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“WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?” Genevieve asked, as soon as Mr. and Mrs. Ackley left.
“You didn’t like the visit?” Mama asked, an innocent sound to her voice.
“He’s going to remember.”
Her mother was silent.
“Won’t he?” Genevieve’s voice trembled, and she realized it wasn’t for concern about herself.
“I don’t know,” her mother admitted.
Genevieve widened her eyes.
“P-Probably,” her mother stammered. “Almost certainly.” She frowned. “Though one can’t be certain.”
“People don’t simply lose their memories,” Genevieve said crossly. “The whole thing is unlikely.”
“Hitting one’s head when swimming is also unlikely. Some Corsican upstart wanting to be emperor was unlikely. Losing all one’s money is unlikely.”
Genevieve turned sharply to her mother, but her mother averted her gaze. Instead, she rose.
“The important thing is that the duke cannot remember he is not married to you. He cannot even remember he is a duke. He’s simply Mr. Sebastian Seagull.”
“That is a tragedy,” Genevieve stated.
“Perhaps.” Mama gave a nonchalant shrug. “But we were also in the midst of a tragedy. The duke desired to evict us. And we didn’t have anything to fall back on.”
Genevieve was silent.
“Besides, he doesn’t seem to mind thinking he is married to you.” Mama smiled.
Heavens.
When was the last time her mother had grinned in quite that matter?
Genevieve drew back and assessed her. “You do know I am not truly married to him?”
“Naturally.” Mama sounded affronted.
“So, I haven’t become a duchess or anything.”
This time, Mama seemed to stare at her a second too long for Genevieve’s comfort. “Would you like to be a duchess?”
Genevieve raised her torso. “Naturally not.”
“I thought every woman wanted to become a duchess.”
“Every schoolgirl perhaps. Not woman.”
“Didn’t you form a Duke Hunters Club at your finishing school?”
Genevieve’s cheeks pinkened, but she shook her head adamantly. “Juliet formed it. I’m her best friend. Obviously, I was in it.”
“You didn’t decide to ride horses after Juliet declared a passionate affection for them when she was ten.”
“That’s because horses are large and frightening. I’m more sensible than she is.”
Mama still scrutinized her, as if Genevieve had almost given satisfactory answers. “I thought the duke was quite handsome.”
“He despises me.”
“So you keep saying. Did you meet before?”
Genevieve fiddled with a strand of thread that had come loose on her dress. “It’s not important.”
“Hmph.” Her mother seemed dubious, but thankfully did not press.
“He’s bound to be upset when he remembers.”
“Then he’ll be upset. He was upset before, after all.”
Genevieve had to admit her mother did have a point.
“Besides,” Mama continued, “he was planning to stay here. None of his staff will think it odd when he doesn’t return to his estate promptly. And Cornwall is sufficiently far from Hampshire that no one will come pay a call.”
“It’s not right to hide him away.”
Mama shrugged. “He’s recovering from a near-fatal injury in a quiet, peaceful cottage by the seaside. We’re saving him from the hassle of added anxiety and a long carriage journey.”
“We told the Ackley’s he went by the surname Seagull. He remembers up until 1815. He’s going to find that curious.”
Mama shrugged. “People change their names.”
“Rarely.”
“We changed our names. We’ll find a reason.”
Genevieve frowned, then strode toward the door. “He was doing some surveillance work in the Lake District. Perhaps I could tell him he had to change his name for—er—safety purposes.”
Her mother stared at her. “You did know him.”
“Remotely. But I don’t think this will work.”
Her mother touched Genevieve’s shoulder. “I believe we are devoid of choices. This choice will allow him to recover by the sea.”
Her mother’s statement wasn’t enough. It didn’t ease the mix of guilt and sorrow that swept through her, and it seemed highly likely the duke would be furious once he remembered.
Still, she hardly wanted to tell a man who didn’t remember anything that everything they’d said had been a lie. Would he even believe he was a duke? Perhaps not confusing him further was not an ideal option.
Genevieve’s gaze fell on the door to the duke’s room. What must he be thinking? The man must be frightened.
“Perhaps the duke is hungry,” Genevieve mused.
Her mother’s eyes glimmered. “Perhaps. You must prepare him a meal.”
Genevieve prepared a tray of food for him, then knocked on the door.
“Enter.” The duke’s tenor voice drifted through the wooden door, and despite herself, Genevieve shivered.
“It’s you.” The duke smiled, and she wanted to tell him this was all wrong, and that he hated her.
“I made some food for you.”
The duke shot her a grateful look and soon began to eat.
“Come, sit near me.”
Genevieve moved toward him tentatively, and he frowned.
“I suppose I must look quite frightful,” he said.
She raised her eyebrows. “Nonsense. Your head is just bandaged.”
The duke smiled at her.
Genevieve pulled up a small wooden chair. “I’m sorry the toast is burned.”
“It’s no matter.”
“And I’m sorry the eggs are runny. They’re supposed to be harder. And—er—contain salt.”
“It’s quite fine,” the duke said amiably.
And Genevieve had the odd impression it was.
“How long have we been married?” the duke asked.
Genevieve hesitated. “Not long.”
“Oh.”
“Was it a nice wedding?”
“Er—yes.”
The duke smiled. “Forgive me, that was a foolish question.”
“Indeed?” she squeaked.
He nodded. “Any wedding with you would be bound to be spectacular.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks warmed again.
The duke placed his plate on the side table, then placed his legs gingerly on the floor.
Genevieve widened her eyes. “You should rest!”
“I promise I won’t overly exert myself.”
“Splendid.” Her voice still wobbled.
He flashed a wide smile at her. “Don’t worry. Everyone has always said I’m very healthy. I’m certain I’ll remember soon.”
Heavens.
“What’s your name?” her faux husband asked.
“Genevieve.”
“That’s a lovely name.”
“Thank you.” Her arms trembled, and she smoothed her hair with unnecessary frequency.
He took her hand in his matter-of-factly, and she felt a pleasant jolt of warmth despite the relative coolness of his palm.
She stared at their entwined hands.
“I don’t remember the first time we met, but I am certain it was memorable.”
Her smile halted, and she averted her gaze. “We just...fell in love.”
“We did?”
She nodded, despising the lie and the manner in which the duke’s eyes lit up. Heat swirled through her, and she rose. “I-I should let you rest.”
“I’m not tired,” he said. “Besides, this is your room too.”
She stared at him.
He couldn’t think they shared a room.
Perhaps married couples in manor houses had separate bedrooms, but married couples who lived in tiny cottages were apt to share bedrooms.
“I realize you may not remember we no longer share a room,” Genevieve blurted.
The duke widened his eyes.
That hadn’t come out correctly. Genevieve tucked a lock behind her ear.
“Because my mother is here,” she stammered. “And the house is small.”
He tilted his head, then grinned. “Are we very...noisy?”
Genevieve’s throat dried, no doubt because someone had set fire to her face.
“Let me give you a tour of the cottage.”
*
SEBASTIAN ATTEMPTED to hide his disappointment at his wife’s abrupt change of topic. He supposed it might be painful for her to recount experiences she considered unforgettable, and he vowed to do his best to remember soon.
His head still pounded, and his limbs felt stiff and raw. “I must apologize.”
Her eyes widened further.
He squeezed her hand. “I shouldn’t have endangered our family by swimming. I’m sorry.”
She stared at him. “You love swimming. It was an accident. You just hit your head on a rock.”
He frowned. “I thought all the rocks in the ocean were on the ground. Rocks are rather difficult to float.”
“Er—yes,” she looked away. “That’s true. I believe you were trying to swim quickly when the tide was still low. You were—er—distracted.”
“Oh.” He looked at her. “Were you there?”
A horrified expression flitted across her face, but she nodded. “Yes.”
“Well, that explains it.”
“You remember?” Her voice wobbled.
He shook his head reluctantly. “How could I not be distracted in the presence of so much beauty?”
Her cheeks pinkened, and she averted her gaze. “Let me show you the corridor.”
He nodded and inched forward, still clutching her hand.
She opened the door, and they moved from the white-washed room to a corridor.
“Do you recognize it?” she asked.
“No.”
For some reason, she seemed relieved.
“I’ll—er—show you the kitchen.” She moved slowly, matching his pace perfectly. The woman was so thoughtful. He’d chosen well, and he beamed.
He knew he should be distraught that he’d forgotten his memory, that he’d lost years of his life, and yet, right now, he was simply happy he’d evidently landed in the correct place.
His wife stopped and gestured at a room filled with pots and pans and a large fire. “This is the kitchen.”
“Ah...” He tried to nod knowledgeably. “I—er—don’t remember it.”
“That’s fine,” she said.
He stared at the room. “It looks small.”
“Well, this is its size.”
Hmmm...
Somehow, he’d expected more. There was hardly any counter space. “It must be difficult for the servants to cook with this limited space.”
“Well, she manages.”
He paused. “There’s only one servant?”
His wife nodded. “Yes.”
Damnation.
Most households had more than one servant.
“I’ll—er—show you the drawing room,” she said, distracting him from looking at the narrow, dark kitchen. “It’s on the other side of the corridor.”
“Very well,” he said.
Hopefully, the drawing room was more suited to his expectations.
They strode over the corridor, and Sebastian realized no rugs covered the floorboards. He frowned slightly. “Did you remove any rugs?”
She shook her head, a bemused expression on her face.
“I thought perhaps you’d removed them so I wouldn’t fall.”
“Oh.” She chewed her lower lip. “There weren’t any rugs.”
Even though they moved slowly, they soon arrived at the drawing room.
Sebastian stared at a shabby couch, devoid even of accompanying shabby armchairs. A table and chairs were in one corner of the room.
“Is that the dining room?” he asked warily.
She nodded, assessing him.
Blast it.
“So, the dining room is in the same room as the drawing room?”
“Yes.”
He exhaled. He was happy to have a beautiful, lovely wife, but he was certain he’d imagined that he would be in a better position.
He frowned. Ocean waves sounded, and a sliver of blue was visible from a window. He moved toward the window, dropping her hand.
She followed him slowly. “Perhaps you remember that?”
He shook his head, and her shoulders lowered a fraction.
A thought occurred to him, and he scrunched his forehead together. “Perhaps this isn’t our only home. Do we have another house too? A larger house?”
That must be it.
His parents weren’t titled, but they were members of the gentry, respectable in a certain shabby manner. They’d sent him to a good school.
She shook her head. “No, it’s simply this one.”
His skin must be turning a ruddy color.
“Let’s go outside,” his wife suggested, and he nodded.
Yes, evidently, he’d selected a quiet life.
He followed her outside, stopping briefly on a chair in the corridor to put on some shoes. Soon, they were in the open air. He inhaled the salty scent of the ocean, and he listened to waves rippling against the shore. A warm breeze wafted about them, and he stepped onto long green grass, the verdant color broken only by the occasional wildflower. Bees and butterflies flew about cheerfully, and white cliffs curved along the horizon.
“It’s beautiful,” he breathed.
His wife smiled. “You enjoy Cornwall.”
His gaze fell to a chaise.
“That’s yours,” she said.
He stared at glossy painted wheels and a smooth, gleaming surface. “That looks expensive.”
She nodded, and a worried look came on her face.
“Do we have horses too?”
“Two horses.” She pointed to them.
“What are their names?”
She hesitated. “Theseus and Pegasus.”
The horses looked similarly immaculate. “These look purebred.”
“They probably are.”
“Probably?”
“We didn’t discuss it.”
Sebastian frowned and marched toward the chaise and examined it. “This is appalling.”
“What’s wrong?” His wife’s voice trembled, and his heart ached.
“The chaise is beautiful. And the horses are beautiful.”
She stared at him, clearly puzzled.
Blast it.
What kind of a husband had he been? What kind of a man?
“It seems, my dear, that we are poor.”
“You expected otherwise?” Her voice trembled.
He nodded curtly. “Indeed.”
“Most people are poor,” she said. “And we do have a cottage for ourselves.” She frowned and amended her statement. “At least, we have a cottage that we share with my mother and younger brother.”
“Hmph.” He moved his gaze toward the horses. They looked incredible, with shiny coats, symmetrical faces and immaculate hooves. His heart twisted. “I am afraid I spent all our money on horses and a chaise. They’re the only thing here of any value.”
“Oh.” She fluttered long dark lashes up. “Is that why you’re upset?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid I must have been a dreadful husband.”
There was a brief silence.
“Not too dreadful,” she said.
“No. That drawing room even had a leak in the ceiling. Disgraceful.”
Her lips twitched. “You noticed it?”
He nodded adamantly. “How could I not?”
She surveyed him for a moment. “That is a very wise comment.”
Sebastian swept his gaze back to the countryside. “Do we have any land?”
“I believe the property extends in that direction.” She pointed.
The land was sloped and rocky, unideal for a farm. It wasn’t even ideal for horses. He sighed.
“Do I have a job?” he asked hopefully.
She shook her head.
Blast it.
Perhaps his cousin, the duke, was funding them. Or did he have an inheritance?
He stared at her. “Did my parents die?”
Her eyes widened. “Yes.”
He tightened his fists. Anger moved through him. They’d been old and not well, and he couldn’t be shocked, but the loss still jolted him.
“I’m so sorry,” his wife said.
“How did they die?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she admitted.
His eyes widened. “I didn’t mention it to you?”
She looked away. “It happened before we met.”
Oh.
Well, that explained it. No doubt, he had some income from them.
He gazed at his beautiful wife and he vowed he would make some corrections. He didn’t know what had happened in the past six years, but he hadn’t planned to have such a lovely wife, only to force her to live poorly. He certainly wasn’t going to continue such complacency.
“I promise I’ll be a better husband to you,” he said.
“You already are,” she protested.
He gazed at the cottage. “I can be better. I should protect you, and not risk my life by doing dangerous athletics.”
“I don’t think swimming is generally seen as dangerous.”
“I almost died,” he said solemnly.
Her gaze sobered. “I’m glad you didn’t.”