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IT HAD BEEN EASIER to despise the duke before.
Guilt moved through Genevieve. The duke should be upset he’d lost his memory, but instead, he only seemed concerned that he’d been an unsatisfactory husband. Somehow, she hadn’t associated the duke with a robust moral code, but he seemed completely in possession of one now. He would loathe her when he woke up, and this time, she would deserve all his wrath.
Genevieve’s heart tightened. This time, she didn’t want to disappoint him.
The duke took her hands in his and gazed deeply into her eyes. “I promise I will be a better man for you.”
Goodness gracious.
Her knees quivered, as if she were a newborn calf.
The light shone upon the duke’s hair, playing in its sandy-colored strands. His head was still bandaged, but it didn’t matter. The man still radiated handsomeness, despite having been smashed against a rock and tossed through waves, as if he were a diamond that could withstand everything. The man practically gleamed. His teeth were a healthy white, and though his skin was paler than before, it only caused his appearance to conjure reminders of statues chiseled by Italian sculptors who’d made it their mission to devote themselves to the beauty of the male form.
He pulled her toward him, and in the next moment, Genevieve was encompassed by warmth and wonderfulness. Her heart pitter-pattered, and for a moment, she forgot to worry about her family.
“I’m enjoying getting to know you again.” His deep voice rumbled pleasantly. It seemed absurd that people paid to listen to performances of cellos and basses, when obviously his voice sounded more pleasant than anything the finest luthier could create.
He smoothed her locks fondly, and his eyes sparkled. “I’m so happy you’re my wife, Genevieve.”
Then he tilted his head, and—
Heavens.
He was going to kiss her.
Wasn’t that what married men did? They kissed their wives? In fact, Genevieve was under the impression they were prone to doing much more than kissing, given the giggles she sometimes overheard when the maids at her former manor house spoke about such things.
Her heart hammered.
She couldn’t let the duke kiss her. It didn’t matter how much her knees quivered, how perfectly the curves of her body fit against his muscular frame, or how much energy swirled through her now, as if rejoicing in his presence.
He couldn’t kiss her because he wasn’t her husband. He wasn’t even courting her. He wasn’t even a besotted suitor sneaking her away to a conveniently positioned balcony.
He wasn’t a stranger, but until he’d woken up from his sleep, he’d been an enemy.
And he’ll be an enemy again.
Genevieve stepped back rapidly. Her right foot collided with the step leading to the cottage, and for a dreadful moment, she flayed in the air.
In the next moment, the duke caught her. “My darling.”
“My... darling,” she echoed reluctantly.
The word felt too correct on her tongue.
“I suppose we’re a clumsy couple,” he said.
“Er—yes.”
“Perfectly matched.”
She nodded, resisting the manner in which her heart ached with each movement. Because it wasn’t true. The duke despised her, even if he’d forgotten now. Once he recovered from his injury, he would remember she shot him, remember she was here with her family under a false name, remember they weren’t married at all.
He would despise her for letting him think they were a couple.
“You’re so thoughtful, my darling.” The duke gave her a beatific smile, then tilted his head again.
Oh, no.
No, no, no.
For a moment, Genevieve considered succumbing to his kiss, but in the next moment, reason prevailed. She scrambled from his clutches, ignoring the hurt look that flitted upon his handsome face.
Her heart tumbled. “I—I should go.”
“Where?”
“Just household things,” she said brightly. “And—er—you need to rest.”
He nodded, then the edges of his lips extended upward. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll remember everything.”
She forced herself to return his smile. “Perhaps!”
“I’ll—er—return to my room,” the duke said.
“Splendid,” she said, conscious she was nodding with an unwarranted enthusiasm. “Do you remember the way?”
“I do,” his voice rumbled in that intriguing manner again, and Genevieve averted her gaze, suddenly glad her heart was safely ensconced inside her, and the duke could not see the rapidity with which it beat in his presence. She opened the door to the cottage, then hurried to the kitchen, lest he attempt another kiss at the door of the bedroom.
She had a horrible feeling her cheeks were flushed. When the duke remembered everything, she didn’t want him to think she’d pretended to be his wife because of some youthful besottedness. He shouldn’t know her heart fluttered in his presence, or that her knees were prone to tremble, as if recognizing their proper position in his presence was horizontal.
Genevieve’s heart trembled. The duke had tried to kiss her.
Her heart pounded, and she forced herself to slow down. Naturally, the duke had attempted to kiss her: he thought she was his wife. Kissing was one of those parts of marriage no one ever saw married couples do, but which seemed to be the chief content of whispers. Genevieve doubted the man tended to go about staring deeply into people’s eyes and angling his head otherwise. Butterflies still occupied her chest, fluttering with glee.
He’d almost kissed her.
And Genevieve had wanted to kiss him. It would have been easy to part her lips slightly. It would have been simple for her to relax into his strong, broad arms and listen as he continued to compliment her.
But it would have been impossible.
The duke had never married her. He’d never proposed, and he’d never ventured into even the most basic form of courtship with her.
She was lying to him. It would be terribly wrong for them to kiss, even if he did think they were already married.
Genevieve sat down, then stood rapidly. Energy pulsed through her, and she paced the room.