, thank you.”  She wanted to hug the man, but knew that was definitely out, but it was so wonderful having someone else know most of the truth and want to help.
“And I’ll not tell him all,” he said with a smile.  “But I will tell him not to fear any machinations on your part.”
“Thank you.  And I will tell him, soon, but I have to gain his trust first.”
“That won’t be easy.”
“Tell me about it,” she grumbled.
With a hearty chuckle, he said goodnight and moved down the hall to his room, and she slipped inside hers, grateful for having made a new friend.
She wondered how Barnaby would take Conrad’s news.
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter Five

“You cannot be serious,” Barnaby sputtered at the news from his longtime friend.
“She has changed, I tell you.”
 “Preposterous.” He took a hefty swig of his morning tea and glared down at his plate.  “She’s up to something.”
A weary sigh floated across the dining room from Conrad.  “You asked for my opinion, and I gave it.  I’ll not debate the point.  However I will tell you this, Millie is no threat to Michelle.  You’ve no need for any drastic measures.  I believe it would do more harm than good to remove her from Langton.”
“Millie?”
“A nickname.  It suits the new Lady Westmore quite well.”
Barnaby narrowed his gaze.  “She’s gotten to you, she has pulled you into her web like all the others.”
He gave a half-hearted laugh.  “You mean like you?”
His jaw clenched as he held back a bitter retort.  It was the truth, after all, she’d lured him in, put him under her spell, and he’d paid dearly for it all these years.  Rebuffing the fact would accomplish nothing.  But he did have his daughter because of that witch, and for that he owed her some semblance of gratitude.
He plunked his cup down into its saucer with a clatter.  Perhaps requesting that his friend reacquaint himself with his wife had been an unwise decision.  And yet, he could find no basis for his disbelief in Conrad’s opinion other than Millicent’s past behavior.  He too had to admit that she was not like the woman he’d married since she awoke from her illness.
He sighed and rubbed his aching brow.  “If only there were some proof, some way to know for certain she’s changed.”
“Only time will grant you that.” 
“I tell you she’s up to something.  Her absence this morning is telling,” he said, not convincing in the least.
Conrad rose and made for the door.  “She ate earlier, but that is neither here nor there, you have my opinion.  Now if you will excuse me, I made a promise to your daughter that I would escort her to the stables to see the newest addition to Langton.”
Barnaby lifted his head.  “Addition?”
With a chuckle, he strolled through the door and called back, “Kittens, dear fellow.  Kittens!”
A wisp of a smile touched Barnaby’s lips as he recalled the image of Michelle and Millicent sitting upon the lawn in the afternoon sun playing with a kitten, then vigorously shook the image away.  Then the image of her lying in the grass with flowers around her, bounded back into his mind’s eye.
No, he would not believe her so changed—he could not dare to hope.
****
Emily smiled at the way Conrad allowed Michelle to pile each of the kittens into his lap, naming them as she went.  His rapt attention to her every word and the fact he sat amid the pile of straw, heedless of his fine clothes, warmed her heart.  She wondered if Barnaby would be so accommodating.
“And which of these regal creatures is to be your pet?” he asked Michelle.
Her brow pinched and she looked to Emily.  “Mama said it would be wrong to take them from the stable.”
“I’m afraid so, sweetheart.  These kittens, as wonderful as they are, have a very important job to do here,” she said.
“They’ll keep the rats and mice away,” Michelle said with a somber nod.
Conrad rose with his arms full of clawing, meowing babies.  “Surely one would not be missed.”
Emily wrung her hands and gave him a beseeching look.  She’d said no to Michelle’s wish for a kitten because she was too chicken to ask Barnaby if she could have one.  He was suspicious of her enough as it was, and she was afraid he’d see her request as another scheme to get into his and Michelle’s good graces for some despicable reason.
“Just one, Mama?”
The pleading face of her new daughter tugged at her heartstrings.  “Well, I don’t know—I suppose it would be all right—I mean, if your father—”
Conrad grinned with a faint nod.  “Ah, yes, we do need to ask your father, pet.  Why don’t you choose which of these magnificent beasts are to be the lucky one, then you and I shall go find him and present the idea?  I’m sure he’ll be congenial.”
Michelle bounced on her toes and danced around Conrad, her face alight with joy. 
Emily mouthed a thank you to Conrad.  He gave a slight bow and a wink then crouched down to return the kittens to the straw where Michelle could choose from the lot.
Several minutes later after much deliberation over each of the kittens’ color and personality, Michelle chose the runt of the litter.
“He needs me,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“A wise choice, dearling.  A very wise choice,” Conrad said.
Together, they made their way back to the house with the new resident safely nestled in Michelle’s arms, but as they entered the main hall, Emily turned to the parlor.  She thought it would be best if they presented the kitten idea to Barnaby without her.  She so wanted Michelle to have it, and didn’t want to sway her husband’s opinion in the wrong direction.  Although Barnaby didn’t appear to be a vindictive man, Millicent had been so horrible to him for so very long, she suspected a knee-jerk reaction, and she wouldn’t blame him in the least for it.
She settled into a chair and picked up her sewing basket, a small smile on her face.  Knowing Barnaby as she did, knowing how much his daughter meant to him, she had no doubt he would allow her the kitten. 
Mrs. Hatch appeared in the doorway.  “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but I was told you wished to speak to me.”
Emily lowered the reticule she didn’t think she would ever finish to her lap and swallowed her nervousness.  She’d forgotten she’d asked Wilkins to tell the cook she wanted to speak with her this morning.
“Um, yes, Mrs. Hatch, please come in.”
The cook stood before her, her hands tightly wound together in front of her.  “If I’ve done anything wrong, your ladyship—I’m sorry—I—”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Hatch,” she gasped.  “Nothing like that.  Please don’t think any such thing.  I merely wished to discuss a slight change to the regular menu.”
The older woman swallowed hard.  “The menu, your ladyship?”
“Yes, well, it would seem, that is to say, my tastes have drastically changed since my illness.”
The cook relaxed, but only a little.  “What is it you wish to change, your ladyship? I’ll be more than happy to make whatever you like.”
Ah, yes, how to put it, she thought.  “Well, I find that I can no longer abide the taste of liver.  Although I’m sure you prepare it beautifully,” she hurried to say, “but I’m afraid I cannot eat it.  Nor can I eat the pigeon pie.  I find that I have very simple tastes these days.”
“You don’t want—um, of course, your ladyship.  I’ll not fix them again.  Perhaps—perhaps your ladyship would like to review the menu for the week?”
She relaxed back in her chair and looked up at the confused but somewhat relieved cook.  Emily was no doubt not the only one who didn’t care for liver or perhaps even pigeon pie. 
“Thank you, I think that might be a good idea until we discover what I can and cannot eat.  However might I suggest that you plan dishes that you know his lordship would prefer?  Then from there we can make slight alterations for my own tastes without interfering with his.”  She reached into her pocket and retrieved Conrad’s list.  “I think these would be a good place to start,” she said.
The cook smiled, although a slow and nervous one, and took the list.  “I’d be happy to, your ladyship.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hatch.  I knew I could count on you.”
Emily smiled as the cook returned to her duties.  The meal crisis had turned out to be nothing at all.  What a relief!  Now if she could just manage the rest of her new life as easily as that, she’d be all set.
“That is a pipe dream and a half,” she grumbled.  A long hiss slipped from her lips and stirred a loose tendril of hair by cheek.  She tucked it away as she flopped back against her chair. 
Her husband would forever be a trial.  She couldn’t blame him, but it put a major damper on her mood.  To live in the same house with a man she was attracted to on so many confusing levels, and know she would never gain his trust hurt in ways she hadn’t dreamed.
“I have Michelle,” she muttered.  A daughter, a life, none of which she had before in her own time.  Barnaby—love—just wasn’t in the cards for her.
“I am thankful for all that I have.”  With a determined nod, she resumed her sewing.
But her task was interrupted once again with the sound of little feet running through the main hall.
Michelle appeared in the parlor, somewhat winded from her excitement and her mad dash.  “Mama, Papa said I could keep Lancelot!”
“That’s wonderful, I’m happy to hear it.  Lancelot, is it?”  She reached out and scratched behind the tiny kitten’s ear.  “I am happy to meet you, Lancelot.”
Conrad and Barnaby strode into the room.  Conrad smiled and gave her a wink, while Barnaby cast her a suspicious glance.  She had to let it go, her silly wish that he would trust her—want her as a wife—and live the life she’d been given.  It was so much more than she ever dreamed she would have once she’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer. 
She had to stop hoping things would change between them. And yet, she had hoped and prayed her cancer would go away and she would live.  Perhaps a little hope wasn’t such a bad thing after all.  She doubted she could get her heart to stop wishing anyway.  It seemed to have made up its mind.
Jerking her attention from her husband’s guarded gaze, she focused on Michelle and her happy babbling.
“Beg pardon, my lord,” Wilkins said, standing at the door.  “Her ladyship has visitors.  Lady Whitley and Lady Habersham.”
Barnaby swallowed the growl rising in his throat.  Two harridans, friends of his wife, a more vicious pair he would be hard-pressed to find.  Present company accepted.  And yet the look on his wife’s face was one of pure panic. 
Interesting.  Did she fear they would give the game away?
“Send them in,” he said, not allowing her the option to refuse their visit.  This meeting he had to witness.  Perhaps he would learn the very thing he needed to prove—or disprove her treachery.
Her attention turned to Michelle, who’d grown stonily silent, her eyes wide. 
“Perhaps you should pick-up Lancelot, sweetheart.  I wouldn’t want him to get stepped on,” Millicent said, her voice quivering.
Very interesting, indeed.
“Yes, Mama.” 
His daughter gathered her new pet in her arms and stood, not sure what she was supposed to do.  In the past, Millicent had ordered her from the room whenever one of her friend’s called if she happened to be anywhere near, but today was different.
Millicent placed her sewing aside then held out her arm, beckoning Michelle to her.  A tentative smile touched his daughter’s face and she moved to stand by her mother’s side.
They exchanged a whisper or two, and Michelle shook her head.  Millicent uttered a soft, “Oh boy,” an odd phrase to be sure, then proceeded to nibble at her bottom lip.
Barnaby’s gaze lingered over her lips, red from the nervous gesture, a gesture he could not recall his wife every performing.  Now luscious, damp, and enticing, he wanted to taste them more than ever, as if he’d never had the pleasure. 
It was a faint memory, hardly worth recalling, but he had kissed her some years ago, when he’d held to the misguided belief that she cared for him.  Would her kiss be different now?  Would she welcome him anew or merely tolerate him as she’d done so many years ago?
“Darling!  How wonderful to see you up and about,” Lady Habersham exclaimed, as she hurried through the doors with Lady Whitley on her heels, both their faces filled with expectations, none good, he speculated.  But at least they’d managed to yank him from his perilous thoughts.
Millicent rose and greeted them as expected, but her smile was false, that much would be apparent to anyone. 
“How wonderful of you to call.  Please, sit down.”  She looked to Wilkins in the doorway.  “Some tea, please, Wilkins.”
Barnaby cast Conrad a glance, both having noted the uneasy quiver in her voice.
The ladies sat after casting him and Conrad derisive glances.  Men were a necessity in their eyes, he’d heard Millicent expound on the theory many times.
Their skirts adjusted to their liking, they studied Michelle with quirked brows as she eased closer to his wife.
Millicent wrapped her arm around her.  “I don’t believe you’ve ever met our daughter, Michelle.  Sweetheart, this is Lady Whitley and Lady Habersham.”
Michelle curtsied as best she could with a kitten clawing its way up her to her shoulder.  “This is Lancelot,” she said, but not with her regular fervor. 
Barnaby couldn’t blame her, they were a frightening pair. 
“How—nice,” Lady Whitley smiled, but there was pure revulsion in her gaze.  “I personally don’t allow any beasts in my house, they’re so unsanitary.”
“Oh, my yes,” Lady Habersham said, her head bobbing in complete agreement.  Of course if Lady Whitley said the sun rose in the west, her cohorts would agree.  She was the ringleader after all.  He’d not known when he’d met Millicent that she was grooming herself for the unofficial post.
Which brings to mind the question, why were the ladies visiting?  They shared confidences on a limited level since his wife’s last distasteful affair.  The barbs from her own kind were painful, he supposed, and she’d distanced herself from them.  However, it had not softened her in the least, only made her more disagreeable. 
Until her illness.
He watched his wife’s arm tighten around Michelle in a protective manner.  The motion, so completely out of character, had distracted him and he’d not heard what she’d said in response to the lady’s cutting comment.
“I completely agree, my dear,” Conrad said, and leaned over Millicent’s hand and kissed the back.  “But to allow you some time alone with your—friends, I shall take my best girl for a walk in the garden.  Then her new pet won’t offend you, ladies.”
Barnaby blinked, stunned by his friend’s support of his wife.  Was nothing to be the same as it was?  This was Millicent!  The wife who despised him, who went to great lengths to humiliate and dishonor him! 
 “I’m sure Lord Westmore would love to stay and chat.  After all, his lady is only recently recovered.  He would not wish her to overtax herself,” Conrad said.
Has he lost his bloody mind?  Stay with these biddies?
“Oh, no, I—I know you’re very busy, Barnaby.  I wouldn’t dream of taking you away from y-your work,” Millicent sputtered.
Conrad moved toward the door, Michelle’s hand in his, and motioned with his head to Barnaby, urging him to sit by his wife.
“The world has gone mad,” he muttered to himself. 
Yet, Millicent’s sputtered response had him curious.  Did she want him gone so they could discuss schemes and plans, or did she want him there as some sort of shield between her and these crones?  Unable to make a guess, he found himself taking a seat next to the woman who’d rather see him dead than sitting beside her.
“Truly, you needn’t stay.  It’s very kind of you though,” she said.
He found sincerity instead of malice shining in her eyes, and was taken aback by it. 
Could Conrad be correct?  Had his wife in fact changed?  He should stay, yes, and watch her, study her.  It had nothing to do with the delicate scent she wore that wove through his senses, the softness of her gaze as she looked at him, the nervous touch of her tongue to her lips, warming his blood—none of that had to do with his decision to remain by her side. 
Of course not.  No, he needed to understand her motives, what she wanted, so he chose a direct path, one sure to uncover the real Millicent.
He took her trembling hand and kissed the back.  “I’ll not ignore my duty as your husband.”
Her soft intake of breath and the sudden flush to her skin perplexed him.  This was not the reaction he expected.  Millicent abhorred any sort of overture on his part.  The fact that she took his arm as escort to dine was odd enough, but this...this sort of display should have brought the she-devil down upon his head, regardless of her friends’ presence.
He searched her gaze for any sign of the woman he thought she was.  She returned his regard, and he sensed a similar confusion in her. 
Emily wanted to cry.  He’d managed to stir up her emotions, raise her hopes, only to have the realization come down hard. 
Duty
   
   .  She was his duty, and knowing what she did of the man, he would never behave without honor, no matter how horribly she’d treated him in the past.  He didn’t want her, he only wanted to do his part, play his role as Viscount Westmore, her husband.
And yet, she could only guess that these repugnant women knew her situation all too well in regards to Barnaby.  They were just as nasty as she imagined Millicent’s friends to be from her diary.  Which raised the question, why kiss her hand?  It wasn’t necessary or expected.  He could have easily escaped with Conrad and Michelle, it wouldn’t have broken any social rules, and was likely the more appropriate thing to do.
What on earth had Conrad said to him?
His gaze warmed as he lowered her hand to the settee, although his brow furrowed.  Whatever had been said, things had changed between them.
Her gaze slid to the settee where his hand remained atop hers, bringing a flutter to her stomach.  Would this be the only time he touched her without formality, or would there—could there be more?
Wilkins appeared with tea, startling Lady Whitley and Lady Habersham.  Their rapt attention, mouths agape, had not gone unnoticed, only ignored. 
With regret, Millicent needed her hand to pour their tea.  Barnaby refused a cup with a faint shake of his head, nor did she take one, so she sat back to listen to the ladies chatter with half an ear.  She had no interest in them in any way.  The man beside her was all she cared about at the moment. 
She returned her hand to the settee, thinking of his touch, imagining the fabric still warmed by it, when he surprised her and laid his hand atop hers once again.  A gasp trapped in her throat, and she slowly looked his way.
 The chatting and twittering about London, the season, who was doing what with whom, and so forth, was lost to her ears.  The touch of his skin on hers, his crisp clean scent wafting in the air around him, enslaved her senses.
She studied his profile as he nodded at the various things the women said, and wondered how Millicent could have ever not been in love with this man.  He was handsome—oh so very handsome—strong but kind, and ever gracious.  Not loving him would be the more difficult task.
He turned his head and looked at her, a lone brow lifted.
Uh-oh, she’d missed something they’d said.  She opened her mouth, formed various words but no sound came out. 
Barnaby almost grinned at the lost look on her face.  He refused to think it had to do with his touch, an impulse he’d been unable to stifle.  No, his wife had not been attending the conversation, or dissertation, rather.  Lady Whitley had not shut her mouth for the duration.  Even Lady Habersham hadn’t been able to comment on the upcoming ball at Whitley’s country estate next week. 
Unusual timing, as most were in London this time of year, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Lady Whitley had planned it just to needle his wife in some way.  Although they were alike in manner and deeds, they were fierce rivals.  At least they were before the illness.
Still, Millicent looked lovely with her face a flame of color, her mouth moving silently, beckoning to him, and her gentle trembling beneath his hand.  She needed to be rescued, and oddly enough, he wanted to do just that.  Still, it did pose further opportunity for study—yes, study of his new wife and her behavior in public.
“I think a ball is just the thing,” he said.
Her eyes widened and she looked to the ladies.  “Um, thank you Lady Whitley, we would love to attend.”  She looked back at him, a soft smile on her lips.  “If that is what my husband wishes.” She shifted her hand beneath his just so, entwining her fingers with his.
He had to refrain from snatching his hand away as if bitten—and from leaning toward her and kissing the breath out of her.  What sort of spell was she weaving over him?  And had he walked straight into her trap?  Had she been feigning ignorance the entire time, her goal to attend the ball after all?
“Good, then that’s all settled.  Oh, and I suppose the Baron is invited too,” Lady Whitley added with a vague wave of her hand.
 “Thank you, I’m sure he’ll be happy to attend,” she said, still gazing at him.
He tilted his head, studying his wife.  “Yes, I’m sure,” he said, when he in fact, he wasn’t sure of anything at all.
The ladies rose, forcing him to stand as well, ending his experiment for the moment.  How would she behave at the ball?  Would she refuse to dance with him, as was her way, or would she allow him at least one turn about the floor?  He instantly regretted the thought as Millicent took her place beside him.  To waltz with her, to feel her in his arms, to smell her sweet perfume—to know that she was his, but in name only stung.
“It’s been a lovely visit,” Lady Habersham said. 
“Yes, we must be off, I’ve so much to do,” Lady Whitley said.
“Yes, I can imagine.  Um, thank you for coming,” Millicent said.
“Yes, it’s been very—educational,” he said, looking at this wife.
She blinked owlishly up at him, completely unaware of his double-entendre, or was she that good at deception?  Had she been playing him all the while?
With a few more parting words the ladies were gone and he was left alone with her.  She shifted from foot to foot and eyed the door.  Nervous to be in his presence or afraid he’d found her out?
“I think I’ll go find Michelle and Conrad,” she said, and started for the door.
Conrad, was it?  He stepped into her path and she sucked in a breath.  “I’ll go with you.”
“Oh, well, you don’t have to do that.  I know I put you out enough with the ladies’ visit.”
“It’s no trouble,” he said, and offered his arm.
She eased her hand over his arm, he noted her trembling had grown.  “Do you not wish to retrieve your bonnet?”
“No, I’ll—um—be fine.  I rather like the feel of the sun on my face, we get it so rarely,” she said with a forced laugh.
The image of her lying in the grass rose up once again.  “Yes, I suppose you are correct.”
They strolled through the doors leading to the patio and down the steps toward the garden, not a word said between them.  But he was very much aware of her, it bled into his pores, stirring his blood.  He was no longer the untried youth he’d been when they’d met, but a man who knew what he wanted, and he wanted her with all that he was.
Lusting after my own wife.  I’d thought I’d surely seen the last of those days.
“Oh look,” she breathed.
They paused at a particular spot, one he’d had designed to intentionally make the observer stop and admire the view.
“It’s like a painting, framed just so by the trees,” she said, a note of wonder in her voice.
“You have been along this path many times,” he said, stating the obvious.
“Oh, yes.  I—I have, of course.  It just looks especially nice today, don’t you think?”
“Indeed.”
They continued along the familiar path as he watched her face.  It was as if she’d never seen the gardens before.  At every turn, she examined things anew, made comments on their beauty, even labeled several species of plant life.
“I don’t recall you ever having any interest in gardens before.”  He did not mention her alleged allergic reaction to flowers.
“Oh, well, I guess after being so ill for so long, I’ve gained a new perspective.  I appreciate things more.”
He wondered how far this new perspective went, for he was beginning to like the woman on his arm, and not just lust after her.  Still, she had obviously lied about her sensitivity to the outdoors.  Bodily reactions to things such as that did not change.
“Papa, Mama!”  Michelle bounded across the small lawn when they rounded the last hedge along the walk, her arms wide.  She trapped them both around the legs and held tight, her bright smile shining up at them.
“Hello, sweetie,” Millicent bent and kissed the top of Michelle’s head.  “Are you having fun?”
Barnaby could only gape at the woman beside him.  He slowly turned his attention to Conrad seated on a quilt not far away with the kitten in his lap and a knowing grin on his face.
He’d known that she and Michelle had grown close, but he’d had no idea that his wife could or would display such open affection to anyone, as she’d never done the like before.
Michelle bounced away on her toes, full of laughter and sunshine.  Millicent made to follow, but he touched her hand where it still rested on his arm, stopping her departure. 
She looked at him, a worried frown now marring her lovely face, where a smile had been not a moment ago.  He studied her closely, her features familiar and yet so different.  This woman he could love, this woman he wanted to love, and it terrified him.
“I will take my leave of you now,” he said, his voice somewhat gruff, as if filled with gravel.  “You will inform Conrad of the Whitley’s ball?”
A sense of sadness stole over her face as she eased her hand from his grasp.  “Of course.  If you wish.” 
He could feel her retreating, pulling back from him, emotionally as well as physically.  They’d enjoyed one another’s company along their walk, he realized, and now he’d ruined it with the distance he placed between them.  But he had to, or else he’d be pulled in as before, and this time he would not survive.
With a nod to Conrad, and a pat on his daughter’s head who’d danced her way back to his side, he disappeared back up the path, away from Millicent, from what she made him feel, yet only managed to go a few yards. 
Hidden by the shrubs, he stood for several minutes listening to his daughter’s happy chatter.  Then Millicent’s laughter rang through the soft summer air, and he couldn’t run fast enough.
 
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter Six

A few days passed with little interference from Barnaby where Michelle was concerned.  She dined with him and Conrad on most occasions, but something had changed since Lady Whitley and Lady Habersham’s visit.  She’d felt things ease between them as they’d walked the gardens, almost a truce, maybe a new beginning, then in a blink, things were different.
Conrad cast away all thoughts of the previous Millicent, and she adored him for it.  She couldn’t ask for a better friend, but somehow his acceptance of her, of Millie, didn’t sit well with Barnaby.  At least that was her best guess.  He was so closed mouthed and distant, she didn’t know what to think. 
Conrad said to give him time, but it was difficult, fighting the need, the desire to talk to him, to be with him.  She couldn’t believe she was falling for a man who did his best to pretend she didn’t exist.
Martha finished fixing her hair and grinned at her reflection.  “You’re as lovely as a picture.”
The deep blue ball gown was perfection, although it had needed a tuck here and there with her loss of weight, not to mention an alteration at the neck.  Why did Millicent like such high-collared dresses?
Martha surveyed her skirts as she circled her.  Her gaze lit on the adjusted neckline.  “Are you sure you don’t want a fichu?  You’ve never wore a dress so—revealing before.”
“No, I think this is perfect.” 
Her finger trailed the odd scar across her breast partially hidden by the soft lace edge of the dress.  She wondered how she—Millicent got it, but there was no one to ask, not even Barnaby.  She doubted he’d ever seen it, if her comprehension of the diary was correct.  She and Barnaby did not, and she doubted they every truly had, share a bed.  Not the way she wanted to.
She spun away from the mirror and slipped on her gloves.
“Perhaps you should take it with you, incase you get chilled,” Martha suggested, holding out the small scarf, a worried frown on her face.
There was something telling in her insistence she take the thing, then it hit Emily.  Millicent was as vain as she was cruel.  She used the high collars and fichus to hide her scar.
She glanced at the abundance of powders on her dressing table, mostly untouched by her since she’d arrived.  The woman before hid behind her cold white powders and layers of expensive fabrics, always determined to present perfection, her idea of perfection, anyway.
Taking the fichu from her maid, she nodded.  “Thank you, you’re quite right in that it might grow chilly.”  But with all the fabric hanging on her and the effort it took to carry it all, she didn’t think a winter freeze would cool her off.  But it eased the worry from Martha’s face.
She moved to the door, then paused.  “Martha?”
“Yes, my lady?”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling.
Martha beamed.  “You’re very welcome, my lady.  I know you’ll have a grand time.”
Emily took a deep breath, hoping the same, and left to join the men.
****
She was an absolute vision.  Barnaby had never seen her so lovely in his life.  As she descended the stair, her gaze met his and held him.  Warmth emulated from her, something he’d never dreamed his wife possessed.
Conrad nudged him in the back, forcing him forward to take her hand as she stepped from the final stair.  “You look…”
“Lovely,” his friend interjected, then lifted her other hand and bestowed a kiss to the back.  “Lovelier than you’ve ever been, Millie.”
She smiled at Conrad.  “Thank you, and the both of you look very handsome.” 
She turned that sweet smile toward him and he forced himself to not pull her into his arms.  Instead, he shifted her hand to his arm, placed his over it and escorted her to the carriage.
An hour later, amid the milling ton, he felt fatigued by the weight of their whispers.  The pitying looks and envious glares.  It had always been this way, an odd mix of attention, and all because of her.  And yet, she’d not left his side for a single moment.
Conrad leaned near.  “Dance with her, you fool,” he whispered harshly.
He shot him a look, knowing full well his friend knew that Millicent never danced with him, but he did have a point.  They’d discussed the evening in great detail.  Conrad was convinced she’d changed, while he was convinced she was up to something more sinister.  In any event, they both agreed that how she reacted this evening would provide him with invaluable information.
With a deep breath, he turned to her, interrupting an inane dissertation from one of her old friends—male friends, and said, “Excuse us, Hickston.”  And pulled her to the floor.
She went willingly, he noted, not uttering a single word against him, nor a flustered apology on his behalf for his rude behavior toward Hickston.  Then he turned her into his arms at the start of the waltz, slipping his hand around her waist, and fell into eyes of deep, liquid blue filled with—dare he think it—adoration?
He blinked, and started their tour around the floor.  No, it had to be a trick of some kind, and yet, when he looked down at her face and her sweet smile, he no longer knew what to think.
“Conrad was right.  You are quite lovely tonight.”  He shouldn’t have said it, bit the inside of his cheek the moment the words had escaped, knowing she’d throw it back in his face, but once again, the woman surprised him.
Her gaze warmed considerably.  “Thank you, Barnaby,” she said, her voice but a whisper.
A whisper that raced along his spine and into areas best not thought of at present, but it didn’t stop him from pulling her closer, aching to feel her pressed against him.  Yet he stopped, just barely, before completely breaching all decorum.  If it was a trick, one of greater magnitude than he though her capable, the blow would be deadly in the end, but that didn’t stop him from holding her, looking at her, relishing the feel of her in his arms.  Her hand tightened at his shoulder, a gentle squeeze as she shifted to follow his steps, almost a caress, and he couldn’t contain his grin.
 Emily smiled in return and swirled to the music, loving the feel of Barnaby’s arm around her, his strong, graceful stride about the room.  He was all a woman could ever want and more, and she’d not missed the envious glances from the ladies of the ton, nor had she missed the pitying ones, or the distasteful ones.  But she was not Millicent, and she would ignore the past of her predecessor and revel in the moment of dancing with her handsome husband.
The music ended and she and Barnaby stopped still, staring at one another as if they were strangers who’d only just met and yet they were bound to one another in every way. 
“Thank you for the dance,” she said.
“My pleasure,” he said, his voice low and warm, his hand still on her waist.
Then that horrible man appeared at her elbow, Hickston, or something, and Barnaby released her. 
“My dear, I had no idea you were well enough to dance.  Please, my I have the next?”
Her gaze jumped to him then back to Barnaby, now strolling from the floor, his back ramrod straight.  Had she done something, said something, danced incorrectly?
“Millicent, dear?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not feeling very well.  The waltz took a great deal out of me, I’m afraid.”  She pressed a hand to her forehead, feigning a weakness she didn’t feel, and allowed the awful man to escort her off the floor.  Thankfully, Conrad rushed to aid her.
He snatched her hand from Lord Hickston’s and summarily shouldered him out of the way.  The look on the odious man’s face almost brought a giggle to her lips, but she stalled it long before it made it up her throat.  She was supposed to hate Conrad and her husband, whom she just danced with, so she supposed those that knew her, were shocked.
“Are you all right?” Conrad asked.
“No, yes—I don’t know.  I just want to get out of here.”
“Come, we’ll take in the night air for a few minutes.”
She started to nod and let him lead her out the door, then stopped short.  “No, they’ll think you’re my next victim.”
He chuckled.  “And you care what they think?”
“No.  I care what they think of Barnaby.”
His humor faded to a soft, understanding smile.  “I am beginning to truly like the new you.”
She grinned.  “Thanks.  But—” she looked around the ballroom, feeling every eye on her.  “I still want out of here, big time.  Park me by the refreshment table then find Barnaby.  Convince him to join us outside.”
He quickly kissed the back of her gloved hand with a chuckle and did as she asked.  It didn’t hit her till she picked up a glass of champagne that she’d not curbed her speech. 
With a sigh she took a long sip, hoping no one else had heard, nor would they seek her out.  After Hickston, and a few of the other men and women who’d plowed through the crowd to speak to her, she was worn out. 
They chatted on and on, ignoring Barnaby and Conrad completely, as if they were invisible.   And some of the things they said, the suggestive things about the past, made her skin crawl.  She could’ve kissed Barnaby for dragging her onto the floor.  Wanted to, in fact, and almost did, hoping it would put a stop to all the whispering.  But she thought better of it, not sure how he’d respond.  The last thing she needed was to be publically rejected by her husband, although she suspected Millicent had done just that to him before.
“Are you enjoying yourself, dear?” Lady Whitley appeared.
“Oh yes, I’m having a wonderful time.”
“Yes.  I can see that,” she said, eyeing Conrad marching her way, a frown on his face.
Great.  Wonderful.  Not only was he alone, and looking ready to hit something, she’d guessed correctly in that all these people would think she and Conrad were having an affair.  That would be the lowest blow yet for Barnaby.  His best friend and his wife.  How awful, but how to fix it?
Conrad bowed to Lady Whitley.  “Good evening, Lady Whitley.”
“Baron,” she said with a nod.
“Is Barnaby feeling better?” Emily asked, hoping he would catch on, it was all she could think of.
His brows rose a fraction then turned down.  “No, my lady.  I’m afraid he is not himself at the moment.  He asks if you would care to return home.”
Ah, so Barnaby had decided to leave, with or without her.  It was that awful Hickston’s fault, him and the others.
“By all means.  I hope he’s not contracted what I had, the poor dear.”  She set her glass down and turned to Lady Whitley.  “I’m sorry to leave so soon, but you understand, I’m sure.  I must see to my husband’s comforts.”
“Um, yes.  Of course.”
Emily was beyond pleased to have thrown the dreadful woman with that one, knowing she’d chew on it awhile.  She curtsied and took Conrad’s arm, then quickly left the ballroom.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
“In the carriage.”
“So you were sent to fetch me, is that it?”
“I was sent to inform you we were leaving, yes.”
A footman appeared with her fichu and she draped it over her shoulders.  “He didn’t expect me to come, did he?”
Conrad placed her hand on his arm without a word.  He knew, no doubt, that the truth hurt, and filling the air with inane excuses would do no good.
She silently climbed into the carriage with no more than a glance at her husband sitting opposite her, afraid of what she would see.  Anger, disdain…the possibilities were endless, all save the one she wished for. 
His trust.
****
He watched her, couldn’t take his eyes off her in the dim light of the carriage.  She was beautiful, even when her unhappiness was more than apparent, but that wasn’t what he expected.  Barnaby had imagined several scenarios, but none of them were of her leaving with him without a single harsh word aimed in his direction.
Conrad glared at him from his place beside him.  Well, what the devil was he supposed to do when one of her old cronies had the audacity to interrupt their dance?  Stand there and be humiliated as she’d done before?  He’d vowed to never allow her that satisfaction ever again!
Millicent had actually laughed in his face once when he’d requested she join him on the dance floor, if only to present some sort of marriage to the ton so the gossips would quiet a bit, but she’d have nothing to do with him.  That was when he realized how much she relished his public humiliation.  That was shortly after Michelle’s birth, that was the day he vowed to never give her the satisfaction again.
She’d been livid when he’d moved them to the country for good.  She ranted and raved regularly about the boredom, about how she missed her friends, but he turned a deaf ear to her haranguing.
He looked at her now, the soft glow of moonlight bathing her skin in an ethereal glow.  A glimmer of something on her cheek caught the light and he realized it was a tear.  There was a sharp pinch, somewhere in the vicinity of his heart, but he chose to ignore it.  He had to.
They arrived at home, the ride long and silent.  He allowed Conrad to assist her down from the carriage, not as if he would’ve been able to do so, in any event.  His friend had snarled at him the entire way. 
A twisted grin set on his lips.  She’d like that, he thought, having his best friend as her champion.  What a turn his life had taken since she’d awakened from her illness!
They entered the house and he handed Wilkins his hat and gloves.
“Goodnight, Conrad.”  She hesitated before looking at him from the foot of the stairs.  “Goodnight Barnaby.  Thank you for—thank you for a pleasant evening.”  She turned and climbed the stairs in a rush of rustling skirts, and oddly he felt he’d hurt her in some way.
With a silent curse, he spun on his heels and marched to his study with Conrad but a stride behind.  It was that damnable tear that had him thinking like that.  He grabbed up the decanter and splashed the amber liquid into a glass.
The door slammed behind him, but he paid no attention.
“You bloody sod,” his friend growled.
“So you’ve already said.”  They’d argued over Millicent more fiercely than ever before at Whitley’s. 
“You still cannot believe what’s before your eyes.”
“I believe she’s up to something.”
“Have you any idea what she was doing when I went back for her?  Do you even care what her reaction was?”
He paused, his glass halfway to his lips.  He wanted to know and then he didn’t.  With a sigh he set the glass on the table, hating what a coward he’d become, a man afraid of his own feelings, his own responses to his wife.
“She was standing exactly where I left her, and when I arrived, she knew, damn you.  She knew you wanted to leave.”
He turned his head, a puzzled frown pulling on his lips.  “What do you mean, she knew?”
“She sensed it, somehow, by my face, I suppose.  Before I could say a word, trying to think of something to say that wasn’t telling in front of that harpy Lady Whitley, she asked if you were feeling better.”
“If I were—”
“Yes, damn you!  She made it sound as if you were coming down with something and told Lady Whitley that she needed to leave immediately to see to your bloody comforts!”
He looked away from Conrad’s killing glare, and swallowed a long gulp of brandy.  Why would she do all she could to save face—his face?
The glasses rattled as Conrad poured himself a drink and downed it in one swig.  He slapped the glass down and spied him over his shoulder. 
“She was protecting your reputation, you arse.  Just as I said before.  When you,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at him, “thought her false when she wouldn’t go outside with me.”  He turned back to the tray and poured another drink.  “You’re a bloody, sodding arse, you are.”
Barnaby sank to a chair, his legs weak from too much conflicting news.  “But Hickston—”
“Is a bigger arse than you, but she wants nothing to do with him, or any of the others.”
“I don’t understand,” he said, weary beyond words.
“No, you understand, you just refuse to believe.”
With that, he slammed down a now empty glass and stormed from the room, leaving Barnaby doubting not only his wife, but himself.

Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter Seven

Walking the grand hallway, Michelle tripped alongside Emily past several closed doors.   
“Why does he keep this house so closed up?” she mused more to herself than to Michelle.  Or perhaps it was Millicent’s doing.  She suspected he’d had his fair share of battles with her over the years.  Perhaps this was a small battle he’d chosen to leave alone.  Nothing like the battle the previous night.
She’d avoided him at breakfast, focusing all her energies on Michelle.  He’d hurt her terribly last night, but he didn’t know, he couldn’t understand that she wasn’t the same Millicent.  And although it pained her to admit it, she’d probably behave the same way if their roles were reversed.  Years of degradation and pain wouldn’t be easy to overcome, if at all.
“I’m scared to walk down this hall by myself,” Michelle said, pulling her from her musings.
“Yes,” she said, looking up at a rather unattractive painting with spooky eyes.  “I can understand why.”  She stopped and glanced at a large pair of doors.  “What if we were to open a few of these doors?  It would let in the light from outside and then it wouldn’t be so frightening.”
Together they threw open several doors to various parlors and salons and finally the ballroom.  “Oh, this is a lovely room.”
“Papa said it’s where Grandmama would have dances,” Michelle said as she spun around and around in the center.  “I’m not allowed to play in here,” she said and stopped.
“We aren’t playing, sweetie, we’re inspecting the room to make sure all is as it should be.”  She hid her grin at the blatant lie. 
Emily easily pictured women and men graced in their finest dancing beneath the gilded ceiling as she moved into the room. 
She paused and looked at the ceiling once again. 
“I know this room,” she whispered. 
She looked at the floor then back to the ceiling, and spun around in place.  This was the room she’d collapsed in.  The need to see this house, the gardens, the feeling of coming home, it all made sense now.  She was meant to be here. 
Perhaps then there was hope for her and Barnaby yet.  Perhaps she was meant to have everything she ever wanted, here and now.  She closed her eyes and made a silent wish.
Michelle tinkled on the piano keys, bringing Emily back to the moment with a snap.  Was the piano in tune?  Could she, should she dare try to play?  She missed it so much.
Easing over to Michelle’s side, she seated herself in front of the massive, exquisite piano.  Shaking, she lifted her hands to the keys and struck a chord that resonated perfectly throughout the ballroom.
“Do you play, Mama?”
“It’s been a while, but I think…”  Her fingers slowly moved over the keys performing from memory a piece by Mozart.  It took some time to get the feel of her new fingers, but she eventually managed to play with well-remembered ease.
“Oh, you do,” Michelle said in awe and twirled out onto the floor dancing her heart out.
Emily smiled at the child’s antics, and let the music fill her.  It filled her to the point of not knowing anything but the melody, the notes resonating in her soul.  She had almost everything she ever wanted now.  She could, would be content and thankful.
Barnaby stood transfixed as Millicent played perfectly one of his favorite concertos.  The only problem with what he was witnessing was the fact that Millicent could not play.  Nor could she paint or sew.  She was accomplished in nothing other than grooming herself and driving most men to madness with her haunting beauty.
This woman, however, could sew, play the pianoforte, rose at an early hour, and most importantly spent little time at her dressing table.  Yet she still emerged as beautiful as ever, but in a different way.  Had she merely pretended all these years to not know how to do so many things that most women of her station did?  Or was Conrad correct in his statement that she was a changed woman?
And last eve, had he misread the entire situation?  Had he seen real admiration in her eyes after all?
“Papa!”
He jerked at the sound of Michelle’s squeal and the abrupt end to the music.  She rushed to him and tugged on his hand, pulling him into the center of the room. 
“Play for us, Mama.  Please?  I wish to dance with Papa like a lady.”
His eyes met hers where she sat motionless at the piano, her expression wary. 
“Yes, by all means, play.”
Her brow furrowed, and he wondered for a moment if the woman before him was actually his wife, then shook off the odd thought.
With a nod, Millicent looked down at the keys and played a waltz.  Barnaby took his daughter’s tiny hands and urged her to place her feet atop his as he carefully waltzed her around the room.  His mind on the woman playing and not on his steps, he suddenly found himself conflicted, and the ridiculous nagging question of whether or not she was his wife refused to go away. 
The tune ended and he bowed over his daughter’s hand.  Her face glowed with joy.  “If you will excuse us, poppet.  I need to speak with your mother a moment.  Run along and play in the nursery.”
“Yes, Papa.”  She turned and ran to the woman at the piano and grabbed her around the waist.  “Thank you, Mama.  I’ve never had so much fun.”
Millicent looked down at Michelle.  “Neither have I, sweetie.” 
“Will you teach me?”
She caressed his daughter’s fair head and looked at him.  “That’s up to your father.  Now, do as he says,” she said, and gently prodded her toward the door.
“I truly wish to learn, Papa,” she said and slipped from the room.
Barnaby stood staring at the empty doorway for several seconds trying to decide how to approach the problem when Millicent spoke.
“You know, don’t you?” she said softly.
His stomach dropped as he turned to look at her, her hands clasped tightly together, but her chin high as she stood. 
“Know what, Madame?”
She rolled her beautiful blue eyes, eyes that seemed so much richer these past weeks, to the ceiling.  Why did she seem so different?  How was she able to entice him by merely crossing a room?  Something his wife hadn’t done in years.  He’d lost his desire for her shortly after they’d wed, once he saw her for what she really was. 
But now, she was—different.  The change of style in her gowns, pastels instead of the dark colors she favored that made her pale skin appear almost translucent.  Ghost like, he mused now in retrospect.  Her haunting vision of loveliness had lured him to her, only to trap him in a spider’s web.  No—soft colors with tiny flowers would not have been her choice no matter the season or occasion—or game.  Even the way she wore her hair was different.
And last night she’d been an absolute vision, one that tormented him in his sleep, and continued to torment him.
“Don’t play games with me, Barnaby.  I don’t like them anymore than you do,” she said.
“Very well, no games.  I shall be direct.  Why did you hide your talents from me all these years?  Why such a grand charade?”
Her slender brow quirked and she seemed to almost smile.  That didn’t set well with him.  Her smiles were intoxicating these days and only added to his confusion.
“I asked you a question, Madame,” he said, and stalked toward her. The faint stiffening of her body told him she was afraid, and yet she tilted her chin up and stared directly into his eyes.
“I didn’t.  Not exactly,” she said.
He merely returned her regard.
Her lips quirked up at the corner as she planted her hands on her hips.  “Oh all right.  I’m tired of trying to hide it anyway.  I should’ve told you before last night, then maybe—” she sighed.
“Hide what?” he snarled, fearing he’d been right all along, that she’d been planning one of her devious schemes, pulling his friend, his daughter into the heart of it after all. 
Conrad had been wrong.  She’d known she was driving him mad, slowly but surely.  It was all part of her latest endeavor to torment him.  She’d managed to get him in public last night, building a false sense of security before going in for the kill.
He mentally braced himself.
“I don’t remember much of my life before I became ill.  Very little, to be exact.”
He leaned back and folded his arms, studying her, hiding his absolute shock, she would use it against him, but this was a new tactic.  One he’d not considered.  Had she handed this yarn to his friend?  Was that how she’d won him over?
But she was not a woman to be trusted and this was not a conversation to be had in an open room where any of the staff could hear them.  No, he much preferred to receive the latest blow in private, stealing some of her glory.
“Follow me,” he said, and turned toward the door. 
He didn’t even pause to see if she followed. Her feet tread softly behind him.  He suspected she was afraid, she’d never gone quite so far before with one of her games.  He wondered if she had any inkling of how close she’d come to winning.  He’d never yearned to take a woman in his arms so much in his life.  The way she quirked up her lips, her hands splayed at her narrow waist, she was beautiful and he hurt for wanting her.
He’d tossed and turned for hours last night, recalling how she felt in his arms as they danced, the way her subtle scent, one he’d not recalled her ever wearing before, filled the carriage, making him giddy with it.  And that tear, that damnable tear.  He wanted to kiss it away, to hold her, to protect her…to love her.
But it had been a game, he reminded himself.  She’d been playing him the fool, just as before.
She followed him into the study where he closed the door behind her.
“You say you remember little.  How little?” He crossed to stand by his desk awaiting her answer, regardless of how ridiculous it would be.  She’d been found out.  They both knew it.
“Well…” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she moved closer. 
He struggled not to lower his gaze to her perfect bosom.  He rather liked the changes she’d made in her attire, but that was yet another of her distractions, he mused.
“Nothing, really, but I’m not insane,” she hurried to add.  “Honest.  I just don’t recall anything.”
“And yet you play the piano, sew, cook...”
“Oh—well, I suppose some things are second nature.”  She worried her lower lip, causing his pulse to increase.
He considered her for several seconds.  “Millicent, you never did any of those things prior to your illness, so you may as well admit you’re lying.  For what reason I cannot begin to fathom, but enough is quite enough.”
“I knew you wouldn’t believe me.” 
He lifted a lone brow.  “No doubt.”
“Look, I know it’s hard to swallow, after everything that happened before, but I’m telling the truth.” 
“Millicent, I don’t know what you think to gain from this,” he said, rubbing his brow, weary of it all.
“I don’t want anything, Barnaby, honest.  I would’ve told you sooner, but well, I thought it would be best not to tell anyone.  Well, Michelle knows, and Conrad.  She just about burst with our secret when he arrived.”
His moment of confusion and fatigue blurred into one of simmering anger.  “Conrad and Michelle know of this—condition of yours?”
She nodded with a small smile.  “Conrad doesn’t have too much to offer, I think he’s afraid I will remember and become my previous self, but Michelle has been a great help with the day to day things.  She tells me what she knows.” 
Her eyes widened and her mouth turned down in a scowl as she planted her hands on her hips.  The woman he’d known would never take such a stance.  She would calmly look at him, her blue eyes like ice, and cut him to the quick with a few words.  But this woman, this wife, was animated, vibrant, passionate, and angry.
“You are not going to punish her for keeping my secret,” she fumed.  “She’s just a little girl, she didn’t mean to do anything wrong.  She would never betray you consciously.  She loves you too much to ever do anything to hurt you.  And as for Conrad, he’s a grown man, you can take your grievances up with him, but he was only trying to help.”
For a moment he wanted to place his lips against hers.  An odd thought, one he hadn’t had since shortly after they’d married, but lately it seemed it was one of the many things he thought of when he spied her, or dined with her, or danced with her. 
Studying her closely, more closely than was wise, he realized that not even his highly skilled actress of a wife could pretend so well. She wasn’t lying.  She truly didn’t remember. 
“From your outburst on Michelle’s behalf and your misconception that I would punish her for keeping silent, proves to me you truly do not remember,” he said, no longer capable of ignoring the facts before him.  She was different, and now he had a reason.  One he’d never considered before, the idea more than ludicrous, but seeing the innocence and anger on his daughter’s behalf shining in her eyes told him it was true.
“Thank you,” she said softly.  Her eyes were nothing like the ice he’d come to expect, but more the shade of a tropical ocean, an ocean he could be lost in.  Without realizing it, he moved closer, their bodies almost touching, as he gazed into the warm blue depths.
“I hope you won’t be too hard on Conrad.  I can’t really blame him.  My old self, well, what I have learned about Mil—myself, about my past, I don’t care for.”
“You were not a complacent woman,” he confessed.
She dropped her gaze to his cravat. “I was horrible, you mean.  I was cruel to Michelle, to Martha—to you.”
He slid his finger beneath her chin and tilted her head so he could look into her eyes once more, searching yet again for any malice, but her words, laced with sadness and pain, were truthful. 
“You don’t like the woman you were before your illness.”
“No.  And quite frankly I can’t understand why you married me in the first place.”
He gave no response but continued to study her. 
“I hope someday you can forgive me for how I behaved, and believe me when I say I will never be that woman again.  Ever.”
Although still hesitant to believe her words, not a hint of deception showed on her beautiful face.  He had watched her with Michelle, listened to Conrad’s opinion, and the household could say nothing against her, they’d actually praised her on many occasions since she awoke from her illness.  Could he bring himself to trust her again?  Was she truly changed?
She gently gripped his wrist where he still held her chin.  “I am not the same woman. I would never do anything to hurt you or Michelle.  I swear it on my life, Barnaby.”
His wife, the woman before, would never have made such a bold statement.  No, she would threaten something, hold some distasteful incident over his head, but not this woman.
He slowly lowered his head, unable, unwilling to stop himself.  If she was the woman he married, she would not accept any advance from him, not even a simple kiss.  She had barely tolerated his presence in the same house since shortly after she conceived.  And even that event had been one of disgust to her.  A fact she voiced quite loudly when he attempted to resume their marital relations after Michelle was born. But this time, she did not pull away or spout her displeasure.
Yet he stopped a breath away from her lips, his gaze pinned to hers, and decided that she would have to make the final move. 
She leaned closer as he held his ground. He felt her uneven breath against his lips.  She swayed back a little, and for a moment he thought she would turn away, then her mouth pressed against his.  The subtle trembling of her lips, the way she slid her arms tentatively around his neck, spoke more of her feelings than any words ever could. 
She was afraid of her new life, for that is what it was, like a child learning to walk.  He owed her nothing for the pain she’d caused him over the years, but he could not turn his back on her.  He’d loved her once, or thought he had.  Perhaps he still did.  And yet he sensed this was something different, a new love, one just beginning to grow in his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to him as he deepened the kiss.  On a moan, her body folded into his, her delicate curves pressing against him.  Her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a growl of pure need from deep in his throat. He’d been without a woman for so very long.  Years of celibacy had taken its toll. Celibacy that she demanded, for she knew he would never take a mistress, and she would not have him in her bed.
His parents had thumbed their noses at convention and married for love, something he’d wanted for as long as he remembered.  He would not dishonor them with a slew of mistresses.  His honor was all he had left.
He abruptly ended the kiss and set her away, despising himself for giving into the temptation of her.  He could not risk loving her again.
“I have things to tend to,” he said, and moved to behind the desk and quickly sat.  “As do you, I suspect.”
She did not take the hint and leave.  He pretended to scan the ledger before him, when all he could see was where her dress brushed the edge of the desk from the corner of his eye.  He flinched when her hand settled on his arm.
He glanced up at her and found her brow crinkled and her eyes filled with uncertainty.  So different, he thought.  But would the old Millicent return as her memories were sure to do?  She studied his face quite thoroughly.  For now she was different, changed, and he would do his best to remember that, but he would also remember that she could change again. 
He placed his hand over hers where it lay against his sleeve and studied the softness of it.  “I believe it is past time for Michelle’s piano lessons.”
She bent low to see his face, a smile so bright her eyes shone with her joy.
“Thank you,” she said, then kissed him, tentatively, tenderly, then rose and left the room.
Barnaby couldn’t contain his wide grin, nor did he wish to.  Yet, it fell at the reminder that his friend had not told him all he knew.  Last night he could’ve danced with her again, strolled the gardens in the moonlight, they could have had a truly pleasant evening.
He went in search of the cur, more than willing to place his fist in his face.  His temper high, he found the baron lounging in his library, some dusty tome in his hands.
“You need a sound thrashing,” he snarled.
Conrad lifted his gaze and studied him.  “Either Millie has told you about her condition and that I knew, and more importantly, you believe her, or...you’re jealous,” he said, a wide smile lifting the corners of his mouth.
“Jealous?”  He was, damn it all!  He was jealous of how his friend made her smile and laugh, and that he could spend time with her, when he dare not get close.  That kiss was proof enough that he needed to keep his distance from his wife, but he wasn’t about to give the man the satisfaction, he was already her bloody champion.
“You knew this entire time about her illness, how it has affected her, and yet you said nothing!”
Conrad rose with a languid grace of a man who had no troubles.  Oh, to be so unburdened, Barnaby thought.
“I told you she was changed, that she was no threat to Michelle.”  He slid the book back into its resting place upon the shelf.
“What a bunch of codswallop,” he grumbled.
He chuckled and moved to his side.  With a slap on his back he said, “Jealousy does not become you, my friend.”
“I am not jealous.  I am enraged that you would hold such important information from me.  You know the sort of woman she is.”
“Was.”
“That is still yet to be determined.  But you said nothing of this—this memory loss.”
Conrad shrugged.  “You wouldn’t have believed me—or her.”
“That isn’t the point, damn you!”
“No, the point is, you are jealous, which means you’re in love with your wife, or rather this new wife you have, and you’d be a bloody fool to ruin it.”
“Don’t be absurd.”
He moved to the door with a laugh.  “It’s time I was leaving.  I have overstayed my welcome, and you need to be alone with Millie.”
“Would you kindly stop calling her that?” he growled.
Conrad paused in the doorway.  “I believe she is truly changed, my friend.  Don’t let past feelings alter the current day.  I can see you believe her, or at least you want to.  Give Millie a chance and forget about Millicent.”  With that he was gone.
Barnaby stood in the library, his heart pounding in his chest.  The word love, spoken so freely made his legs feel weak.  He’d toyed with the word himself, but hadn’t dared to say it aloud.  Did he love her?  Should he love this new woman his wife had become?
He strolled back to his study, his thoughts heavy.  Perhaps he should try, perhaps Conrad was right.
“Millie,” he whispered, liking the lighthearted sound of it.
But if she were to change again…God help him.
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter Eight

 
“It’s such a bright sunny day, let’s go for a swim,” Emily said, anything to lighten Michelle’s mood. 
Conrad’s leaving had been hard on her, she so adored the man, and it would lift her own spirits as well.  His leaving had been difficult for her too, but it was her husband’s newfound attention that had her needing an escape.  The smoldering looks had her about ready to explode, and a dunking in the pond would be just the ticket to take her mind off of her handsome husband.
Michelle’s mouth fell agape.  “You mean you’ll teach me?”
“Of course.  I would’ve thought you’d already know how.”
She shook her head.  “I don’t have a bathing costume.”
“Hmm, neither do I, come to think of it.  We’ll have to improvise.”
Together they gathered towels and a small picnic and made their way to the lake.  They were going to bathe in their undergarments, positively scandalous, Emily was sure.  But the water looked so inviting and she was tired and hot, and wanted the freedom of floating in the water without all of her nineteenth century garb.  Well, almost all.  She did need to keep on her underwear, but the cotton would barely be noticeable, she hoped.
They created their own little haven by the lake amid some trees for privacy.  A spot rarely visited, according to Martha.  After managing to get Michelle in up to her waist without fear, she started teaching her the basics.  How to float and perform some simple strokes.  She was such a fast learner, and she knew that by the end of the summer she would be slicing her way through the chilly water with no help whatsoever. 
“I’m hungry.  Can we eat now?” Michelle asked.
“You go ahead.  I’ll join you in a few minutes,” Emily said, and moved out further so she could swim a few laps, yet never taking her eye off of Michelle.  She wouldn’t want the child to suddenly get brave and get into the deeper water.
“Papa, look!  Isn’t Mama graceful?”
Michelle’s shout caught Emily’s ear.  For a moment she was terrified she’d gotten in too deep, then quickly realized it wasn’t Michelle who was in trouble.
Barnaby had ripped off his coat and boots and was frantically swimming toward her.  The look on his face was either fury or terror.  She wasn’t sure which, but in any event she wasn’t about to let him catch her looking like that.  She ducked under the water and out of his reach before he could grab her and swam mostly beneath the surface back to the shore. 
“What the devil?” he shouted as she rose from the water.
Emily wrapped the child in a blanket and frantically packed their things back into the basket, barely casting a glance at Barnaby.  Too afraid of what she’d see.
Barnaby shook off the haze of fear that had gripped him so soundly and swam to shore.  He did everything in his power to not look at the woman hurrying about.  Her water-laden undergarments were as transparent as glass.  Never had he ever seen her naked.  Their moments of intimacy had been in the dark and she’d refused to remove her nightgown.  He’d felt like a dirty old lecher. 
He’d known then she was beautiful, but not until this moment, he realized as his feet found soggy ground, that she was an angel, an absolute vision.  But more importantly, she was not his wife, for Millicent couldn’t swim a stroke, was terrified of the water.  That he knew for a fact.
“Did you see, Papa?  Did you see Mama swim all that way under the water?” his daughter asked, dancing on her toes.
“Michelle, take the basket and go back to the house and have Phoebe get you into a warm bath,” he said as calmly as possible, considering the problem at hand.
“But, Papa—”
“Now, Michelle.”
Confused, she did as she was told, but Barnaby knew he’d have to speak with her later to make sure she understood that this incident was not her fault.
Millicent, or whatever her name was, made a move to follow, but he stopped her with a look. 
The woman, the woman who could no more be his wife than the dairymaid, diverted her gaze and grabbed a blanket.  She wrapped it around her like a shield.  He noted her lips, no longer rosy, held a faint hint of blue.  They stood there for some time before he spoke, wanting to be certain that his daughter was well out of hearing range.
“Who the hell are you and where is my wife?” he growled.
She opened her mouth to speak, to deny that she was a fraud, but luckily for her she did not, for he was not in a forgiving mood. 
Over the last few days since Conrad’s leaving he’d been almost happy.  They’d dined together each day, spoke of things, likes and dislikes, and her eyes would sparkle with her bright smile.  She was learning things all over again with new eyes, and a new heart.
And he wanted her, craved her, but had not yet worked up the nerve to join her in her bed.  Past rejections replayed themselves in his mind, having not yet managed to put them all behind him. 
Now he was grateful for that fact, and yet at the same time, dismally disappointed.  He’d seen her body, and it had only increased his need.  But she was not his to take.  The strange phrases she used and her unusual accent, although she’d hid it well most of the time, and her supposed loss of memory!  How could he have missed the bloody obvious?
“Answer me, woman!”
She jumped at his demand then squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.  “My name is Emily Mayfield.  I don’t know why I’m here, nor do I know how I got here—exactly, although I have a theory, which would definitely be cause to have me sent to Bedlam.  Which is worse than jail, from what I understand, so I’ll keep that to myself if you don’t mind.”
Her bold, ridiculous answer, almost forced his jaw to drop.  She was as devious as his real wife. “How much did my wife pay you to impersonate her?”
Her lips quirked up at the corner as she planted her hands on her hips.  He bit the inside of his cheek at the display of her breasts encased in wet cotton, the peaks pebbled and taught against the fabric. 
“Oh, sure,” she said.  “Like she gave a damn about you or Michelle.  So much so that she’d pay someone to take her place.  Not bloody likely.”
“Where is she?” he shouted.
 “I don’t know!”  She heaved a heavy sigh and wrapped herself in the blanket once again.  “Look, Barnaby.  Like it or not, I’m here. How or why isn’t really important, but you’re not going to turn this bizarre situation into some Machiavellian scheme cooked up by your wife.”
His eyes narrowed.  “Who are your people?  Where do you come from?  You couldn’t have gotten in without help.  Did Lady Whitley or that idiot Hickston have anything to do with this?  None of the servants would’ve lifted a finger to help with this—” he waved his hand, sending a trail of water arcing through the growing haze of the afternoon, “insane plan!”
“There is no plan!”
He grabbed her arms and jerked her forward, his nose mere inches from hers.  “I want the truth. All of it.”
She tilted up her chin in that jaunty way she had, so unlike his wife, no wonder he was so enamored by the woman.  Wife or no, she’d figured out a way to drive him wholly insane. 
“I don’t think I’d like Bedlam.  As a matter of fact, I know I wouldn’t like Bedlam,” she said.
“I’ll not send you to Bedlam, woman, but I may send you to Newgate if you don’t answer the question,” he snarled.
“Swear you won’t send me to Bedlam.”
He gave her a subtle shake.  “Answer the bloody question!”
“Fine!  I’ll tell you.  All of it.  And when you’ve heard it and decided I’m crazy I’ll say I told you so.”
“Get on with it!” 
He needed to hear her tale, although he suspected it would be a load of manure, but more importantly he couldn’t stand the thought of seeing her go back to pretending to be Millicent.  This mouthy, vibrant woman was the one he longed for, the one he dreamt of every night, craved every day, and could not have.  She was a fraud and a liar.  That much about his spouse had not changed.
“I was dying,” she said.
“What?”  He dropped his hands to his sides.
“I was dying of cancer.  I knew my time was limited, which is why I wanted to tour Europe one last time.”  She smiled crookedly.  “I was playing the piano on tour, small concerts, but still it was a job and what I loved.” 
She lifted her gaze to his.  “I think I died.  I was lying there one minute then the next I was walking down a long corridor.  A woman passed me, it was Millicent. She was smiling in the oddest way and she didn’t take her eyes off the door at the end of hall behind me.  I tried to reach out to her, but something stopped me.  It pulled me in the opposite direction.  When I woke up, I was in her bed and in her body.” 
She snorted softly.  “Scared me half to death when I looked in the mirror the first time.  That’s when I recognized her.  Me.  Whatever,” she said with a shake of her head. 
Barnaby blinked several times as he looked at the woman before him.  She was mad, that was obvious.  She actually believed her bizarre tale.  He was an authority on deceit, thanks to Millicent, and reading her expression, searching her eyes for any sign of trickery he could find none.  It explained so many things, why the innocence he saw in her was real, her kind heart, her light laughter, all of it.  She was not his wife.
She titled her head to the side with a quirky grin.  “So, do I pack a bag for Bedlam, or is it just a come as you are kind of thing?”
Still, he didn’t have the heart to send her to the madhouse and Michelle adored her. 
“I think, Madame, you should go to your room and rest.  You’ve obviously had a trying day.”  He stomped on his boots and snatched up his coat. He would decide later what to do with the poor demented creature.
She stepped in front of him before he could walk up the path.  “That’s it?  No more shouting, no more arm waving?”
“I am wet and cold.  I don’t have time for your games.”  He stalked off amid her sputtering.
She hurried up beside him, her blanket flapping about her long limbs.  “I told you the truth.  My name is really Emily.”
“Of course, Emily.  And something to note for the future, Emily.  A lady does not bathe in public.”
“Ah, I see.  You’re humoring me.  How nice,” she said acidly.  “Well let me add to the fairytale then.  I was not bathing, I was swimming, and I’m not only back from the dead, so to speak, I’m from the future.  The year was two-thousand and ten when I died.  Go ahead.  Quiz me.  I can tell you about automobiles, planes, the telephone, government, who will be next on the throne of England, when the next war will be—”
She bumped into his back as he stopped cold in his tracks halfway across the lawn before the house.  He turned to face her.  “You shall not speak of this, any of this to anyone.  Do you understand me?”
Her brow furrowed.  “You’re protecting me,” she said softly.  “Why?  Why not send me to Newgate or Bedlam, or Blandon for that matter?  You’d be rid of me then.”
His jaw clenched as she moved closer to stand before him.  Her hair, although damp from her swim, caught the sunshine.  Her cheeks were rosy from the hurried pace she’d used to keep up with him.  She was simply the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. 
“Barnaby?”  She placed her hand against his chest as she leaned close.
He covered it with his, wishing with all his heart that this woman, this stark staring mad female, was his wife.  “Go inside and rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
“You try a man’s patience,” he said, his voice rough.
“Women have been doing that for centuries.”  She grinned for a moment.  “You have to believe me.  I am not in league with Millicent.  My name is Emily.”
He brushed his fingers across her rosy cheek.  He wished he could believe her.  She wasn’t Millicent, that part was fact.  She was not the woman who enjoyed making his life a living hell.  If anything, this woman had improved life in his house.  But as to her tale of how she came to be there, on that point, he would have to humor her and hope that her delusion didn’t grow into something more dangerous before he could figure out what to do with her.
“I believe you are not Millicent.  As to how you came to be here…” he shrugged. 
“Well—”  She nibbled at her bottom lip.  “Then it won’t matter if I tell you the rest.”
He sighed and gave a nod, praying her tale wouldn’t be more absurd than it already was.
“I’m in love with you.”  She tipped up on her toes and kissed him.
He stood stock still, not sure how to respond or even if he could, he was so stunned.  She turned and was gone before he regained his senses.
****
Emily had taken a warm bath and donned a modest dress for dinner after assuring Michelle that all was well.  She’d hurried down to dinner only to find that she’d be dining alone.  Lord Westmore was out and would not be home for several days.
It was that confession, the one about being in love with him that had been the final straw, she was certain.  He thought she was crazy after her reincarnation rant.  But somehow she had to convince him that she was telling the truth.  That she really was Emily Mayfield.
But how to convince him she was from the future?  It wasn’t as if she had any proof of any kind.  She didn’t know history well enough that she could predict something that was about to happen.  She only knew the big stuff, like who was in power when, and there wasn’t going to be any major world changes for a while yet.
With a sigh, she took her new place at the long empty, lonely dining table.  She’d moved to sit beside her husband when Conrad had first arrived, his and Barnaby’s interrogation didn’t allow her the anonymity that the end of the table had given her.  She’d hated it at first, but after her friendship had been struck with Conrad, she enjoyed it. 
Her gaze wandered to the chair across where Conrad had sat and she smiled wistfully, missing her new friend.  Then her gaze moved to Barnaby’s chair at the head of the table where it stayed, even as she toyed with her food.
She imagined him there, how he’d looked at her over the last few days with heat in his eyes.  How she’d hoped he would make some move, perhaps another kiss, even a brush of his hand against hers along their daily walk in the garden, but he’d kept his distance, almost wary of her.  And yet the look in his eyes, the tension arching between them, he had to know how badly she wanted him.
“And I blew it,” she said with a hearty sigh, rising from her uneaten meal.
She should have stuck with the memory loss story, why she’d blurted out the other was a bit unclear, but his demand that she tell him who she was caused it to all to tumble out.  How had he known she wasn’t Millicent?  What had she done to make him believe so ardently, against the evidence before his very eyes, that she wasn’t really Millicent Westmore?
 
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter Nine

Barnaby gained entrance to every ballroom and soiree in London, even found his way along a few dark streets where more unsavory entertainments could be had by the gentry, but found no sign of his wife.
Seated in White’s, oblivious to the gentlemen around him, he sipped a fine brandy and contemplated his next step.  Where else to look?  To whom else should he inquire about his wife’s location?
“Westmore?”
He lifted his head from the study of his glass.  “Leighton, I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Nor I you.” 
His friend took a seat across from him.  “Dare I ask what brings you to London?”
He sighed and returned his gaze to his glass.  Lord Leighton’s late wife had been a friend of his wife, which was how they’d met, and in a strange way struck a sort of camaraderie, both finding out too late what their spouses were truly like.
“I see,” Leighton said.
“Yes, I suppose you do…for the most part.”  He lifted his gaze and forced a friendly smile.  “And what of you?  I understand congratulations are in order.  You’re a father, I hear.”
The man practically beamed with pride.  “I am, a girl.  Her name is Mary.”
“I’m happy for you.  For both of you.”  He knew from the murmurings amid the ton and the un-avoidance of the local papers that Leighton had found a good match, a woman who undoubtedly looked past the scars left upon his face and body by the fire that had killed his first wife, and made him happy.  Why was that so hard for him?  Why could he not find the same?
Because he was married to a devious witch, while the angel he wanted, the woman he feared he’d already lost his heart to slept beneath his roof, not twenty paces from his bed, and he could not have her.
“Thank you.  I’d heard that your wife had been ill of late, but that she’d improved.”
A half grin teased his lips.  “Gossip moves fast, I see.”
“That it does.”
“She is missing, actually,” he said, his voice low so others wouldn’t hear.
Leighton frowned.  “That I’d not heard.  What happened?”
“She left an imposter in her place.”  He swirled the liquour in his glass.  “A damnable perfect one.”
His friend sighed.  “I see.  Can I be of any help?”
“Thank you, but no.  I’ve searched the usual places, talked with the regular players, but all swear she has not appeared since her illness.”
“And this imposter, what role does she play?  What does she have to gain in this situation?”
Barnaby lifted his gaze, her image, Emily’s image burned in his mind.  “I don’t know.  It makes no sense.  She claims she—she claims she can’t remember anything before she fell ill, but there are things she says, does…”  He couldn’t disclose her insanity to anyone, not even his friend.  If word of that should get out, her life would be ruined, and sense he had no idea what to do with her—after he found his real wife, he didn’t want to limit her options.
“That makes you believe she isn’t your wife,” he said with a nod, understanding his problem on some level.  “I think, perhaps, you should reconsider the possibility that she is who she says she is.”
A woman from the future?  He nearly laughed aloud, the lunacy of it all, the fatigue, the pain wearing his nerves to pulverized ends. 
“If I have learned one thing about women,” Leighton continued.  “I have learned to never, ever underestimate them.  They have a resiliency beyond comprehension.”
“Some of them, perhaps.”
“Aye, some of them.  But if what she says is true, if she cannot recall her past, then she must start again.  Wouldn’t it be better to start anew than relive or revitalize the past?”
“And if she isn’t my wife?” he asked, still assured she was an imposter, she’d admitted it not but a few days ago.
“Then,” Leighton said with a sigh, as he rose to his feet.  “You have a very big decision on your hands.  Find the one you don’t want, or let her go and accept the one you have.  The one you want.  The one the ton believes is your wife.”  He squeezed Barnaby’s shoulder as he walked past.  “If you need anything, you know how to reach me.”
He nodded his thanks then finished his drink after Leighton left.
Accept Emily as his wife?  Break his vows of marriage?
He walked the streets for a time before going back to his dark townhouse.  He had only a limited staff on hand, and had told them all to not expect him back until the early hours of the morning.  That was when Millicent made her regular haunts about town, like a creature of the night.  But the late hour and the silence in the house was welcome.
****
Late at night, just as every night since Barnaby had left, the questions and the mere fact he wasn’t there refused to allow Emily to sleep.  So she slipped out of bed and reached for her robe.  She would go down to the kitchen and have something to eat—a little comfort food, anything to help her to stop thinking about him.  If only she knew where he was, what he was doing, maybe she wouldn’t worry as much?
She stilled at the sound of a small thump from his room.  Moving to the adjoining doors, she noted a faint light coming from beneath the door.  Her heart raced, he was home, but where had he been, what was he thinking?  Did he want her gone?  Had been off making plans for her departure to God only knew where?
Throwing back her shoulders, she decided to face the lion in his den.  She had to convince him of the truth before he acted on whatever plans he’d been off making.  Or maybe, after seeing him again, she would try and convince him she was just confused and had lost her memory.  However it was done, she had to convince him to let her stay.
She opened the door and eased into his room.  He didn’t notice her at first, his gaze on the low fire, a brandy in his hand.  His coat and neck cloth gone, his shirt undone, displayed his glorious chest. 
He turned his head at her small intake of breath and held her with his gaze. 
“Go back to bed.”
Words were lost to her.  She crossed the room and knelt at his feet to tug off his boots.  He looked exhausted and it was her fault.
She set the boots aside then took his empty snifter and splashed another dram into the glass.  She held it out for him to take.
He slipped one hand around her wrist, holding her still, while the other took the snifter and placed it on the side table.  Gently, he pulled her into his lap, and she went more than willingly.
With an unsteady hand, he pulled at the ribbon of her gown and parted the fabric, uncovering her breasts.  She savored his warm study of her bare form in the dim light, and yet she sensed he’d never been this intimate with Millicent. 
A wave of anger surged through her at how that woman had treated him.  He was a man full of so much love and kindness, and she’d given him nothing.  Michelle was the only good thing to come from their marriage.  She was glad she’d burned the diary, with all its damning evidence, filled with her hateful words.  Millicent was gone and Emily was here in her place.  It was where she belonged, she knew that now.
“Touch me,” she whispered.
His gaze lifted to hers, and she sensed his questions and doubts.  She wasn’t his wife, except in body alone, but now was not the time for uncertainties. She knew what she wanted, and she wanted him. 
“Make love to me, Barnaby.”
His mouth swooped down on hers in a kiss so filled with hunger, she nearly cried.  His hand cupped her breast firmly at first, as if she’d take this moment away from him, take it all back, but within moments his kiss softened as did his touch. 
He stood with her in his arms and carried her to the bed.  Once there, he removed her gown completely, then snapped straight at the sight of her.
“Barnaby?”  He stood for some time simply staring at her.
He moved closer and reached out to run his finger along the small scar above her left breast.  Could it be?  Could he have spent days searching for his missing wife, for some sign of the harridan that had caused him so much grief, when she’d been in his house all along? 
The scar was telling.  Millicent went to great extremes to hide it with powders and female frippery, to hide her one imperfection. The mark of her treachery.
In a mad dash to meet with her lover late one night, her horse stumbled and threw her into a mass of brambles by the wood, leaving a harsh gash across her perfect skin, and she blamed Barnaby for it.  A senseless charge, but nothing was ever Millicent’s fault.
“Do you know how you got this?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
“No.”
The truth rang clearly, and yet he still doubted the woman before him. 
She smiled up at him from where she lay, and held out her hand.  “Come to bed, Barnaby.” 
But how could she be his wife?  All the things she did, the things she said?  How could she be Emily Mayfield in his wife’s body?
The question boggled the mind, and as his was so weary from the past weeks since she’d awakened, he gave up the puzzle, cast aside the questions, and refused to think on it any further.  She was in his bed, in his heart, and he would take whatever the consequences were. 
He pulled off his shirt and trousers then stretched out alongside her.  There wasn’t much night left, but he made sure not to waste another moment.  His hands roamed her body, delighting in her soft moans.  She was more perfect than he’d dreamed, than he’d spied by the pond, and more so because she allowed his touch. 
But he wanted her to beg for him.  Wrong as it was, believing this woman had no recollection of ruining much of his life, he could not curb the desire to hear those same lips that had piled curses upon curses atop his head beg for his touch...beg for him.
Her fingers tangled in his hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him down for a slow persuasive kiss, while her other hand explored the plains of his chest.  He moved his mouth from her dewy lips to her throat and then down to the perfect pebbled peaks of her breasts.  She gasped when he pulled the taught berry into his mouth and suckled.  Her body writhed beneath his hand as it neared her center, urging him to touch her.
He heeded the message and was met with moist, warm curls beneath his fingers that sent a jolt of heat riding up his arm and throughout his body.  He barely refrained from groaning, his need for her was so high, and still he waited to hear the words that would release him.
“Barnaby,” she whimpered as he fondled her while continuing to taste her breast.  “Please,” she cried.  She wanted him, truly and wholly.  The pleasure of that one word—please—freed him, freed his soul.
He eased over her, his mouth savoring the taste of her skin, his ears delighting in her continued pleas, until his rigid shaft met with her tight, hot inner core.  All sound, all thought, stopped, leaving nothing but the sensation of their bodies joined together. 
It was pure bliss.
Slowly, his other senses returned and he began a steady pace, moving inside her.  She wrapped her long luscious limbs around his waist and growled her desires in his ear, and he was more than accommodating as they were the same as his own. 
She called out his name on a sweet, shrill note, and he let go of the last tether he had on his desire.  In filling her body with his seed, she filled his heart, his soul with all that he’d been missing in his life.
And yet, when the morning sun seeped through the window pane as they lay in one another’s arms completely sated and content, the unsettling questions returned to the forefront of his mind.  She was his wife, and yet not.  Could she truly be from the future?  The body was definitely Millicent’s, there was no mistaking the scar, but he couldn’t seem to remove the wall of doubt regarding her story.  It was too fantastic to believe.  Still, Millicent could not have changed so much to lay contented alongside him.  She could not be the same woman he married.  Perhaps she truly had no memory of her life and had created this Emily in place of her real self?
She moaned softly in her sleep, and it warmed him.  Whoever she was, she was his, and he would not let her go.
The drifting of fingers across her shoulder woke Emily from her sleep.  She snuggled in tighter against Barnaby and looked into his heavy-lidded gaze.
“Good morning,” she said, sliding her finger across his lower lip.
He grinned and moved his hand down to her backside beneath the sheet.  With a moan, she kissed him thoroughly as he explored her body.  His chest vibrated beneath her breasts at his groan of pleasure.  She hated they had precious few minutes left before the day began.  She wanted to love him again and again, but knew time was against them.
The door opened, bringing Emily’s head around.  Apparently the day had begun, and they had to resume their regular routines, regardless of what other pleasures they could share.
Barnaby’s valet strolled into the room, noticed the situation and quickly stumbled out.
“I do believe we’ve taken a year off of Mortimer’s life,” she said with a giggle.
Barnaby burst out a laugh.  “I think two at least.”  He pulled her up against him and kissed her smiling lips.  “I like the way you laugh,” he said between little kisses.
“I like the way you do a lot of things,” she said falling under his seductive spell once again.  The man had only to touch her, and she dissolved into a blissful puddle.
“Hmm, well as much as I’d like to explore those things, I have a feeling a little girl will be the next to burst into our rooms,” he said.
Emily groaned and rolled to the side of the bed.  “You know how to kill the moment.”
He chuckled and rose from the bed.  “One that shall be rekindled later.”
She peered at him over her shoulder as she tied her gown.  “That had better be a promise.”
He strolled to her side of the bed, gloriously naked, and pulled her firmly against him.  “Most definitely.”  He kissed her long and slow. 
“I hear Martha humming in my room,” she said, relishing the nibbles he was placing down her neck.
“Are you sure that isn’t your blood humming, darling?”
She felt his smile against her skin and smacked him playfully on the arm.  “Quit gloating,” she giggled.
Laughing, he stepped back with a bright smile.  “Me?  Gloat?  I would never.”
“Oh you.”  She tipped up on her toes and kissed him one last time, finding just going into the next room incredibly difficult.
He groaned that low deep way he had that sent a quake of longing pulsing through her. 
“Martha, where’s Mama?”
“Drat,” she whispered, but with a wide smile.  “It seems I’m needed in the next room.”
His smile melted and his face became serious.  “In this room as well,” he said, cupping her cheek in his large hand. 
She turned her head and pressed a quick kiss to the palm, then hurried into her room before she cried.  He needed her and he wasn’t just talking about sex.
****
The day wore on ever so slowly, Emily thought she might go crazy with the desire to see him.  It was silly, she knew, she’d left his rooms but just a few hours prior, but still she couldn’t contain this burgeoning need to be in his presence.
Lunch was finally called and she left Michelle in the nursery so she could dine with Barnaby.  She found herself hurrying down the hall, then trotting down the stairs like a child at Christmas, thankfully catching herself before anyone saw her. 
She took a long deep breath and smiled.  “I’m in love,” she said with a sigh, and strolled with false calm into the dining room.
Barnaby, however, was nowhere to be seen.  She considered asking Wilkins of her husband’s presence, he always knew everything, but she hadn’t quite won the butler over yet. 
Contemplating her dilemma, staring blankly at the empty table before her, she failed to notice her husband stealing in silently behind her.
“I hope that dour look is for Mrs. Hatch and not for me,” he said, slipping his arm around her waist.
A relieved and contented sigh escaped her lips, and she leaned back against him.  “Well, it was for you, because you weren’t here.”
He chuckled softly, his breath tickling the side of her neck where he placed a gentle kiss.  “Miss me that much?”
She turned in his arms and laced her fingers behind his head.  “No, this much,” she said, and kissed him, lingering, savoring...promising.
He pressed her hard against him.  “You undo me, woman,” he growled.
“And you me.”
Cupping her face in his hand, he pulled his head back and studied her for several heartbeats. 
“I know it’s hard for you to believe, Barnaby.  I understand your doubts, I have them too.  I keep thinking I’m dreaming and that I’ll wake up one morning and all this—you will be nothing more than a dream.  I don’t want you to be just a dream.”
A soft smile eased his features.  “Nor I, darling.  Nor I.”  His gentle kiss sang through her veins. 
If this was a dream, if she should wake and find herself in a hospital, she would forever remember this man.  He would be in her heart, in her soul for all time.
A throat cleared.  With a wicked grin and a wink, he turned to face Wilkins. 
“All is prepared, your lordship,” the stern butler said, then bowed and disappeared.
“What’s prepared?” she asked.
He smiled and took her by the hand and led her from the room.  “We’re having nuncheon on the lawn.”
“A picnic?”
“Yes, a picnic.  Michelle is there already.”  He paused in the hall, his body suddenly stiff.  “Unless you don’t wish for her to join us.”
“Oh, Barnaby.”  With a smile she hooked her arm around his.  “As much as I’d like to have you all to myself, I think a picnic with Michelle is a lovely idea.”
Caressing the back of her hand upon his arm, he visibly relaxed, and they made their way outside.  He was trying, very hard, she realized.  It couldn’t be easy for him to look at her and not expect the old Millicent to emerge.
The day was filled with laughter and joy, and never had Emily ever been so happy.  They ate a delicious meal, played games, and told stories until Michelle fell asleep beside them on the blanket.
“She is so precious,” Emily said, shifting a wayward curl from Michelle’s cheek.
“There was a time when you—she didn’t think so.”  Barnaby’s gaze lighted across her face then fell back to his daughter.
“I don’t want to talk about her, about before.  I don’t want to ruin a perfect day.”
He nodded, his doubts more prevalent than he was aware.  She wondered if they would ever really be rid of Millicent, if she would haunt them for the rest of their lives.  Was she naïve to think that a few new experiences, new memories would erase the hurt and pain she’d caused?
“It is a perfect day,” he said, and brushed a finger down over her cheek. 
She clasped his hand before he could withdraw it and pressed a kiss to the palm.  His gaze warmed as he linked his fingers with hers. 
“I think it’s time to take Michelle to the nursery,” he said, and lifted the sleeping angel into his arms.
Silently, they put her to bed, then descended the stairs to their rooms.  Without a word, she came willingly into his arms the moment the door was closed and locked.  He would love her fully, with everything that he had, for he was just afraid as she that they would awake and find it all had been a dream.
“We’re going to shock the entire household,” she whispered between kisses.  “It’s the middle of the day, and if I know anything about history, this is a big no-no.”
He chuckled at her odd phrasing, wondering again, who she was, if he would ever believe her tale, but didn’t let it deter him from his task. 
“Perhaps, but convention isn’t going to stop me from loving you when I please, for as long as I please.”
She looked up at him a bright smile on her face.  “I do love a man who knows his own mind.”
“Turn around,” he commanded between nibbles at the corner of her lips.
She did as he bade, and he began to work on the buttons trailing down her back, placing kisses against her exposed skin as he went.
“I’m going to lose it before we even get to bed,” she said on a moan.
Lord, he loved the sound of her pleasure, but her odd comments pulled at his lips at the most inappropriate times.  Now was not the time to laugh, not when he wanted to explore every inch of her in the light of day where he wouldn’t miss a single curve or mole.
“Barnaby, hurry,” she breathed.
With a smile, he divested her of her plentiful skirts and female trappings.  All while worshiping every dip and mark.  As he knelt before her, his lips nearing her woman’s mound, he smelled the heady scent of her arousal.  Never having dreamed he would be allowed such freedom with his wife, he reveled in her sharp intake of breath as his lips found the tender nub and she thread her fingers into his hair to hold him to his task.
With one hand massaging her delicious bottom, the fingers of his other moving slowly in and out of her tight folds, he sucked and nipped at her center until her cries of pleasure filled the room.  On a gasp and moan, she fell to her knees before him and into his arms.
“That was—I’ve never—” her eyes popped open on a startled breath and she clutched at his shoulders.  “Do you think anyone heard me?”
He smiled at her sudden panic while allowing his hands to roam her flushed body.  “I think they heard you in London.”
Her eyes widened, and she buried her face in his neck cloth with an embarrassed giggled.
He rose to his feet with her still in his arms and placed her on the bed.  Her face was flushed with release and embarrassment and he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
He undid his jacket and shirt, and pulled his constricting clothes from his body in a rush to join her on the bed.
The moment he lay beside her, she pressed her hands against his shoulders, pressing him to the mattress.  “My turn,” she said, her voice tinged with a devilishness he could become addicted to.
Her hands roamed his chest, followed by soft kisses and nips of her teeth.  The sensation was overwhelming, or so he thought until she reached his rigid shaft.  The delicate kisses she placed upon his heated skin had him clutching the coverings beside him.  Never had a woman ever done this for him, to him, and for a brief moment, when she pulled him into her mouth, he actually thought he might black out from the pure pleasure of it.
She stroked him with one hand while she loved him with her mouth.  His own moans grew louder.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his teeth gritted.
“Do you want me to stop?” 
She knew she had him right where she wanted him, the saucy wench.
“You are about to undo me, woman.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, and sucked on him long and hard until he roared out his release.
Stunned by her actions, he pulled her up and cradled her against his side firmly, not quite sure how to handle the situation.  A lady didn’t do such things, or so he’d been taught.  A niggle of fear, thoughts of his former wife, edged into his mind.  Her tastes had been said to have been unusual, was this her influence, was it Millicent seeping through this other woman?
“Barnaby, what is it?  Didn’t you—didn’t you like it?”
He felt her stiffen in his arms and shoved the horrid thought aside.  This was a new wife, a new life.  He had to let the past go, but realized it would be a great deal harder than he’d ever imagined.
Lifting her head, he kissed her tenderly.  “You did nothing wrong.”
She took his gentle kiss, but had not closed her eyes.  In seconds she was sitting up and looking at him, a deep crease between her brows. 
“There are a few things you need to know about me, about the future.”
He clenched his jaw, not sure he wanted to hear any of her tales, afraid he’d believe her, and afraid he wouldn’t.
“Go on,” he made himself say.
“In my time, sex, love and relationships are very different.  What I mean to say is...”  She shook her head, flustered with frustration.  “Sex isn’t taboo.  It’s spoken of, openly, without any censure.  There are doctors, studies, articles, all sorts of things readily available to help you find ways to better please your mate.  Now, mind you, I wasn’t overly sexually active, but I know about things you would think a lady, a woman of a certain rank wouldn’t.”  She looked to him, hope shining in her eyes.  “Do you understand?”
He lifted his hand and sifted her long tresses between his fingers.  “What things?”
Her skin flushed pink from tip to toe, and he loved her all the more for it. 
She picked at a loose thread in the coverings, not meeting his eyes.  “Well, what I just did, for one.  And I know there are, well, a lot of different positions.”
He lifted her chin to look into her eyes.  “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”
She clasped his wrist, her eyes overly bright.  “You didn’t.  I just didn’t want you to think I was—that I was—I’ve never done that before.”
He slid his hand behind her neck and grinned.  “You could have fooled me.”
Her mouth fell open with a squeak of false outrage and she swatted him right before she fell on him and kissed him hard and long.
He was beginning to think he was probably the luckiest man alive.
Until some days later when Millicent’s brother came to call.

 
 
Doorway To His Heart

 

 
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402
DoorwayToHisHeart_w4402

Chapter Ten

Edward arrived, thoroughly ruining what was to have been another perfect day.  Barnaby had thought about nothing but the long luscious hours he’d spent with his wife the night before and was looking forward to more of the same. 
As a matter of fact, he’d been stealing delectable kisses from his beautiful wife in the parlor, when Wilkins appeared with the news of their visitor.
“I have a brother?” she whispered, a faint panic in her voice.
“Yes, darling.  You do.” 
He felt buoyed by her dismay at the news.  The question, so guilelessly asked, strengthened the argument that she did indeed believe she was Emily and not Millicent. 
And yet over the glorious days they’d shared, every so often, she would move a certain way, or sit in a certain chair that reminded him so much of the old Millicent, that his fear that this was some new trick would resurface to torture him anew. 
His doubts were like a pendulum swinging back and forth, and with the arrival of her brother, he couldn’t ignore the sense of foreboding.  Many times the detestable little man had assisted her in her nefarious schemes, and was likely here to work some new web of deceit with his wife.  Or rather, with the woman she was before.
But was she truly changed?  Was she Emily, a woman from the future, or merely imagined she was?  Or was she Millicent, the conniving woman he’d married?  Could they have been setting the stage for some new horrendous play at his expense?  The only facts he had were that the body was his wife’s and that he loved the woman inside and out, whoever she was or claimed to be.
“I came as soon as I heard the news,” his brother-in-law said, his face flushed with his eagerness.
“What news was that, Edward?” he asked.
“Why, that Millicent is recovered, of course.”  He trotted across the room and took her hands in his.  “I cannot tell you how relieved I am you are well, dear sister.”
“Um, yes, well thank you,” she said, struggling to extract her hands from his.
Barnaby studied this introduction, gauging her reaction, hoping and praying it would set his mind at ease.    
“She has been well for some time,” he interjected.
“Yes, well, I only learned of it,” the man said, as he continued to slobber over her fingers
Emily or Millicent, he’d still not decided what to call her, cast Barnaby a perturbed look, and a grin stole over his lips with a silent sigh of relief.  She truly did not recognize her brother.
Glaring down at the top of Edward’s bald head, she said “How nice of you to come for a visit.  I’m sorry I didn’t send word.”
She finally succeeded in extracting her hands from his.  Her lips pulled at the corners in a blatantly false smile when Edward lifted his head.
Her brother gave her an odd look, then tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and said, “Oh, think nothing of it, my dear.  You cannot imagine how distressed I was at the news of your ill health.”
She extracted her hand and moved to stand beside Barnaby, her hand slipping inside his.  “Well, we’re happy to have you.  Will you be staying for dinner?”
Edward shot Barnaby a glance, knowing he was not welcome.  The pair of them usually went off somewhere to hatch their new plans for their latest rendezvous with others of their ilk.  His wife’s unusual reaction had thrown the old boy for a moment.  But only a moment.
“Actually, I came to see if you’d like to go on an outing,” Edward said.
“Oh, well, that’s very kind of you, but I have other plans.  Perhaps another time.”
“But your friends miss you.”  He went on to name all the players, emphasizing one in particular.  For Barnaby’s ears, no doubt.  “Sir Francis Axley, among them.  There’s to be a party in his honor with his return from Italy.  They all wish to see you, my dear.”
Barnaby watched her face as he rattled off the names of those not at Lady Whitley’s ball, she seemed intent on trying to be polite, but at the mention of her old lover, he had his answer. 
All color had drained from her face, and she turned anxious eyes to him.  She knew the name, it was written quite clearly on her face.
His jaw clenched.  “I wouldn’t dream of keeping your from your friends.”  He couldn’t contain the venom in his voice.  She had played him false again.  Killing the budding hope that he might have the only thing he’d ever wanted from her or any woman—love and devotion.
Her brow furrowed deeply as she turned to her brother.  “Edward, would you excuse us for a moment.  I need to speak with Barnaby a minute,” she said, her voice quivering, but Barnaby would not be fooled again.
With a bow and a knowing grin, her brother quit the room.
“You still think I’m her,” she said flatly.
“You are her.  You have always been her.  I will admit, you had almost convinced me that you’d lost your memory and had taken on this new persona, but no more.  Your game is done, Millicent.  I hope you got what you wanted,” he bit out, and turned his back to her and stared out the window, wishing with all his heart her insane story had been true.  But she’d known the name of her lover.  His return from the continent struck her quite soundly.
“After last night—this morning, all week, I thought you believed me, when all this time you were only playing along with your deceitful wife, waiting to see if it was a lie, some new scheme.  You never once believed me, believed I’m Emily,” she said, her voice tight with tears.  “I hope you got what you wanted, Barnaby.”
With the resounding slam of the door, his body jerked.  “No, I did not,” he muttered.  He’d gotten so much more, and yet for only a single fleeting moment.
He cut through the joining doors to his study, avoiding the hall, not wanting to see or hear either of them.  He would find a way to get past this, past her treachery, but his heart would never fully recover.  Not this time.  She’d stolen it completely with her silly stories of life in her time, her motherly devotion to Michelle—her fevered responses to his touch.
No, he would never be the same again.
A scuffling and arguing seeped beneath this door, and he turned away, looking for solace out the window.
****
Emily hurried across the hall, struggling to hold back her sobs.  She’d trusted him, loved him, when all along he was only humoring her, waiting for the next Millicent trick. 
God, why did you send me here?
As she crossed to the stairs, Millicent’s brother snatched her by the arm.  “Come with me,” he whispered harshly.
She cupped her aching forehead and turned a scowl on the man.  “Not now, Edward.  I’m not feeling well.”
She started to turn away, but he pulled her toward the front door.  “This will make you feel better.”
“I don’t want to go outside.  I’ve already told you I’m not interested in an outing.”
But the irritating little man wouldn’t listen and dragged her across the hall.
“I just want to go lie down.  Thank you for your concern, but—”
“We must hurry before he notices.”  He pulled her toward the door.
“Before who notices?  What are you talking about?  Where are you taking me?”
“To Francis,” he hissed.
She jerked to a halt.  “I haven’t the least bit of interest in seeing that man.  Now let me go!”
He pulled on her arm again, with a good deal of strength, and in a flash she was outside and nearing his carriage.
“Stop being difficult, Millicent, and come along.” 
“Difficult?  I’ll show you difficult, buster,” she growled, furious with herself, with Barnaby, with her entire situation.  Edward would be the first to feel the brunt of it all. 
But with her blasted skirts and already being off balance with Edward tugging her down the steps, she toppled into the carriage with his final jerk and landed hard on the floor with a very loud unladylike curse.
****
Barnaby watched as his wife toppled into Edward’s carriage headfirst.  With her feet kicking and several shouts the door was slammed closed and the driver whipped the horses into action.
“What in bloody hell?”  He tore out of his study and out the front door in pursuit.  Lies or no, she was still his wife, and she’d not left willingly, it seemed.
He shouted for a horse as he watched the carriage ramble down the lane when the carriage door suddenly flew open and out came his wife diving headlong into the flowerbed alongside the drive.  He was half way to her when the coach came to a stop and Edward leapt out.
She had just gotten to her feet when her brother reached her.  The foul words coming out of her mouth drew Barnaby to a dead stop.  He wouldn’t have thought Millicent or any lady would even know such language much less use it.  Then she swung her fist and landed such a facer on Edward that it put him on his back. 
Standing over him, she shouted, “You are the worst excuse for a human being I have ever known!  Don’t you ever step foot on this property again!”
“Now, Millicent, love,” Axley said with a chuckle as he descended from the carriage.  “Don’t be so hard on the fellow.  He was only trying to get you into the carriage to—”
“Don’t you dare speak to me!  You—you—”  With a growl she lifted her knee and landed a blow that sent the man to the ground in a writhing mass of pain. 
Barnaby winced. 
“That was for Millicent!  She may have been a bitch, but you dumped and ran, you lousy sack of shit!  And if you even think of coming near me or my family again, I’ll shoot you!”
“Good Lord,” Barnaby muttered.  How could he have ignored the most important details?  How could he have let his damnable fears steer his beliefs in so drastically the wrong direction?
Millicent could not sew or play the pianoforte.  Hiding such talents would’ve gained her nothing.  Nor could she swim.  She was indeed terrified of the water, and yet the scar upon her breast was there.  Her story, regardless of how fantastic it seemed, was true! 
She spun around, tossed her head back, her long fair locks glinting in the sunshine, and marched toward the house.  Without a glance at Barnaby, she stormed past and called out to the stable master. 
“Mr. Chandler, there is riffraff on the drive.  Please see to it that it is removed immediately and feel free to use whatever force is necessary.”  Then she sailed through the front door leaving Barnaby standing in the road with a silly grin on his face. 
Emily had come home.
****
Sitting in a chair by the fire in her room, Emily stared blankly at the flames.  Where would she go now?  If Barnaby didn’t want her, didn’t believe her, what was the use in staying?
Michelle.  
   She couldn’t leave her behind and she couldn’t take her away from her father.  With a sniffle, she swiped away the errant tear.  She would stay, if Barnaby allowed it.  At least she would have Michelle.  She could avoid him, she supposed.  He wasn’t going to pretend any longer anyway.  He wanted nothing to do with her now.
She’d trusted him, loved him, when all along he’d only been humoring her, waiting for Millicent to show her hand. 
“God, why did you send me here?” she asked again, but received no answer.
The connecting door to Barnaby’s room opened.  She lifted her head, not quite sure what to expect, but turned away at the sight of him in his breeches and undone shirt.  He was too handsome by far, and it killed her to see him this way.  It made her remember too well, her hands on his body, the feel of him pressed against her, the pounding of her heart as he brought her to the highest levels of pleasure she’d ever known. 
She looked into the flames, and rested her head against the back of the chair, defeated.  “So what’s it to be, Barnaby?  An asylum for your crazy wife, or are you going to just send me away where no one will find me?  Blandon, perhaps?”
“I came to apologize.”
She snapped her head to the side to look at him, dueling with the hope rising in her chest.
“I wanted to believe you, but it seemed so impossible.  Yet, in almost every way you are not her, except your face and body.  The scar above your breast proves you are her, and yet, you glow when you laugh, and you laugh often.  You thank the servants for their work, you stroll through the gardens and see beauty where you’d never seen beauty before.”
He pulled in a deep breath, his gaze warm.  “And when you touch me, my body, my very soul is aflame for you.  I never felt that way with her.  Even if you were her—changed because of your illness, I would not—could not feel this way about her.” 
He fell to his knees at her feet.  “There are a million other things, but I refused to see them.  I can’t begin to imagine how or why you were brought here, I only know that I am thankful.  Forgive me for jumping on the last shred of doubt still in my mind.  Seeing you recognize Axley’s name when Edward mentioned him—”  He dropped his head, resting his forehead against her knee.  “I am sorry.  So very sorry, I cannot say it enough.”
“She had a diary,” she said, reaching for his head, the temptation to touch the dark locks too much to resist.  “I found it while I was recovering.  It helped me learn quite a bit, but it had some things in it that I didn’t want you or Michelle to ever discover.  They were in the past, they’d died with Millicent, and I wanted them to stay that way, so I burned it.”
He rolled his head to the side and held her hand to his cheek then kissed her palm.  “Can you ever forgive me for doubting you?”
She smiled softly.  “I suppose, if you’d told me the same story, I wouldn’t have believed you either.”
“I love you, Emily,” he whispered against her skin.
Tears slipped from her eyes at his confession.  “And I love you, but I’m not Emily.”
He lifted his head, a confused frown upon his face.
“I’m not Millicent either.  I’m a combination of the two.  Today showed me that.  I can’t ignore her life, her past, anymore than I can ignore my own.”
He grinned and slipped his hands beneath her, lifting her from the chair into his arms. 
“Then we shall have to find you a new name, my love.”  He strolled toward his room as her arms wrapped around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder.
“Aren’t you afraid everyone will think we’ve both lost our minds?”
“I don’t particularly care what everyone else thinks,” he said, kissing her forehead.
She giggled and kissed him behind the ear.  “This from the man who fussed at me about propriety barely two weeks ago.”
He laid her on his bed and stretched out beside her.  “Bathing in plain sight isn’t the same thing.”  He undid the ties of her robe and laid it open as if opening a gift.  “I don’t wish for every farmer or servant to see my wife’s beautiful body.”  He leaned down and suckled her breast through the thin shift.
“I had no idea you were so possessive,” she said breathlessly.
“You are mine, wife.  And I don’t intend to ever share you.”
She lifted his head and kissed him deeply.  “I love you Barnaby.  Me, this woman I’ve become.  Do you understand?”
“I do, and I love you.”  He kissed her long and tenderly.  “But I cannot go around calling you wife.  You must choose a new name.”
“What about a nickname?  That won’t seem as odd to people.”
“And what would that be, love?”  He paused to remove his shirt and lift her shift over her head.  “Lord, you’re beautiful.”
“You act as if you’ve never seen me before.”
“As you said,” he whispered between nibbles and licks at her lips.  “You are not the same woman I wed, nor are you the same woman who appeared in my life but two months ago.”
“Mmm, you know I have a terrible time thinking when you do that,” she said, as he nibbled at her ear.
“That’s the idea,” he said with a chuckle.
“You’re turning into a tease, Barnaby.  Conrad is rubbing off on you.”
He lifted his head and looked her in the eye.  “Conrad is a rogue.  There is a vast difference between us.”
She smiled.  “Jealous?”
“Yes,” he said with a smile.  “He makes you laugh.”
She curled into his body with a contented sigh.  “But you make me happy.”
He kissed her softly, his hands gliding over her body.
“Mmm, oh wait,” she said, pulling back.  “I know.  Why not call me Millie?”
He scowled down at her, but his eyes were twinkling.  “That is Conrad’s name for you, if I recall.”
“But it’s perfect.  It’s a nickname that will work for either name.  Millicent or Emily.  Don’t you see?”
He smiled and nipped at her lips.  “I’m only teasing, love.  I was jealous in that I couldn’t call you Millie without you thinking I was trying to mimic that rogue.”
“You sound as if there was actually a contest, and I was the prize.”
“Mmm, the spoils of war,” he said with a low sensuous growl as he nuzzled her neck.
“I like being spoiled,” she said with a giggle, “and incredibly happy.”
“I like the look of happiness on you…and me,” he said, and kissed her deeply.
“Barnaby?”
“Hmm?”  His voice was muffled against her skin at the side of her neck. 
“How do you feel about more children?”
He lifted his head, smiling.  “The question is, how do you feel?”
“I think they’re wonderful.”
He chuckled and resumed his tender torture.  “Then why did you ask?”
“Well, there are ways to not get pregnant, so I wanted to make sure you wanted more.”
“Mmm, I do like the sound of more.”
She playfully slapped his shoulder.  “You are a tease.”
“Who’s teasing?”
With a hearty laugh, she lost herself in his arms, and vowed to love and live her new life to its fullest, filling it with new friends and a house full of children.  It was so very precious, and you never knew how long you had.
After all, she had to make sure there was a generation in the twenty-first century who opened the house to the public, so it would happen all over again.
 
Doorway To His Heart
About the author…
 
Jo currently resides in North Carolina with her patient and supportive family while she juggles her writing career and her position as a programmer analyst. In her early years, she wrote folk songs, poetry, and an occasional short story or two, but never dreamed of writing a book. She didn't even like to read! But one fateful day, she picked up a romance novel and found herself hooked. Not only did she discover the joy of reading, but the joy of writing books. These days, if she isn't tapping away at her computer on a story of her own, she has her nose buried in the latest romance novel hot off the presses, and is enjoying every minute of it.

Visit Jo’s website at www.jobarrett.net
Doorway To His Heart
He stopped a breath away from her lips, his gaze pinned to hers, and decided that she would have to make the final move. 
She leaned closer as he held his ground. He felt her uneven breath against his lips.  She swayed back a little, and for a moment he thought she would turn away, then her mouth pressed against his.  The subtle trembling of her lips, the way she slid her arms tentatively around his neck, spoke more of her feelings than any words ever could. 
She was afraid of her new life, for that is what it was, like a child learning to walk.  He owed her nothing for the pain she’d caused him over the years, but he could not turn his back on her.  He’d loved her once, or thought he had.  Perhaps he still did.  And yet he sensed this was something different, a new love, one just beginning to grow in his chest.
He wrapped his arms around her and pressed her to him as he deepened the kiss.  On a moan, her body folded into his, her delicate curves pressing against him.  Her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling a growl of pure need from deep in his throat. He’d been without a woman for so very long.  Years of celibacy had taken its toll. Celibacy that she demanded, for she knew he would never take a mistress, and she would not have him in her bed.