Tempting the Bride

chapter 8



Someone was using a chisel on Helena’s skull. She winced and slowly opened her eyes. A plaster medallion greeted her sight—a plaster medallion three feet across in diameter embedded in an unfamiliar ceiling.

Where was she? At a relative’s house? Did her Norris cousins have such a ceiling? Or her Carstairs cousins? She tried to sit up, but her body was heavy and unwieldy, and it took a surprising amount of effort to raise herself to her elbows. The strain hurt her shoulders; the movement made her head throb harder.

The source of illumination in the room was a wall sconce that had been covered with dark paper. She stared at this light—there was something odd about it: It didn’t flicker, but burned with a disconcerting steadiness. Was she—was she looking at an electric light?

Surely not. Electric lights were what inventors demonstrated to curious crowds, not something to be found in an ordinary dwelling.

She forgot about the oddity of the sconce when she realized that she was not alone. A woman in a green dressing gown slept with her head and her folded arms on the edge of Helena’s bed. Venetia. But she looked…older. Quite a bit older.

Behind Venetia was a man Helena had never seen before, sleeping in a chair, his shoulder leaning against the side of a wardrobe. Helena recoiled in alarm and was just about to shake Venetia’s arm when she saw another man dozing with his head tilted back, on a small chaise opposite the bed.

Her mouth opened wide as she recognized Fitz. The difference in his appearance was stark. His face, covered with dark stubble—stubble!—had elongated and sharpened from what she recalled. He no longer looked like the boy she remembered, but a man well into his twenties. To compound her shock, a woman was on the chaise with him, sleeping with her arm around his knees, her head on his thighs.

Was she still dreaming?

She must have made some sound, a whimper perhaps, at the prodigious strangeness of the tableau before her. Her family remained asleep, but a figure in the corner she hadn’t noticed before stirred. The person rose and stepped toward the bed. Another man—was there no end to the irregularity of the situation?

His clothes were crumpled, his necktie unknotted. He was unshaven, his hair longish and messy, blond curls that hadn’t known the comb for a while. And there were circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept for days.

“Helena,” he said softly. “You are awake.”

His voice was oddly familiar. But as she had no idea who he was, she couldn’t possibly have granted him the intimacy of addressing her by her Christian name. She was about to demand his identity—and chastise him for his boldness—when Fitz’s voice came, still slow with sleep. “You are already awake, David? What time is it?”

Helena turned toward him. “What is going on, Fitz? Why do you look—”

“My God, Helena!” Fitz sprang up before he remembered the woman on his lap. He shook her. “Millie, Millie, wake up. Helena is awake.”

The woman bolted upright, nearly banging into his chin. “What? What did you say?”

Fitz was already pulling her to her feet, dragging her to the edge of the bed. He grabbed hold of Helena’s hand. The fine-boned, fine-featured woman he called Millie wrapped her own fingers around their clasped hands.

Her eyes shone with tears. “We were so worried. I cannot tell you how happy I am you’ve come to.”

Helena was shocked to see that Fitz’s eyes—at least his eyes still looked the same—were also damp. And he seemed utterly incapable of speech. Her stomach twisted. “What is the mat—”

Before she could finish her question, Venetia squealed. “Helena! My goodness, Helena! Christian, she’s awake!”

The man behind Venetia, whom she’d called by his given name, stood up from his seat to help Venetia rise. He smiled at Helena. “Welcome back.”

“Welcome back, indeed,” echoed Millie.

They all seemed to know her very well. Why didn’t she know them in return?

“I would hug you so hard, my love, if I weren’t afraid of hurting you,” said Venetia, taking Helena’s other hand. “Shall we put a few pillows behind your back so you can be more comfortable?”

“That won’t be quite necessary.” The very thought of having to move made her stomach protest. “Would someone please tell me what is going on?”

Venetia’s hand went to her throat. “My goodness, you don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Your accident, of course.”

Accident? She looked about her and noticed yet another woman in a corner—this one in a nurse’s cap and uniform. Were the other men in the room physicians? The one Venetia had called Christian certainly had that air of cool competence about him. She glanced toward the one named David. He stared at her as if she were the Koh-i-Noor itself, a thing of infinite beauty and worth.

She looked away, discomfited and perhaps just a little flattered—for all his dishevelment, he was not an unattractive man. “When was this accident? And what kind of accident are we speaking of?”

“A carriage accident,” Fitz answered. “It happened three days ago and you’ve been unconscious ever since. We were beginning to wonder”—his voice caught—“whether you would ever wake up again.”

The accident would explain all her pains and discomforts. A three-day coma was a decent reason for tears and high emotions upon her reawakening. But it still didn’t account for the familiarity with which all these strangers treated her; nor was it reason enough for Fitz and Venetia to have aged ten years overnight.

“It’s probably a good thing you don’t remember,” said Millie. “It was a horrible accident. My goodness, when I saw you lying in the middle of the street, blood from your head soaking into the stone dust, I thought—”

Her lips quivered. Fitz handed her his handkerchief. “It’s all right. Everything will be all right now.”

“Of course.” Millie wiped her eyes. “Please excuse me.”

Venetia was dabbing at her own eyes. The man named Christian had his hand on her shoulder.

Helena could no longer contain her bewilderment, which was beginning to congeal into a cold, knotted sensation that was not unlike fear. She didn’t know whether she ought to demand the reason why her siblings had aged so much before company, so she asked, “Venetia, Fitz, would you please perform the introductions? I’d like to meet our guests.”

Her request caused a long moment of communal gaping, followed by dismayed glances among the five people surrounding her bed, which only made her stomach clench with premonition.

“We are not guests,” said Millie. “We are your family.”

Helena hadn’t thought she’d like the answer she’d receive, but she had not anticipated that it would turn incipient fear into outright fright. She bolted straight up, ignoring the pain in her head and the roiling in her stomach caused by her abrupt motion, and tried to arrive at a logical explanation. Were they distant cousins? Or perhaps…“Did I meet everyone just before my accident? My mind is quite blank concerning that time period.”

“No, no.” Millie shook her head hard, as if the force of her denial could make a difference in the matter. “We—you and I—met eight years ago at Lord’s, at the Eton and Harrow cricket match.”

Helena’s father had been a cricket enthusiast. The entire family had attended several Eton and Harrow matches with him, but she had no recollection of ever meeting this Millie. “I’m sorry. I must have forgotten. I imagine we have not seen much of each other since?”

Millie looked aghast. Helena felt her heart sink—she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear what Millie might say. Millie, it seemed, shared her reluctance. She looked at Fitz, who looked thunderstruck, before turning her gaze back to Helena.

“We have seen a great deal of each other since, Helena. I am your sister-in-law.”

Helena gripped the sheets. But this was preposterous. “You are married, Fitz? When did you marry?”

“Eight years ago.” Fitz’s words were almost ghostly in their feebleness.

“Eight years ago? What year is it now?”

“Eighteen ninety-six,” said Millie.

Eighteen ninety-six? No wonder Fitz looked like a man well into his twenties—he was a man well into his twenties. And Helena, born on the same day as he, a woman well into her twenties.

She shook her head, trying to settle her careening, incoherent thoughts. But the movement instead caused a sharp thrust of nausea. She gritted her teeth and turned to Venetia. “Is the gentleman next to you your husband?”

“Yes,” said Venetia quietly.

“And have you also been married a long time?”

“No, we married only this Season.”

An uneasy silence descended. Helena’s agitation began to scale dizzying new heights as, one by one, her siblings and their spouses looked toward David, who appeared, if possible, even more stunned than they were.

“What about David?” Fitz sounded as if he were pleading. “Surely you remember him—you’ve known him half your life.”

She stared at this David, a tall man with elegant bone structure: etched cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and a nose that would have been almost too perfectly straight if it hadn’t been broken a time or two—a face she would not mind looking at had she encountered it at a gathering. But she didn’t want him here, a stranger granted intimacy, a man who expected her to know him.

“And how are we related, sir?”

Her stomach churned as she braced herself for the answer.

He glanced toward Fitz. An unspoken message passed between them. He looked back at Helena, inhaled deeply, and spoke with the sort of care one might use to inform a child that her puppy was no more. “The world knows me as your husband.”

Precisely the answer she was hoping not to hear. Her stomach churned even more violently. She clamped down on her lower lip, willing her body to settle down and leave her alone. But the nausea only surged.

She yanked aside her bedcover. “Gentlemen, please clear the room. I’m going to be quite sick.”

With her sister and sister-in-law supporting her, and the nurse trailing behind, Helena made it to the water closet barely in time.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, when she’d finished ejecting the contents of her stomach. She hadn’t felt so physically miserable since the bout of scarlet fever she’d suffered when she was nine. And she hadn’t felt so emotionally miserable since—

She didn’t know what to compare her experience to. It had been terrible losing her parents, but at least she had been able to share her grief with her siblings. But this…this waking up to find that half of her life had been wiped from her mind and that she was now saddled with a husband she could not remember meeting, let alone choosing—she felt utterly rudderless.

“My poor darling,” said Millie as she placed the cover on the blue-enameled commode and pulled the cord to flush.

Venetia was already escorting Helena to the washstand. “Miss Redmayne had said that you might experience nausea and vomiting when you awakened—those are common enough symptoms for people who’ve suffered a con-cussion.”

“Miss Redmayne is our physician,” added Millie helpfully. “She is on her way as we speak.”

A woman physician? Helena certainly approved, but she’d had no idea that there were now enough women physicians for the Fitzhugh ladies to have one.

A mirror hung above the washstand. She recoiled at her appearance: Half of her face was bruised, the discoloration almost greenish in color. Still she couldn’t help staring: She didn’t in the very least feel like a child, but how strange—and thrilling, in a way—to suddenly see her own grown-up face.

She covered her mouth. In a gap between the bandaging, she could clearly see her scalp. “What happened to my hair?”

“Miss Redmayne had to shave it in order to stitch the wound on your head,” answered Millie.

“All of it?” Her question was a whimper. Fate seemed needlessly cruel.

“Your hair will grow back.” Venetia’s eyes reddened. “When I think that you could have died on the spot…”

Millie patted Venetia’s arm. “You mustn’t torment yourself with thoughts of what didn’t happen. You’ll get in a state and it wouldn’t be good for the baby.”

A baby? Helena spun around—and had to grip Millie’s shoulder to steady herself. “You are with child?”

“Yes.”

She glanced down at Venetia’s middle. “You don’t look it.”

“I still have months and months to go. In fact, we’d just told everyone the good news the night before your accident.”

The accident.

Abruptly, everything Helena didn’t know about her family closed in around her, a suffocating ignorance. “Do you have any other children, Venetia? Do you, Millie—you don’t mind that I call you Millie, do you?”

Before either one of them could give an answer, a fist of panic struck her. “Dear God, do I have any children?”

Not the most auspicious of new beginnings, is it?” muttered Hastings.

It was as if some part of her remembered exactly who he was and how much she could not stand him.

He and Fitz were alone in the passage outside her door. Lexington had gone to compose a cable to the Herr Doktor from Berlin, informing the latter that his services were no longer required, but that he would be compensated for his time and expenses, should he have already started his journey to London.

“Miss Redmayne told us that she’d be prone to nausea and vomiting upon awakening,” Fitz pointed out reasonably. “You know that.”

Hastings supposed he did. He sighed. “At least she is awake now. Thank God for that.”

If only he could quite comprehend the fact that he was now a complete stranger to her.

Millie came out of the room. “How is she?” Fitz and Hastings asked in unison.

“Back in bed, but already asking the nurse when she will be free of medical supervision.”

“She never likes supervision of any sort, does she?” said Fitz. “What about her memory?”

“She was grilling us—she is still grilling Venetia as we speak. She doesn’t remember being a publisher. Or attending university. Or Venetia’s first two marriages. We’ve been informing her of the major events of her life and ours.”

“What about Andrew Martin?” asked Fitz, saving Hastings the trouble.

“She hasn’t brought him up, but I would be quite shocked if she remembered him alone when she has forgotten everything else.”

Hastings wanted to know whether Helena had any questions about him, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to ask.

Footsteps came up the staircase. Miss Redmayne had arrived. “Lord Fitzhugh, Lady Fitzhugh, Lord Hastings.”

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” said Hastings.

“Is there anything about Lady Hastings’s current condition that I should know?”

It still gave Hastings pause to hear Helena referred to as Lady Hastings. “She vomited a few minutes after she awakened.”

Miss Redmayne noted it down. “That is normal and not in itself a cause for concern.”

“She has also lost her memory,” Hastings added.

Miss Redmayne raised a brow. “You mean she has no recollection of the accident? That is also not uncommon.”

Hastings shook his head. “I’m afraid her memory loss is more extensive than that. She has no recollection of ever meeting Lady Fitzhugh or myself—and we’ve known her many years.”

Miss Redmayne tapped the end of her pen on her chin. “That is a more extreme case of amnesia than one usually encounters.”

Amnesia. The syllables were ominous. “How soon can we expect her memory to return?”

“There is no fixed schedule of recovery, from what I know of the condition. She could have it back by the end of the day, the end of the month, or the end of the year.” Miss Redmayne paused delicately. “Although there is also the possibility that she may not recoup it.”

“What?” Fitz exclaimed. “That can’t be. We are speaking of years and years of memories here. How can so much recollection vanish into thin air?”

Miss Redmayne’s tone was gentle, almost apologetic. “It has been known to happen, and medical science, unfortunately, has yet to fully understand the condition, let alone cure it.” She turned to Millie. “Lady Fitzhugh, will you show me in?”

Fitz thrust his hands into his hair. “I can’t imagine it, her memory permanently wiped away. At least Venetia and I still share childhood memories with her, but for you and for Millie—”

“For Millie, especially. They were good friends.”

“Yes, but even for you…”

Hastings shrugged, his own head beginning to throb. There had been no particular friendship between Helena and himself, but to be an absolute stranger to her, after all these years?

“Go get some rest, David,” said Fitz. “I know you’ve slept the least of us all.”

“I won’t be able to sleep.” He was wide-awake, an almost painful alertness, as if he’d consumed several gallons of coffee. “I’ll wait here with you.”

What was a few more minutes when he’d been waiting days?

Years.

Miss Redmayne was about Helena’s age, pretty, smartly dressed, with an air of tremendous competence. “Your brother and your husband tell me you are suffering from a rather dramatic case of memory loss, Lady Hastings.”

It took Helena a moment to realize that “Lady Hastings” referred to herself. So her husband was Lord Hastings. Husband—the very word squeezed the air from her lungs. She didn’t know anything about the man. How could she be married to him?

“When I awakened,” she said, striving to sound in charge of herself, “I was surrounded by members of my family. And I recognized fewer than half of them.”

“Of those you do not recognize, whom have you known the longest?”

“Lord Hastings”—she could not bring herself to say “my husband”—“according to everyone else.”

Miss Redmayne glanced at Venetia. “Can you tell me when they met, Your Grace?”

“The summer Lady Hastings was fourteen. Lord Hastings came to visit at Hampton House, our home in—”

“Oxfordshire,” said Helena, grateful to know that much.

“What is the latest in your life you can remember?” asked Miss Redmayne.

She thought hard. “The Christmas after our mother passed away.”

Helena had adored her mother and had been quite disconsolate that Christmas. Venetia and Fitz had persisted in telling her joke after joke until she cracked a smile.

“That would have been shortly before you turned fourteen,” said Venetia. “You missed remembering meeting Hastings by a few months.”

Helena wanted to remember meeting him—and every day of the past thirteen years of her life—but particularly him. She could not be a wife to a stranger. “Please tell me I’ll be able to regain my memory.”

“I can make no promises,” said Miss Redmayne. “Amnesia is an unusual condition, typically accompanying far more severe brain damage than is your case.”

She jotted a few things down in her notebook. “If I recall correctly, you studied classics while you were at Lady Margaret Hall?”

Helena nodded, still shocked by the fact that she’d attended university. Not that she hadn’t wanted to, but how had Colonel Clements, their guardian, ever agreed to such a thing? She’d have thought that she’d needed to not only come of age, but come into control of her small inheritance before such a feat became possible.

“Were you educated in Latin prior to that?”

“I remember Helena teaching herself some Latin from Fitz’s schoolbooks,” Venetia answered for her. “But that was when she was a little older. Sixteen, perhaps.”

“Qui caput tuum valet?” asked Miss Redmayne. How does your head feel?

“Non praecipue iucunde. Quasi equo calcitrata sum, ita aliquis dicat,” Helena replied easily. Not particularly pleasant. As if I’ve been kicked by a horse, one might say.

Miss Redmayne nodded. “It’s an odd thing. Amnesia strips one of memory of events and people. But it tends not to affect grasp of languages and other acquired skills. If you knew how to ride a bicycle before, for example, you won’t need to learn it again.”

“You do know how to ride a safety bicycle,” Venetia said, looking almost optimistic.

Helena tried to reassure Venetia with a smile, but managed only a partial one—the stretching of her facial muscles caused a sensation in her scalp that was part tearing, part burning. She would give up fluency in Latin and prowess on a bicycle immediately if she could have her memory back instead.

Miss Redmayne unwound Helena’s bandaging to check her stitches. Without any hair, Helena’s head felt unsettlingly light—and the air in the room unexpectedly cool against her scalp.

“Your head is no longer bleeding,” pronounced Miss Redmayne, “but the stitches need to remain another few days.”

She asked Helena to get out of bed and walk in a straight line, perform simple computations, and make logical deductions. “Your reasoning is fine, as is your balance—the wobbliness you might experience is caused by weakness of muscles rather than any injury to the brain. The danger now is that there might be some bleeding inside your cranium. I will keep you under watch for the next forty-eight hours.”

Helena inhaled—she’d thought the dangers already past.

“But on the other hand,” continued Miss Redmayne, “if there is no cranial bleeding, then you may consider yourself to be mending and you may gradually resume your normal activities. In the meanwhile you will likely experience headaches, more episodes of vomiting, perhaps even further temporary losses of consciousness.

“Moreover, in the excitement of waking up you may not be feeling all your pains, but unfortunately your wound extends down to near your temple, and there are quite a few nerves in the face, so certain facial expressions—frowns, for example—might pull at the stitches and be quite uncomfortable.”

Helena didn’t mind the pain, but the possibility of cranial bleeding was rather frightful. “What should I do now?”

“Take some light nourishment and rest. This is no time to strain yourself,” replied Miss Redmayne. “And don’t tax your head trying to remember. It will not hasten the recovery of your memory.”

“Can I read?”

“In a few days, yes, but for now it will likely exacerbate your headache. You must remember, Lady Hastings, even though you’ve regained your consciousness, you are still only three days past a major injury.”

The mere thought of sitting in bed for days on end with nothing to do already exacerbated her headache. But something in Miss Redmayne’s calm authority precluded arguing: Helena would feel too much like a quarrelsome child.

Miss Redmayne allowed Fitz and Hastings to enter the room. Helena’s eyes lingered on the latter for a moment—those cheekbones were sharp enough to cut marble. He returned the attention, but instead of the outright adoration from earlier, he gazed upon her with uncertainty, as if he’d been cast upon some distant shore and was encountering the natives for the first time.

“Where is my husband?” asked Venetia.

“He’s in the passage outside,” answered Fitz. “Now that Helena is better, he doesn’t wish to further intrude on her privacy, as he is not a blood relation.”

Miss Redmayne repeated much of what she’d told Helena, but added, “Your Grace, my lords, Lady Fitzhugh, I ask you to disperse. You will be of no use sitting here—let the nurse watch over Lady Hastings. She needs to rest and so do you. And if not, at least get some exercise and fresh air. You’ve been cooped up long enough.”

“I’d like Lord Hastings to remain,” Helena heard herself say. She’d posed no questions concerning him to Venetia and Millie, partly because she still wished he’d go away, and partly because she believed he should answer her questions himself.

Judging by his flabbergasted reaction, it was as if she’d asked the man to perform a handstand that very instant. But he was quick to recover. “Yes, of course. There is nothing I’d like more.”

That voice of his—she’d heard it earlier, but now she was surprised by its rich, pure timbre.

Venetia, Fitz, and Millie each embraced Helena, taking care not to touch her where she’d been bruised.

“If you’d like a few minutes of privacy, I can have Nurse Jennings leave her shift early,” said Miss Redmayne.

“Thank you,” replied Helena.

“You have until Nurse Gardner arrives, my lord, my lady. After that Lady Hastings must rest.”

Doctor and nurse departed. Helena and Hastings were alone in the room, but he did not approach her bed. Instead he stood near the wall, his hands behind his back. She realized after some time that he was waiting for her to speak first.

“I’m not sure whether I should apologize for not remembering you, or whether I should ask you to apologize for saddling me with a husband out of the blue. What do you recommend?”

He stared at her. Then he shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. “So you really don’t remember me.”

It was less a question to her than a reminder to himself.

“No, I don’t remember you at all.”

He ran his fingers through his hair. His curls appeared wonderfully springy. “You might be surprised to know that I am usually astonishingly witty and eloquent. But I am currently at a loss for words.”

She tilted her head back slightly. “You have a high regard for yourself.”

“So do you—a high regard for yourself, that is,” he said, smiling slightly. “You believe—believed—that modesty is for those with something to be modest about.”

It did sound like something she might agree with.

She felt herself relax a little. The prospect of being married to a man she couldn’t remember had wound her tighter than a twisted rope. But speaking with him, so far, was not an unpleasant experience. That voice of his—if a viola could speak, it would probably speak with his voice. And that smile…

He was not, perhaps, conventionally handsome, but he was some kind of handsome—perhaps even some kind of gorgeous: beautiful skin, long brows, a dent just beneath his lower lip caused by the slightly forward angle of his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, but they were also of the color of warm oceans, one moment aquamarine, the next turquoise.

“Surprised to be married?” he asked, his tone conspiratorial, as if he understood her reservations. “And I don’t mean married to me, but married at all?”

She relaxed a little more. “Shocked. I’ve…I’d always believed I’d prefer to be a spinster.”

“Early in your twenties you began to think that perhaps marriage wouldn’t be so bad with the right man.”

She raised her brow just enough to avoid hurting her stitches. “And you are that right man?”

“I’ve always thought we’d be a good match,” he said. “You want to reign as the queen of all you survey, and I enjoy being the scheming vizier who whispers crafty ideas into your ears.”

An unexpected and appealing vision of a marriage, with a husband who did not need to put himself in the position of a king.

A knock came on the door. The maids delivered their breakfast trays, one with only porridge and tea for her, one with muffins and plain toast for him. He took the seat Venetia’s husband had vacated, close but not too close.

“Is that what you eat for breakfast?” she asked. “Rather abstemious.”

“It is. But we thought it best not to have bacon or grilled mackerel on my plate, in case the smell upset your stomach.”

She gave her porridge a stir, waiting for it to cool. “Tell me something about yourself.”

She could have said, “Tell me something about us,” but she’d decided against the latter. She did not—not yet—want to hear about a wonderful courtship that culminated in a fairy-tale wedding, with herself as the radiant bride. Her current incarnation might be intrigued by him, but she was not in love. And she did not want to be obliged to feel sentiments she did not.

He thought for a moment, chewing meditatively on a bite of muffin. Her eyes were once again drawn to the shape of his jaw—there were probably fjords in the north less impressively carved. As he swallowed, she became aware of his neck. He was a man of strapping build, but there was nothing thick or bulky about his neck. It was quite simply…elegant.

“I like Alice in Wonderland,” he said.

It was with some effort that she looked back up into his eyes. “That’s the something you want to tell me?”

“Why not? And eat. We haven’t been able to get much nutrition into you. You woke up just in time, in fact. They were going to tube feed you, starting today.”

She’d been wary to break bread so soon after her gastrointestinal tumult. But his words reminded her that her body must be famished from its long sleep. She swallowed a spoonful of her porridge.

“You do know that Alice in Wonderland happens to be one of my favorite books, do you not?”

“I do.”

His answer was a reminder of the asymmetry of knowledge between the two of them—he probably knew more about her than she did. As engaging as he was to look at—those eyes seemed to shift colors with the smallest movement on his part—and as melodious as he was to listen to, she must not forget that he was most likely a man with a goal.

A goal that resided somewhere below her waist.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Are you trying to curry favor with me, Lord Hastings?”

Hastings could not get enough of being a stranger to her: the courtesy and attentiveness on her part—not to mention the complete absence of scorn and revulsion. Yes, she was wary. But in her shoes, who wouldn’t be?

“You are a lover of books; I am one as well,” he replied. “Since we can no longer rely on our past history to guide what we say to each other, a book we both enjoy seems a good place to start.”

She didn’t answer immediately. He was awestruck: She was considering his answer with care, rather than dismissing it outright as so much rubbish.

“Who is your favorite character in the book?” she asked, lifting another spoonful of porridge toward her lips. There had been a cut on her lower lip; it had largely healed, though a reddish welt still remained.

“The Cheshire Cat,” he answered without hesitation.

“Why him?” Her eyes, framed by all that stark white bandaging, were greener than he remembered, the color of a lovingly watered lawn.

“He is mischievous and unpredictable. And he comes and goes as he wishes. When I was a child, I would have loved to be able to disappear at will.”

She examined him—she’d been examining him ever since she called for him to stay with her. “And what would you have done with such an ability? Eavesdrop on others?”

It was not, as questions went, particularly probing. Yet if he were to give a proper answer, it would reveal more of himself than he’d ever been willing to let her see.

“Just to get away from where I was,” he said.

“And where were you?”

“Under my uncle’s control.” He bent his face to the plate, almost…shy to be speaking so honestly about himself.

“Was he a harsh disciplinarian?”

He raised his head. Her gaze was still fixed upon him, a cautious attention, but one not colored by prior prejudices.

He’d often dreamed that one day she’d suddenly see him as he wished to be seen. This was not the fulfillment of that childish dream, but still, it was beyond anything he could have realistically hoped for: a true new beginning.

“Yes,” he said, even though the admission made him feel vulnerable.

She gazed at him a moment longer before looking down to find her teacup. “I’m sorry to hear that. My father was a soldier, but he was no martinet. He loved to laugh. And he was wonderfully kind.”

That was the view all the Fitzhugh children took of their father. “Fitz once told me he always called you his beauty.”

“Yes, so I could grow up next to Venetia without feeling that I am in her shadow.” Her lips curved slightly. “It probably left me with a highly inflated sense of my physical appeal.”

“Or perhaps he was simply like me,” he said impulsively.

Her expression turned quizzical. “How so?”

“Fitz had warned me about Venetia before my first visit. He said grown men turned into jelly at the mere sight of her. Well, my carriage pulled up to your house, a young girl stuck her head out of an upper-story window, and I turned into jelly right on the seat of the carriage.” He broke a piece off the half muffin that remained on his plate, his heart beating rather uncomfortably fast. “But that girl wasn’t Venetia. It was you.”

He’d never told her of his fierce attraction to her from the very beginning—he couldn’t in the face of her indifference and, later, her contempt.

It was hard to tell whether she was pleased by his confession—she lifted the teapot to refill her cup and seemed to have eyes only for her task. “What else do I need to know about you?” Her voice was cool, as was her demeanor.

He’d likely discomfited her, a stranger whom she wished to keep at arm’s length going on about how lovely he found her. He broke off another piece of the muffin. “I have a daughter named Beatrice.”

His siring of an illegitimate child had never sat well with Helena. But she needed to know about Bea.

His declaration took her aback. “You were married before?”

“No.”

She blinked at the implication of his words. Displeasure gathered between her furrowed brows—then further displeasure as she winced from the pressure on her stitches. Her bruises seemed to turn darker, like thunderclouds on her face. “Who is her mother?”

“A London Cyprian by the name of Georgette Chevalier—her real name was Florie Mims. She was my mistress for some time and died of pneumonia when Bea was three months old.”

“How old is Bea?”

“Two months short of six.”

Suspicion and temper flared in her eyes. “And how long have we been married?”

“Not long at all. This Season.”

She exhaled. Her face lost some of its severity. “For a moment I thought you’d sired this child during our marriage.”

“I would never treat our marriage in such a light manner.”

Yet he had antagonized her with greater fervor than ever after he gave her no choice but to become his wife.

This Helena, however, did not recall his past idiocy. Her mind was solely focused on the present. “Does she live in your—our household, your daughter?”

His heart thudded at her use of the word our. “She lives at Easton Grange, my—our estate in Kent.”

She was silent for some time, her eyes boring into his. Then she asked, “Have you ever considered that raising an illegitimate child under the same roof as your future heirs is highly irregular?”

The implied disapproval in her tone disconcerted him, but he met her gaze squarely. “I have. But I am her father and this is how I choose to conduct her upbringing, not from a distance and not diminishing my role to a mere provider of funds.”

“I object to that,” she declared flatly. “I demand that she be removed from my dwelling.”

His heart plummeted. She’d been ready to take Bea in hand only a few days ago. Had she changed so much with her loss of memory? And what could he say that would not alienate her and endanger this fragile new bond of theirs?

“I understand your objections,” he heard himself say. “But I will not relegate my daughter to the periphery of my existence simply to please my wife.”

Her countenance was unyielding as granite. He could scarcely draw in air. If they should clash on this point…if she should prove as obstinate as she was capable of being…

Her eyes softened. “Good. Her illegitimacy is not her fault.”

He reeled. “But you just—”

“I was testing you.” Her small smile was apologetic, almost sheepish. “You are a stranger, yet I must live with you and, well, be your wife. I wanted to know something of your character this instant. Forgive me my impatience.”

He breathed hard. “So I passed.”

“Beautifully.”

That might be the first word of sincere praise he’d ever heard from her.

It wasn’t just a new beginning, it was a whole new world.

He turned his face to the side. Helena blinked. His profile was perfect. Beyond perfect—the cameo brooch must have been invented so that someday it could be engraved with the silhouette of his features.

“I’d like to meet Bea at the earliest opportunity,” she said, so as not to be wordlessly gawking at him.

He looked back at her. “I’ll take you to Easton Grange as soon as you are well enough to travel. And thank you for taking an interest in her.”

“You don’t need to thank me. I am her stepmother, after all.”

He smiled, a warm, lovely smile. “Then I hope you won’t mind that I must leave to see Bea today.”

This surprised her. “All the way to Kent? Is it her birthday?”

“No, but she expected me on Wednesday. It is already Friday.”

“Why not have her brought to London?”

“Eat more,” he reminded her. “Unfortunately Bea does not leave Easton Grange.”

She dug into her porridge. “Why not?”

“She does not wish to.” He gave a barely perceptible sigh. “And she is not the kind of child who can be bribed with offers of sweets or dolls.”

“Not even for the woman who is raising her?”

“She doesn’t know you yet—you were going to meet her the day of your accident.”

“I see.” Helena supposed it made sense that she would leave London only near the end of the Season, but she found it less than impressive that she’d put off meeting the child. She should have introduced herself to Bea as soon as she became engaged to the girl’s father, especially given that Bea did not seem to be someone who adjusted easily to changes. “Are you departing now?”

“No, I’m loath to leave your side. I’ll probably need to ask Fitz to pull me away. In fact, it will probably take him, Lexington, and a few footmen to shove me into a carriage and then onto the train.”

When he’d told his story of turning into jelly at his first sight of her, she’d responded rather severely. There was a contrariness in her that refused to fall too easily in love with him: It would be the expected, expedient thing to do, and she did not want to commit to him simply for the sake of convenience.

But this time she couldn’t quite summon the same coolness. She dropped her gaze to her tray and ate the rest of her porridge without speaking.

The day nurse, Nurse Gardner, arrived alongside the maid who came to take away the breakfast trays. “My lord, Miss Redmayne asks that you engage in no further conversation after my lady’s breakfast. But you may read to my lady, if you wish, so that she may close her eyes and rest.”

“But it is not even midmorning,” Helena protested. “And I’ve been sleeping for three days, haven’t I?”

“Nevertheless, doctor’s orders,” said the nurse.

Hastings rose to examine a small, laden bookshelf by the window.

“You needn’t take the trouble. I’m not particularly fond of being read to—too slow.”

“Think of it as a therapeutic luxury, then: My voice is generally considered to possess the power to lure unicorns out of their secret forests.”

She barely remembered not to raise her brows to her hairline. “Conceited, aren’t we?”

“You used to tell me I had enough hot air to power an armada of dirigibles. And when I countered that people thought my voice lovely enough to rival that of a chorus of angels, you said that particular band of angels must have been singing with their rear ends.”

It wasn’t until she felt the pressure on her stitches that she realized she was smiling. Yes, it hurt, but she did not stop. The sensation of pleasure and mirth was as unexpected as it was wonderful.

“Ready for a few sonnets by Mrs. Browning?” He sat down again and opened the book he’d retrieved. “‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’”