Tempting the Bride

chapter 10



It was rather late the next afternoon when Hastings’s carriage pulled up to his town house. Venetia had decided to throw a celebratory family picnic. Society had deserted London for the country, and they enjoyed an open-air feast in an uncluttered park on Venetia’s best tartan blankets, drinking toasts to Venetia’s baby and Helena’s return to health.

Hastings and Helena alighted from the carriage. She set her hand on his elbow. “So this is what a great deal of new money buys.”

“Among other things.” His grandfather had been a mere country lawyer. His uncle, however, had accumulated vast wealth via the manufacture of industrial machinery. “I know you do not mind the fragrance of new money, as you yourself are in a commercial endeavor.”

“Indeed not. I like money very well. It is the means to independence and authority.”

As she had no recollection of his staff, he assembled them again to welcome her home.

“Thank you,” she murmured, once the servants had dispersed to their usual stations.

The closer they grew, the more he dreaded the eventual return of her memory. Yet in the shadow of this very fear, a seed of hope was germinating. “It is my pleasure and privilege to pave the way for you, madam.”

“Ah, this is not fair,” she teased. “A man with the voice of a siren shouldn’t also possess the honeyed tongue of a Casanova.”

Compliments—he couldn’t get enough of her compliments. “What can I say? God was in a generous mood the day He made me.”

She snorted good-naturedly. “But let it be noted He ran out of modesty before it was your turn.”

“Let those who have faults be modest, and let me be an unabashed paean to His power and glory.”

She laughed. “Blasphemy.”

“You like it,” he murmured.

She cast him a long, lingering look. “Will we stand about all day or will you eventually show me to my rooms?”

His heart thumped—this time not about the possibly imminent return of her memory. “Let us proceed upstairs, then.”

She lowered her voice. “Couldn’t you have said that without sounding blatantly suggestive?”

“Couldn’t you have heard my innocent words without twisting them into a blatant suggestion?” he whispered back.

She shook her head, grinning. The sight of her, delighted and companionable, was a dart in his heart. Millie was right: He should have admitted his true sentiments years ago. Then he wouldn’t be in such a state, dreading that his happiness would be ripped from him in the next minute.

They climbed the steps arm in arm. Before the door of her apartment, he swung her up into his arms. Almost as if she’d been expecting the gesture, she laced her hands behind his neck and turned her face into his jacket. “Hmm, I like how you smell.”

“How do I smell?” he asked, setting her down.

“Of tweed, leather-bound books, and a hint of tobacco. Like someone you aren’t—an old-fashioned country squire, perhaps.”

Her hands slowly slid down his sleeves, rather obviously feeling the musculature of his arms.

“By the way,” he murmured, “in case you haven’t noticed, I am also perfectly built.”

She tapped his jaw. “Cheeky.”

Her eyes brimmed with fondness. His heart stopped: This was how he’d always hoped she’d look upon him someday.

Bibliophile that she was, she headed in the direction of the bookshelves. “Go into the bedroom first,” he requested.

She turned around. “Did the good Lord also forget subtlety when He made you?”

“No, He didn’t. But He certainly gave you a dirty mind, my dear. I want you to see the bedroom, not use it.”

“Is it exceptionally pretty?”

He inhaled. “I think so.”

She opened the door. “So even if I don’t like it, I must shower compliments upon…”

Her voice trailed off. Her face lifted and her head swiveled slowly, taking in the panorama that had taken him years to complete, through many a frustrated Season, when reaching her had seemed no more feasible than holding starlight in his hands.

“Did you commission this?” she asked, her voice awed—reverent, almost.

His heart fell back into place. “I painted it myself.”

“It’s stunning. Breathtaking.” She turned around. “For me?”

“Of course.”

She approached one of the walls, the one with the view of the distant river, and touched her finger to a line of washing strung between two walls. “My goodness, did you paint these from the etchings I brought back from Tuscany? I recognize so many details.”

“Now you remember.”

When he’d visited Hampton House, not infrequently would he see her in her room, poring over old photographs, or standing before those prints from Italy, as if she were once again walking under the Tuscan sky, with her mother by her side.

“Did I not remember earlier?”

“No.”

“Have the etchings been lost?”

“No, but you haven’t visited the house in years. And even when you did, I doubt you took time to study the etchings. One stops paying attention to that which has been around a long, long time.”

He, too, had been around a long, long time.

She bent her head for a moment, as if deep in thought. Then she closed the distance between them and traced a finger over one of his brows. “It was utterly inexcusable on my part to not have recognized it earlier. Rest assured it is no reflection on your art, but only a terrible statement of my inattentiveness.”

He’d asked himself many times, in pique and in despair, why he loved this one infuriatingly unreceptive woman. He could not remember now why he’d ever doubted. “You like the murals, then?”

“Yes.” She broke away to admire them again. “I love them. I have never seen anything so beautiful.”

He watched her hand glide gently over the world he’d painstakingly created for her. “Then that’s all that matters.”

Helena could not quite understand the pinched sensation in her chest.

She enjoyed the sight, the sound, the smell, and the feel of her husband. She enjoyed his company. And she enjoyed being the object of his affection. Why then was she not beaming broadly? Why did she feel as close to tears as she did to laughter?

“Would you like to see the books you’ve published?” asked Hastings.

“You have them here?”

“Of course.”

So many of her questions were answered with “of course,” as if the alternative were unthinkable. As if this were the only possible path for him to have taken in life. As if she were his only possible path.

They walked down the stairs arm in arm, with her glancing at him every other second. The sight of his spectacular profile only caused her feelings to grow more unruly, a chaos of fierce, sweet pain.

His study was everything a study ought to be: bookshelves reaching to the ceiling along every wall, a comfortable corner set up for reading, and a pervasive fragrance of leather binding and book dust.

He took out a key from a large desk before the windows and opened a cabinet, the doors of which had been inset with panes of frosted glass. The cabinet contained some forty, forty-five volumes.

An indescribable joy overtook her—this was her life’s work—until she began to examine the spines for the titles.

“The books on the bottom are the vanity projects that you charge to publish,” he explained. “The books in the middle are those you publish primarily for their commercial appeal. And those on top are the ones you felt driven to bring out.”

“Oh good,” she said, relieved. “All these spiritualist manuals in the middle, I was beginning to fear I’d taken a fancy to séances. Do they sell well?”

“According to you, they do.”

She inspected the books on the top shelf. The ones having to do with helping women obtain employment and education she certainly endorsed, but some of the other titles baffled her. “Are you sure these haven’t been misplaced? I am driven to produce volumes of history on East Anglia? Or did I develop an all-encompassing love of that region at some point during my forgotten years?”

“No, but you did become a great friend to the author of these works.”

There was a tightness to his voice. She glanced at him curiously, then pulled out one of the volumes. Few expenses had been spared in the production. The volume was bound in fine leather, the title gilt-embossed, the pages edged in gold.

“A.G.F. Martin.” She read the name of the author. “I don’t remember him—assuming it is a he.”

At the sound of a carriage coming to a stop before the house, he walked to the window and looked out. “Mr. Martin was a classmate of mine at Christ Church. I introduced the two of you—brought him to Henley Park when Fitz and his wife gave their first country house party.”

He did sound odd. She glanced at him. “You don’t like him?”

He recoiled, as if something unspeakably gruesome took place on the street outside.

“What’s the matter?”

He breathed heavily, as if he’d been running from a gang of murdering thieves. “We have a caller.”

Had the accepted hours for visiting changed so much during her absence of memory? “It’s late. We are not obliged to receive this caller, are we?”

His expression was quite wild, but his words rang with certainty. “We are. Or you are, at least. He is your author and your friend.”

A footman entered. “Mr. Andrew Martin to see you, Lady Hastings. Are you at home to him?”

She looked at her husband. “The same Mr. A.G.F. Martin?”

He turned to the footman. “You may show Mr. Martin here in five minutes.”

“Why make him wait that long?”

His answer was another kiss—this time one that would have made for a proper first kiss. It felt like speaking, almost, to kiss this way, syllables turned into contact of lips. The movement of his lips and tongue said that he adored and cherished her, that he could kiss her like this forever and never stop.

But he did stop. He rubbed her lips with his thumb and sucked in a breath when she licked the pad of his thumb.

“Let’s tell Mr. Martin to come back tomorrow,” she whispered. “I’m not interested in receiving anyone except you.”

“I wish I could.” He set his hands on either side of her head, careful not to hold her too tight. “Whatever happens, remember that I love you. That I have always loved you.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and left. Helena was completely nonplussed—she had no idea she was meant to receive this Mr. Martin by herself.

Why?

The man who walked in a minute later was an agreeable-looking fellow, with an air of scholarship to him—and an air of timidity. He seemed just as surprised as she at the absence of her husband.

“H— I mean, Lady Hastings, how do you do?”

“I am very well, thank you. And you, Mr. Martin? Won’t you have a seat?”

He sat down gingerly, stealing glances toward the door as if expecting Hastings to return any moment. Only after a minute of awkward silence did he clear his throat and turn his full attention to her. “Are you well, H—Lady Hastings?”

She relaxed slightly—this man might not be the most graceful of conversationalists, but she sensed in him a sincerity and much goodwill—at least toward her. “Yes, I am, thank you very much. Although I am sorry to inform you that I have lost a great deal of memories and therefore do not know who you are, except what my husband has told me—that I am your publisher and that he introduced us to each other years ago at my brother’s place in the country.”

Tiny beads of perspiration appeared on Mr. Martin’s face. “You—you lost your memories?”

“As a result of my accident. Apparently I ran into oncoming traffic and received a hard knock to my head.”

He pulled out a neatly folded, snow white handkerchief and dabbed at his upper lip. “You mean to say I am a stranger to you?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She thought she’d made herself perfectly clear from the beginning, but he stilled all the same. His handkerchief hovered in midair, like the white flag held up by a surrender party. “I…I see.”

“Please feel free to tell me anything I need to know. Lord Hastings assured me that I delighted in publishing your books, so I am certain whatever you tell me would be quite welcome.”

Mr. Martin swallowed. “There is—there is not much to tell. I’d always wanted to write histories. When you started your publishing firm, you encouraged—compelled me, I might say—to hand over my manuscripts. The books have been very well received and I am exceedingly grateful to you.”

“That is wonderful to hear. I am glad I’ve been able to be of assistance to one of Lord Hastings’s friends.”

Mr. Martin looked down. He reached for the cup of tea that had been brought for him. She was startled to see that his hand shook.

“I apologize,” she said immediately. “My husband did mention that you were also a dear friend to me. How remiss of me to think of you only as his friend.”

“No, no, if anyone should apologize, it is I. I believe you were coming after me the day of your accident—probably concerning a matter having to do with my latest manuscript.” He laughed a little, not from mirth but from what seemed to be a great and growing uneasiness. “I’m quite despondent to be the cause of so much trouble.”

That could explain some of his discomfort, if he thought himself the culprit in her accident. She felt sorry for him, but she also felt as if she’d rehearsed for one play, but had been thrust onstage in the middle of another. “How can I blame you for my own inattention while crossing the street? And you must not blame yourself, either.”

He raised his face. “That is perhaps easier said than done.”

She realized that he shared her coloring, though his was less intense—reddish brown hair and hazel eyes. “I’m alive and hale—and really not terribly bothered about what I cannot remember.”

His face only became more anguished. Why did he and Hastings both exhibit such extreme reactions? Was it possible he was afraid to lose her as a publisher? “Am I contracted to publish further works by you?”

His teeth clamped over his lower lip. “Yes, two more volumes on the history of Anglia.”

“Then I shall stand by my commitment. And I will read your works and familiarize—or refamiliarize—myself with them, so as to better prepare for your next manuscript. Our publishing agreement will not be in the least affected by my indisposition.”

At her firm reassurance, however, he seemed only to become more dejected. He set down his teacup. “That is most kind of you. I’m glad to see you are doing well, and I really ought not to take up any more of your time.”

He rose and bowed slightly.

“Would you not care to speak to me of your books?” she asked, still disoriented by the peculiarity of his demeanor.

But he’d already left.

Hastings had long considered the addition of the Fitzhugh family to the murals. Their figures would be quite small, their faces too indistinct to be recognizable. But they’d be dressed in English fashion of the previous decade, quite unmistakably a band of tourists.

He traced a finger on the path that wound down the side of a hill. He could put them on the path, and have a breeze lift the ribbons on the ladies’ hats. Their attention could very well be drawn to the ruined monastery on the next hill, except for Helena’s. Her face he would paint turned directly to the viewer—to him.

“Do all my authors act so strangely in my presence?” Her voice came from the door. “And do you always turn white as a sheet and run when one of them comes to call?”

His heart thudded in thunderous relief—Martin in person had not triggered a collapse of the dam that held back the greater reservoir of her memory.

“Who is that man?”

He tensed again. Something in her voice told him that this time her suspicion had been well and truly aroused, that there would be no distracting her with a head of golden curls, no matter how fluffy and springy.

“Do you have any idea why he thought it acceptable to call on me at such an hour? And why, by the way, did you act so strangely?”

He didn’t answer immediately.

Her voice became more insistent. “What are you withholding from me, sir? Why haven’t you looked once in my direction? Do you know that you are appearing quite guilty, even though I can’t fathom what wrongs you might have committed?”

The time for truth, the entire truth, had been thrust upon him.

He slid the pad of his index finger along the top of the wainscoting. “I used to be secretly jealous of Mr. Martin, who was a great favorite of yours,” he said, still without looking at her.

Her tone was one of utter bafflement. “Mr. Martin?”

“Yes, Mr. Martin.”

“But I married you, didn’t I? That ought to have settled the debate of who is my greater favorite.”

His fingers gripped the edge of the wainscoting, as if so flimsy a hold could anchor him in place when the storm came. “We are not married,” he said. “We are only pretending to be married.”

Helena understood the individual words Hastings spoke, but together they made no sense at all. “How can anyone pretend to be married? Did we hold a pretend wedding as well? And why would my family allow such a state of things to stand?” She sucked in a breath. “Or do they even know?”

“They know, but they have no choice but to let the pretense stand, at least to the world at large.”

Various muscles in her face contracted and tensed. She had no idea whether she was grimacing or trying to laugh at the ludicrousness of what he was saying. “Explain yourself.”

He looked skyward, as if praying for a miraculous intervention. “In the life you no longer remember, it was not me you loved, but Mr. Martin.”

Distantly, she marveled that she still remained standing. “I don’t believe you,” she said. Or perhaps she was shouting, for he seemed startled by the vehemence of her words. “I can’t have loved Mr. Martin. I felt nothing—nothing at all—when I saw him.”

“Nevertheless, you have loved him since you were twenty-two years of age,” he said, his eyes melancholy.

Was this a dream from which she couldn’t awaken? Five years of loving Mr. Martin? “Then why didn’t I marry him, if I’d loved him for so long?”

He shrugged. “Circumstances.”

She tried to peer through the curtain in her mind, but her past was as impenetrable as a London pea souper. “He is a gentleman and I am a lady. What kind of circumstances would prevent us from marrying if we so chose?”

“He was already slated to marry someone else—not engaged, but under heavy expectations.” Hastings slanted his lips to one side. “He did not defy those expectations.”

The implication of this last statement thundered in her head. “Mr. Martin is married?”

“Very much so.”

“When did he marry?”

“February of ’ninety-two, six months after you first met.”

She felt as if she’d been shoved to the ground. “And until just before my accident, I was still in love with him?”

“You never took to any other suitor. He and his wife had little to do with each other. In time you persuaded him to have an affair with you.”

She wasn’t just lying on the ground, she was being trampled by a stampede of wildebeests. “What? When?”

A shadow of pain crossed Hastings’s face. “The two of you would be the only ones to know when it started. All I can tell you is that I discovered you in January of this year. Your sister and sister-in-law immediately took you out of the country.”

As well they should—she’d have done the exact same thing.

“Unfortunately the strength of your feelings for him was such that when you returned to London, you sidestepped the surveillance your family put into place, and met him at the Savoy Hotel. That meeting, however, had not been set up by either of you, but by his sister-in-law, intending on exposing wrongdoing on his part.”

Her skeleton felt as if it would rattle apart with the force of her shock. She stared at Hastings, wishing his words would stop. But he went on, his tiding of evil news relentless, inexorable.

“I happen to know the sister-in-law’s husband, who’d said she was up to something. I also happened to intercept the message she’d sent to Mr. Martin, pretending to be you. I followed Mr. Martin from our club to the hotel. When I realized what was happening, I ran up the stairs to warn you, with his sister-in-law coming up the lift at roughly the same time. There wasn’t enough time to get Mr. Martin to safety, so we hid him in the bath and pretended that we had eloped and were enjoying our honeymoon.”

A part of her still hoped he’d shout, “April Fool!” at any moment. But deep in her heart she recognized the inescapability of truth.

She swallowed. “How much time elapsed between the incident at the Savoy Hotel and my accident?”

“Your accident happened the next morning.”

What had Mr. Martin said when he called on her? If anyone should apologize, it is I. I believe you were coming after me the day of your accident—probably concerning a matter having to do with my latest manuscript.

Whatever she’d wanted to speak to him about, it would not have concerned his latest manuscript. She flushed. She could not imagine herself chasing him in broad daylight, so intent that she’d very nearly forfeited her life to that carriage.

“You still don’t remember, do you?” Hastings asked quietly.

She shook her head. Perhaps it was for the best. She was beyond mortified—a married man, and she pursuing him in the streets as if he’d made off with her reticule.

“What did I see in him?” she asked no one in particular. She could not imagine herself breaking all rules of propriety for someone who inspired as little feeling in her as Mr. Martin.

“He was a sweet, openhearted man. You trusted him utterly.”

“My judgment was obviously impaired. I set myself at the risk of ruin, and my family at the risk of utter humiliation and heartache. They would never have been able to acknowledge me again. And my God, Venetia’s baby. I’d never have been able to see my nephew or niece.”

“This is your family we are talking about. They let you become a publisher with little more than a raised brow or two. They would have let you see Venetia’s child, but you would have needed to be extremely discreet.”

She could scarcely breathe for her searing aversion to this reckless, selfish woman who had been described to her.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” he said gently. “You are judging your action—and Mr. Martin’s—without context. He was a winsome young man, very well liked for his bright smiles and good nature. Caving in to his mother’s insistence on the matter of his marriage turned him more timid, more doubtful, and, ultimately, less joyful. But you’d fallen in love with someone who had not yet made that terrible mistake, who was full of hopes, dreams, and a sincere idealism.

“You lost him when you loved him the most, a difficult blow that never quite softened with time. When you met Mr. Martin in subsequent years, you saw not the man he became, but only the one he’d been, the one you’d have gladly married if only you’d had the chance. Perhaps you forgave him too much, but who among us would not wish to be so generously loved and generously forgiven?”

She leaned back against the doorjamb. His kindness was a balm to her badly singed soul. She let herself wallow in the magnificence of his compassion, the sweetness of his friendship.

He took a step toward her, his brow furrowed with concern. “Helena, are you all right? I hope you are not angry that we haven’t told you sooner. It is a complicated story and not always a happy one, and we didn’t quite know how to—”

She held up her hand for him to stop. The only person she was angry at was herself.

“Helena—”

She adjusted the cuff of her right sleeve rather unnecessarily. “Where were you in this doomed, idiotic love affair of mine?”

His surprise at her question was followed by a wistful smile. “On the outside looking in.”

“So all this—” She gestured at the glorious mural he’d created for her and didn’t quite know how to go on.

“I’ve always loved you,” he said, his eyes a blue that was almost violet. “You know this.”

She swallowed a lump in her throat. “I only wonder whether I deserve such devotion.”

“Sometimes people fall in love with those who do not return the same strength of feelings. It is as it is,” he said with a quiet intensity. “What I give, I give freely. You owe me nothing, not love, not friendship, not even obligation.”