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“ARE YOU SAYING,” THE duke said, “that I’m married to her?”
Genevieve’s heart tumbled.
This was the end.
This was when he would denounce her. Vicious laughter was the best she could hope for. The worst probably involved a trip to the magistrate and permanent dismissal from society.
Genevieve wanted to fling herself onto the floor and disappear into the cracks in the floorboards. Escaping through the window seemed like a tolerable solution, and she calculated the risk of leg breaking.
If she’d changed her name once, she could change it again...right? This time it would be her idea.
But Genevieve didn’t sprint toward the window, and she didn’t collapse onto the floor.
She stood steady: not because staying in her place was correct or honorable—she was quite certain her mother would appreciate the distraction if the duke began speaking about pistols and false names. Unfortunately, her legs had turned to lead.
The duke surveyed her. His eyes seemed filled with wonder: no doubt, he was appalled she could have lied thus.
Mr. Ackley had noticed the question in the duke’s voice, and he frowned. His eyes narrowed, retaining a focus solely on the duke.
“I find it most odd that you are unsure,” Mr. Ackley said.
Genevieve’s breath halted. Her body forgot inhalation and exhalation. No doubt, at any moment, her body would even forget how to stand, as if determined to find all the ways in which she could be humiliated.
“Perhaps I should explain,” Genevieve blurted.
All eyes fixed on her. Mrs. Ackley’s gaze was slightly bored, as if the conversation had drifted away from niceties of conversation, ones that might lead to proposals of tea and sweets in the drawing room. Similarly, Billy was also unruffled, immune to the ominous notes of the duke’s question.
Her mother’s and Mr. Ackley’s expressions were less sanguine. Fear darted in her mother’s face. If her mother knew a way to get out of this, she would have already attempted to rectify the situation. Mr. Ackley seemed distrustful, a lack of faith that she trusted was no impediment to the successful fulfillment of his position in the vicarage.
But the duke’s reaction concerned her the most.
The duke furrowed his handsome brow, and he scrunched his equally delectable lips to the side, as if he were a schoolboy searching in the furthest recesses of his mind for an obscure mathematical formula.
Tension moved through Genevieve. The duke had seemed surprisingly calm now, and she didn’t want him to recall all the things he disliked about her. She didn’t want revulsion to show on his face, and she wished things had been different, and that she’d never harmed him.
This was going to go terribly.
He would laugh and ridicule her. He would tell all the ton. She would be disgraced.
The duke tilted his head determinedly, as if willing some information to fall to the forefront of his mind.
Genevieve stared at him.
The man she knew would be venturing into a tirade now. He would be listing her defects with the glee of someone eager to obtain a refund.
“Yes, you’re married,” Mama told him.
Genevieve jerked her head toward her mother, and her mouth fell open.
Her mother frowned slightly, and Genevieve hastened to close her mouth.
“Don’t you remember?” her mother asked.
The duke shook his head.
Genevieve waited for him to protest, but instead, the man smiled at her.
The wide smile toppled her, and for a moment, she imagined they were truly married, and that he was truly happy with her.
Then his face sobered, and he turned to her mother. “I should remember. I don’t know why I can’t remember.”
“You had a knock on your head,” her mother said smoothly. “I’d imagine you’ll remember soon.”
“You mean, he doesn’t remember being married?” Mr. Ackley scrutinized the duke. His thin eyebrows moved together, as if joining forces might yield a better view.
“She does have a plain face,” Mrs. Ackley said.
“Nonsense,” the duke said. “She is beautiful.”
Heavens.
Was the duke not feigning innocence?
Only worry seemed to be on his face.
“What precisely can you remember?” Genevieve’s voice shook, and when he stared at her, his eyes were wide with puzzlement.
In that moment, Genevieve would have favored it if he’d ventured into a diatribe in which she starred as the antagonist.
“Do you know the date?” her mother asked.
“1815,” the duke said hopefully.
Mr. Ackley emitted a sigh. “No, dear child. That’s wrong.”
“My son would know,” Mrs. Ackley said proudly.
“I am afraid,” Mr. Ackley said, “that you may have temporarily lost your memory. This is 1821.”
*
1821.
“You must be jesting,” Sebastian said.
The people’s expressions remained sober, and the air grew hot and sticky.
The sour-faced vicar did not seem prone to jesting, but this was the first time Sebastian had met him. Perhaps this Mr. Ackley told everyone he encountered who’d just woken up from slumber that he was living in a new year.
Sebastian looked at the two women, but they appeared horror-stricken.
“It can’t be 1821,” Sebastian said. “It’s 1815. 1821 is six years away.” He shook his head firmly. “No, it can’t be 1821. That would be absurd. You must be mistaken.”
“I am never mistaken,” Mrs. Ackley said firmly. “Neither is my husband.”
Mr. Ackley gave her hand an affectionate squeeze.
“I know this must be a shock,” the older blonde woman said.
Her voice was kind, but he couldn’t trust her. Not when she was saying such impossible things.
“It’s not 1821,” Sebastian said. “I would remember something from the past six years.”
“Why don’t you have some more coffee?” the older blonde woman—his mother-in-law—asked.
Sebastian took a long sip. How could it be 1821? How had he lost six years? Damnation, how had he managed to forget he was married?
“We’re really married?” he asked the woman everyone said was his wife.
“Yes,” her mother said quickly. “You are. You—er—hit your head. No doubt, you’ll remember everything soon.”
Sebastian nodded slowly. His head did ache. He moved his hand to his head, but touched a coarse cloth instead of his hair. He frowned.
“Better not disturb your bandage,” the woman said.
A dull ache moved through Sebastian.
Perhaps everyone in this room was correct. Perhaps he had forgotten six whole years.
“I know this is a shock,” his wife said, his voice tentative. She moved her long lashes down, and he had an odd urge to put his arm about her waist and comfort her. “You must be appalled.”
His eyes widened. “Not in the least.”
She looked at him skeptically.
“I’m just perplexed I could possibly forget that I was married to an angel such as you,” he admitted.
She tilted her head and stared at him.
Had he been failing to tell her how beautiful she was? Angels themselves could hardly compete, and they had long feathered wings.
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he said, his voice solemn.
“You don’t mean that,” her voice trembled.
“I do.”
“He’s forgotten all other people,” Mrs. Ackley said drily.
Sebastian frowned and turned toward her, despite the ache that sudden movements seemed to cause him. He winced.
“Please do not insult my wife,” he told her.
Mrs. Ackley widened her eyes.
“She is an angel.”
“Angels aren’t found in cottages in Cornwall,” Mrs. Ackley said.
“And yet, here she is,” Sebastian said.
Mrs. Ackley glowered. “But—”
“My son-in-law needs some rest,” the older blonde woman said quickly. “This has been much news for him.”
“Very well, Mrs. Potter,” the vicar said.
Sebastian’s wife’s manner seemed nervous, like a bird that had flown into a house by accident and was fluttering its wings, anxious for a way out.
“I must have frightened you,” he said. “But you needn’t worry any longer.”
“Oh.”
He nodded firmly. “I’m awake now. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But he needs his sleep,” Mrs. Potter said, taking his wife’s arm and leading her out.
Sebastian frowned.
Personally, it seemed he’d been doing quite a bit of sleeping already. It seemed the last thing he required was more.
But his head still felt heavy, and he frowned.
How could he have forgotten everything? He’d heard of it happening to other people, but he’d never quite believed the stories.
Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would remember everything.
He smiled, then settled back underneath his blanket. Even though he doubted he’d been up for even a single hour, his eyelids grew heavy. His muscles ached, and he tried not to imagine his head hitting a rock and being flung back and forth through the ocean, his location determined by the whims of nature, rather than himself.