By the time the coach rolled up the long, winding hill to Pembroke Palace, Blake was ready to throw open the door and leap out of the moving vehicle.
Chelsea had not spoken one word to him since they left the coaching inn. She sat across from him in moody silence, clearly angry with him for not accepting her apology. Or was she legitimately hurt and heartbroken? He did not want to consider that—he did not want to feel anything—so he steered away from the notion. Perhaps she was merely insulted over the fact that he had not remained at her table to eat his dinner. Or maybe it was all an act.
The workings of her mind were a mystery to him, and he was not inclined to analyze any of it. He did not want to try and guess at what she was feeling, because he had no idea if what she’d said at the inn was true. She had done nothing but lie to him from the beginning, and he did not trust her. He trusted no one.
Nor did he want to feel any compassion for her. He did not want to care if she was afraid or lonely for her home and family. He was not going to let it bother him, because if she felt that way, it was her own fault.
Bloody hell. How did she think he had felt, waking up on a strange, remote island, half dead, his body unexplainably impaled? He certainly felt lost and forsaken then, and what had she done? She’d used him for her own perverted ambitions. She tricked him into becoming her stud, and if he had not discovered the ruse for himself the very night his brother came to collect him, he might never have known. Years could have passed without him ever knowing he had a child—conceivably a boy, the future Earl Neufeld!
It sickened him to think of it, made him seethe with disgust and disbelief.
What if one day in the future, not knowing the young man’s true identity, his own daughter or niece met the young man and fell in love with him? Or wanted to marry him? His family might very well have permitted it.
He slammed his fist down on the windowsill, attracting the others’ attention. They stared at him with questioning eyes, but he ignored them and looked out the mud-splattered window as the coach rumbled heavily up the crest of a hill and moved through the entrance archway to Pembroke Palace.
He sat forward to inspect the massive house in the mist—the place where he had been born and raised.
Sadly, nothing was familiar. He had not recognized the grounds or the lake during the approach, nor was there anything familiar about the house itself, which stretched across the rain-drenched land like a great royal city. It boasted ornamental statues, a massive, grand portico, and a wealthy abundance of columns and finials with flags flying triumphantly in the wind.
It was a palace to rival any other. That much he understood, even without the benefit of his memories. It was a testament to what Rebecca had said to him the other night—that he was a very privileged member of a powerful and renowned English family. He should be thankful.
He reached into his pocket for the watch Chelsea had found on the beach. He checked the time, but still did not recognize the damn thing. He slipped it back into his pocket.
When at last they rolled up to the wide steps at the front entrance, he climbed out of the coach and, without a word to encourage Chelsea or make her feel welcome, offered his arm to her.
He glanced at the clock tower overhead as he escorted her up the steps behind Devon and Rebecca, and felt a strange rush of dread in his core, which he did not fully understand. Was it simply because he knew his father was losing his mind, and that he must marry before Christmas? It didn’t feel like that was the source of it. Perhaps somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind he did remember other things, and now that he was home again, it would all come back to him, as Chelsea had suggested…
They passed through the front door and entered the great marble hall, adorned with portraits, clean white columns, and impressive statues and busts. He looked up at a high frescoed ceiling—a scene of warrior angels battling their enemies against a vivid blue sky, dotted with white clouds. It had been painted by a gifted artist. The colors were subdued, yet vibrant, and the details were well-thought-out. All the noise and action was there for an appreciative art lover to admire. He was, in a word, mesmerized.
When at last he tore his gaze away, he noted that his brother was watching him intently.
“It was painted in 1612 by Ramon Junius,” Devon said. “And there is another of his great works in the chapel.”
“It’s very impressive.” Blake looked up again, but his attention quickly darted to a woman standing under the keystone arch to a gallery beyond the main hall. She stopped and placed a hand over her heart, then picked up her skirts and dashed toward him.
Devon leaned in and whispered, “Your mother, the duchess.”
He was grateful for the clarification, for he would never have guessed this beautiful, golden-haired woman was a day over thirty-five. She was slender and lovely, with youthful blue eyes and an ivory complexion.
But how could any man not recognize his own mother?
“Blake, my son.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and wept into his shoulder. “I thought you were dead.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” he assured her, even though it was not entirely true.
Drawing away from him, still half weeping with joy, she acknowledged Chelsea at his side.
“Mother,” Devon said, stepping forward—and again Blake was grateful for his brother’s helpful interruption—“this is Lady Chelsea Campion. She found Blake in a sea cave in Jersey and saved his life.”
The duchess’s eyes warmed instantly. “Oh, my dear. How can we ever thank you?”
“That is completely unnecessary, Your Grace,” Chelsea replied. “I only did what any person would have done in such circumstances.”
Hardly, Blake thought.
“I will want to hear everything,” his mother said. “I must know what happened to you. Every detail.”
Just then a lanky, elderly gentleman marched out of nowhere, startling all of them with his harried gait and panicked expression. His frizzy white hair flew about in all directions, and he wore nothing on his feet—no shoes, no stockings, nothing.
“This is your father,” Devon quickly said. “Say not a word about your memory loss. Pretend you know him.”
“Where the devil have you been?” the duke demanded as he came to a halt in front of Blake. “Did you find Garrett?”
“No, I did not.”
The man’s wild eyes darted to Chelsea. “Is this your wife?”
“No.”
“Why not?” His gaze traveled from her face to the hem of her skirts. “She’s pretty enough.”
To his surprise, Chelsea smiled and curtsied. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Blake was not charmed, however. Turning to her, at his side, he spoke in a cool tone. “She is just a guest.”
The duke examined her with a critical eye. He circled around her, looked down at her hips and backside, and squinted closely at the back of her head.
Blake took an assertive step forward to intercede, for he did not like any man’s eyes on her that way, but Devon stopped him with a hand and discreetly shook his head.
“She would make a good wife,” the duke said, coming around to her front again. “Why won’t you have her? What’s wrong with you? Are you blind? Or too fussy?”
Blake wasn’t sure if he should laugh or hit something. This was completely absurd.
“We are just acquaintances, Your Grace,” Chelsea said. “We met only recently.”
“Ah,” the duke said, winking playfully at her. “Well, perhaps you will win his heart yet, my young beauty. Stranger things have happened, when lovers meet at Pembroke.” He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “We have secret passages, you know, from room to room. That’s why our shooting parties are always so popular. The gentlemen go out with the guns during the day, and bring them out fully loaded again at night, if you grasp my meaning.”
The duchess cleared her throat and took her husband by the arm. “Come Theodore, it’s almost time for dinner. You must go and get ready. We’re having beef tonight.”
“Beef you say?” He seemed to forget what they had been discussing, as well as the fact that his son had just returned after being missing for a month.
Blake glanced down at Chelsea.
“What an interesting man your father is,” she said. “He has a sense of humor.”
Rebecca smiled at her. “He certainly has his moments, but we do love him.”
“No doubt,” Chelsea replied.
Blake could only shake his head. “Where are my rooms?” he asked, because he needed to get the hell away from all these people he did not know.
That night, Blake sat up in bed and shouted into the darkness.
His gaze darted from the unlit fireplace to the window, then back and forth between the various pieces of heavy furniture adorning the room. Where the hell was he?
It took him a moment to remember that this was Pembroke Palace and he had returned to his home that very day, and this was his own private bedchamber. He had slept here since he was a boy.
The dream flashed again in his mind.
Tossing the covers aside, he leaped out of bed and strode to the table in the far corner of the room, where all his sketches were strewn about in a disorganized pile. Moonlight shone in through the paned window. It provided sufficient light to see the papers, which he sorted through with frantic hands, searching feverishly for the one he wanted.
At last he found it—the sketch he had done of Chelsea that first day, when she took him down to the beach to sit on the rocks.
He held it up to the moonlight and focused on the first thing he had drawn when a pencil found its way into his hand—the emblem in the corner. The octagonal shape he somehow knew but could not explain.
A sudden, violent rage erupted in his gut, and he clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to snarl like an animal and throw this bloody table out the window.
But why was he so angry? Why did he want to grab someone by the throat and squeeze? If only he could remember…
Or had he already strangled someone?
He dropped the sketch as if it had caught fire, and turned his hands over to look at his palms. Terror gripped his mind, and he backed away from the table and bumped into the bedpost.
He put a fist to his forehead and shut his eyes, straining to remember something. Anything. But all he could think of was Chelsea. He wanted her here, close to him, even after all that had passed between them.
He turned and started for the door. He had no idea what room she was in, but he had to find her. He needed her calm presence. He needed to talk to her about the dream and see her familiar face, smell her hair and hold her.
He stopped himself.
Looking back at his disheveled bed, he rummaged around inside his mind for composure, and cursed this wretched yearning. Bloody hell, it was like some sort of addiction! She was the only person in the world he knew intimately, the only one who was familiar to him, especially now that he was in a strange place again.
That alone was why he wanted her, he told himself. There was no other reason.
Blake shut his eyes and remembered that he had a life of his own now, which included a great home with three brothers and a sister, and a duke and duchess for parents.
He did not need a scheming vixen he could not trust, except for the fact that she might be carrying his child. If not for that, he would have left her behind in Jersey without a single glance over his shoulder.
Breathing slowly, he tried again to calm the unexplainable wrath he still felt from the dream, and tried instead to focus on what it meant. He returned to the sketch on the table, picked it up and looked at it in the bluish moonlight. All he saw, however, was the portrait of Chelsea, which he had drawn while sitting on the rocks, the day after they made love for the first time. He could almost feel the sea breezes of Jersey blowing through the room. He could smell the salt in the air, hear the eternal hiss and roar of the ocean, and the seabirds calling out to one another.
Still fighting his stubborn desire to see her, he picked up his pencil and began sharpening it, then settled down on the bed to put the images he saw in his mind down onto paper. He hoped it would be enough to satisfy him.