Regarding the Duke

by Grace Callaway

  Why, Jessabelle would be an excellent name for a cat—or, better yet, a cow. Picturing a giant black-and-white beast with swollen udders comforted Gabby.

  “Gabriella…”

  Adam’s voice broke her reverie. She hurried back to his bedside. His head was turning agitatedly on the pillow, his brows pulled together and features sheened with sweat.

  “I’m here, my love,” she said soothingly.

  She laid the rinsed towel upon his brow. Her pulse quickened at the contrast between the cool cloth and his burning skin. Dear God, when would this fever abate? She chastised herself for worrying over the mysterious Jessabelle while her husband’s health was in a precarious state.

  “Don’t go,” he muttered. “Don’t leave me…”

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Her throat tight, she cupped his bristly cheek. “I’m right by your side, my darling, where I’ll always be.”

  The lines on his face eased. He mumbled something, his words slackening into incoherence as he drifted off. As he entered some restless state between wakefulness and sleep.

  Returning to the chair by his side, Gabby kept watch and prayed.

  12

  He opened his eyes, blinking groggily.

  As his vision adjusted to the dimness, he found himself staring up at green pleats…a tester bed? Matching green silk curtains hung at the sides, tied back with tasseled cords. His gaze jerked beyond the bed to the high-ceilinged chamber filled with dark furnishings and Persian rugs. There were gilt-framed paintings on the walls. A fire flickered in a marble hearth.

  It was a palatial suite, fit for a king.

  Where the bloody hell am I?

  He tried to sit up—agony shot through his right side. He gasped, falling back, his head landing on soft pillows. When he regained his breath, he took stock of himself. He patted the site of the pain; beneath the sleep shirt was a thick wad of bandaging…had he been injured? In addition to the stabbing in his torso, he felt a throbbing on the right side of his head and touched the spot gingerly. Christ, there was an egg-sized bump on his temple.

  Cautiously, he scanned the rest of his body, moving limbs, wiggling toes. When everything seemed intact and accounted for, he exhaled…and winced. Each breath felt like knives scoring the back of his throat. A thought emerged through the fog in his brain.

  Water…I need water.

  Carefully this time, he leveraged himself upward, grimacing as the contracting muscles burned in protest. There was a chair next to the bed, a small table with an empty glass. He scanned the room and saw a pitcher sitting on a half-moon console several feet away.

  Gritting his teeth, he pushed aside the blankets and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed. That wasn’t so difficult, was it? His feet touched the carpet, thick soft wool squishing between his toes. Buoyed by his success, he stood, panting slightly from the piercing sensation in his side. You can do it, a few more steps…

  He took a step—and a strange, floaty feeling overcame him. A buzzing filled his ears. His knees buckled, the carpet flying up at him with dizzying speed. He landed with an agonizing thud.

  Pain blackened his vision. “Bloody fuck.”

  “Dear heavens. Oh, my poor darling, let me help you!”

  He managed to catch his breath…only to lose it again as he looked up.

  A goddess was rushing toward him: Venus in the flesh.

  Her flame-red hair cascaded over her ruffled pink dressing gown. Her cheeks were rounded and smooth, freckles sprinkled across her little nose like specks of gold leaf clinging to alabaster. She got down on the floor beside him, easing his head onto her lap. And his pain was momentarily forgotten as he looked up into eyes bluer than heaven.

  “Are you hurt? Oh, my dearest, why didn’t you wait for me? I only left for a moment to check on the children. They’ve been climbing the walls of the nursery, ever so eager to see you.” Words flowed from her cherry-ripe lips in a seemingly endless stream; dazedly, he thought he’d be content to lie here forever, his head upon the soft bank of her thighs, her voice as soothing as a meadow brook. “No, you mustn’t try to get up by yourself. Here, lean against me: let’s see if we can get you sitting up first.”

  She helped him, propping his head against her bosom, and even in his current state he felt a flicker of lust. Christ, but she was perfectly formed. Beneath the silk and ruffles, her tits were large and firm; as he turned his head, his cheek brushed against the enticing bump of a nipple.

  He looked wonderingly at her.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Her sky-blue eyes got even huger. “You…you don’t recognize me?”

  He flashed to an image…of a painting or real life? In his foggy state, he didn’t know. But he knew the image was of her, this woman, her naked curves lush and glowing. In one hand she held roses as red as her hair and nipples; her other hand was positioned over her sex, her delicate fingers hiding what he somehow knew was a wet, hot, and decadent pussy.

  Beneath his sleepshirt, his cock throbbed along with his head.

  “You do know who I am…don’t you?” she said haltingly.

  Some goddess-like wench I’ve tupped before? But her manner wasn’t that of a lightskirt. Confused, he shook his head—and wished he hadn’t. The room started to spin again.

  “I’m Gabriella,” she said in a tremulous voice. “Your wife.”

  This gorgeous creature was his wife? Bugger him, he was married?

  Why don’t I remember her? He tried to think, couldn’t with the room whirling like a blasted dervish. A hammer pounded against his skull, and another realization detonated in his brain.

  Amidst the spinning darkness, words scraped from his throat. “Bloody hell, who am I?”

  The last thing he saw was her rounded eyes before blackness swallowed him.

  “You are saying my husband’s state is normal?” Gabby asked in disbelief.

  It was two hours later, after Dr. Abernathy had arrived and completed a thorough examination of Adam. Leaving her husband under the watchful care of Mrs. Page, Gabby was meeting with the physician in the upstairs parlor. She needed privacy to discuss her concerns.

  “Not normal per se. But not abnormal given Mr. Garrity’s injuries.” Seated across from her, the physician looked more earnestly boyish than ever. His sandy hair had an unruly cowlick, and beneath his square chin, his cravat was a trifle askew. “Your husband was shot, knocked unconscious, and nearly drowned. Given all that, he’s doing remarkably well.”

  “Well? He doesn’t know who he is! He doesn’t recognize me”—she clapped a hand against her chest—"his wife of eight years.”

  “I understand how stressful this must be, Mrs. Garrity.”

  For some reason, the physician’s tone, which was no doubt meant to be soothing, rubbed her nerves the wrong way. It must be her lack of sleep, the constant worrying. But, truly, how could this…this man-child understand what it was like to have a spouse who didn’t remember anything of one’s marriage—or anything at all?

  She bit her lip and said nothing.

  “I’ve attended other cases involving a near-drowning,” he went on. “In many of them, there was some memory loss, related to the deprivation of air, I believe. Several patients had no recollection of their histories, nor the circumstances surrounding the accident itself.”

  Trepidation slithered down Gabby’s spine. “Is this memory loss…permanent?”

  “Not necessarily.” The physician leaned forward, his grey eyes somber. “Several of my patients made full recoveries, regaining all their memories, knowledge, and abilities. With your husband, I would expect a positive prognosis, given his brief period under the water and his excellent general health. Indeed, the wound on his side is healing even better than expected. Shouldn’t trouble him at all in a fortnight or so.”

  With burgeoning relief, she asked, “How long will it take for him to regain his memories?”

  “I cannot say for certain, nor can I make any guarantees. But I will
say that for my patients who recovered fully from amnesia, the recuperation period took from days to a year.”

  A year of Adam not knowing who he is? Panic drummed in her chest. Not knowing who I am, who the children are?

  And, dear God, what about Adam’s business? It was his life’s work, his pride and joy. While other men might try to hide their roots in trade, Adam was proud of the empire he’d built out of nothing.

  “How will he function in his current state?” she burst out.

  “Oddly enough, the loss of memory, in my experience, did not seem to bother the patients over much. Perhaps they were preoccupied by the task of relearning the world and themselves; they exhibited an openness, a curiosity and adaptability…not unlike that of children. They took their initial limitations in stride.” Clearing his throat, Dr. Abernathy added, “Their families, on the other hand, suffered more during this phase, for they had full recollection of how the patient used to be prior to the accident. They had to grapple with old expectations and fears about the future.”

  “You do not know my husband, sir.” Gabby shook her head. “He is a driven man, one of great ambition. He will not take kindly to anything that keeps him from his work.”

  “He will have no choice but to accept his recovery as it comes,” the physician said bluntly.

  “What can I do? There must be something…”

  “What the patient needs most is time and peace to heal. The best thing you can do, ma’am, is to minimize his exposure to stressful circumstances. First and foremost, his work must be delegated for now.”

  “Mr. Murray is looking after his business affairs.” Dear Mr. Murray—she and Adam owed so much to him. “I’m certain he will be willing to continue doing so.”

  “Excellent. As for the domestic sphere, you must set firm limits if the patient insists upon doing too much too soon. He could have undone my handiwork with that fall he took this morning,” the physician said sternly. “He’s lucky that no further damage was done.”

  “I’ll keep a better eye on him,” she promised.

  The other’s expression softened. “If your husband is as driven as you say, your job will not be an easy one. But he cannot force himself to recover more quickly or to remember the past. Attempts to do so will only cause harm and perhaps a regression. What he needs is rest, and his memories will hopefully return in due course.”

  “What about the children? They are rather…lively,” she said with a frisson of worry. “Will their visits be too taxing for my husband?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. Indeed, interacting with family and friends may aid the recovery of Mr. Garrity’s memories,” Dr. Abernathy assured her.

  She straightened her shoulders. “I’ll do everything in my power to aid his recovery.”

  “Your devotion is admirable.” The young doctor paused. “May I ask how you are faring, ma’am?”

  Faced with the unexpected question, Gabby didn’t know how to answer. She hadn’t thought about herself; she’d been entirely wrapped up in Adam.

  “I’m fine,” she said self-consciously.

  “How much have you been sleeping, Mrs. Garrity?”

  Dr. Abernathy’s scrutiny made her squirm in her chair. She realized that she must look a fright, unwashed and wearing stained clothes. She’d waved off Nell’s efforts to create a proper coiffure in favor of an expedient braid. Her eyes felt heavy, and she knew they must be puffy and shadowed by fatigue.

  “I, um, don’t know exactly. But I’m sure I dozed off here and there,” she said awkwardly.

  “And the last meal you’ve eaten?”

  Goodness, when had that been? Consumed by anxiety, she’d lost her appetite entirely.

  “Perhaps breakfast…yesterday,” she confessed.

  “I must advise you to take better care of yourself, madam.” Dr. Abernathy’s tone was firm yet gentle. “The caregiver’s journey is as arduous as that of the patient, and you must prepare yourself for the travails ahead. Who do you turn to in your hour of need?”

  Adam, came the immediate answer. He’s my world…my everything.

  “Family members, perhaps?” the doctor prompted.

  “I have my father, but he has been unwell of late.” Guilt pricked her; in the week since Adam’s injury, she hadn’t looked in on her papa. “I don’t wish to burden him further.”

  “Friends, then. People you could turn to for assistance?”

  The Kents and their spouses had all paid visits to offer support. As had the Duke of Ranelagh and Somerville and Maggie Foley, Glory’s grateful parents. Given her frazzled state, Gabby hadn’t entertained the well-wishers for long, but they’d been kind and understanding, offering to help in any way they could. As grateful as Gabby was to have true friends, she’d never been good at asking for help. Moreover, Adam was a man who valued privacy, and the few times she’d confided her domestic concerns to others, she’d experienced a niggling sense of unease, as if she were betraying him.

  She knew that things were different this time. She couldn’t handle this situation alone.

  “I have friends who would help me,” she said.

  “Then do not hesitate to call upon them. Or me.” The doctor rose.

  “Thank you.” Recalling her churlish thoughts earlier, she added, “You’ve been a blessing during this difficult time. Truly, sir.”

  He bowed then surprised her by taking her hand between both of his. His grip was strong, lightly callused. “Have a proper meal, Mrs. Garrity, and a nap afterward. Doctor’s orders.”

  She managed a smile. “I shall try.”

  “Do more than try, ma’am,” he advised. “You have a long battle ahead, and you’ll need all the strength you can muster.”

  13

  Adam came awake, and the first thing he noticed was the absence of fog: his head was as clear as a newly washed window. He saw the green pleats of the canopy, registering that he was in that strange, lavish bedchamber again. Not a dream, then? He turned his head on the pillow: there she was, the red-haired Venus, dozing in a chair beside the bed.

  No…not Venus.

  She’d claimed that she was his wife.

  He sat up slowly, discovering the pains were still there, though duller and less insistent. Propping himself up against the pillows, he just looked at her. Her long auburn lashes quivered against her creamy cheeks, her generous bosom rising and falling, the ruffles on her pink dressing gown stirring like leaves in a breeze. Her hair was a sleek waterfall of fire.

  She wasn’t part of some fever-dream. This fancy place wasn’t either.

  Why can’t I remember anything?

  Searching his mind for memories was like running through a dark, winding alleyway. No light to guide him, nothing to find, crashing into wall after wall. Frustration built as did the ache in his head. Who am I? How did I get here? As he tried to remember, the pounding increased at his injured temple, spreading to the back of his skull. An agonizing haze began to descend.

  He needed something for the pain. Couldn’t afford to lose his senses again.

  A word flickered in the misty recesses of his mind.

  The goddess: she’d given him her name.

  “Gabriella,” he said hoarsely.

  Her eyes flew open, as if she’d only been floating on the surface of sleep. Her pure blue gaze focused on him, widening, and she rose in a flurry of pink, hastening to his side.

  “Adam, you’re awake,” she said tremulously. “How are you feeling?”

  Adam…is that my name? Why don’t I remember it? Why don’t I remember you?

  He stared at her, uncertain how to answer.

  “I…I’d like water,” he said at length.

  “Of course. You must be ever so parched.” As if his wish were her command, she spun around, heading to the half-moon console that held a pitcher and array of glasses, chattering all the while. “It’s been nearly two days since you lost consciousness…the second time, I mean. You were feverish for three days prior to that. I tried to give
you water with a spoon, but most of it dribbled out. I was ever so worried, but the physician said your body needed the sleep to heal.” She came back with a full glass, her smile so dazzling that he had to blink. “Here, let me help you with this.”

  She placed the glass at his lips, and he drank greedily. The cool citrus-infused beverage slid over his dry membranes, soothing the ache.

  “Not too fast, my darling.” She slowed the flow of liquid. “You must take things slowly at the beginning. Dr. Abernathy’s orders.”

  “Who’s Dr. Abernathy?” he asked.

  Twin lines appeared at the inner edges of her brows. “You don’t remember him?”

  He wondered if this was the time to tell her. Looking into her clear, cornflower eyes, he felt a clench of fear. Gabriella was his only anchor in this strange place. What if he told her he didn’t remember being this Adam, her husband? What if he wasn’t Adam and this was all some bizarre mistake?

  His gut told him that he didn’t belong in this world of comfort and luxury. It felt too foreign: this beautiful room…this beautiful female. If he’d had to make a wager about himself, he’d lay down money that his origins were less refined. Even in his present state, there was a covetousness in him, a thieving hunger for the finer things that surrounded him. They felt as if they didn’t belong to him, as if they could be ripped away at any moment…

  Out of nowhere, a tunnel of darkness closed around him, choking his lungs with the memory of smoke and soot. He coughed and coughed, the water rushing back up.

  “There, there.” Gabriella blotted his face with a scented handkerchief, seemingly unconcerned that he’d puked all over the expensive coverlet. “Feeling better?”

  “I don’t…I don’t remember anything.”

  The words left him reflexively, like a final emptying heave that he couldn’t contain. Seeing the spasm on Gabriella’s face, he wished he’d kept his mouth shut. She was his light in the gloom; he couldn’t afford to lose her. With a certainty that he couldn’t explain, he knew that she was the key to his survival…at least until he could figure out who the bloody hell he was.