Wherefore Art Thou.

by Melanie Thurlow

  What? What could he possibly need her father’s permission for?

  She tilted her head, her perplexed expression tilting with it, as though she could derive his meaning from a literal change of her view of him.

  Her attempts were unsuccessful at discovering his meaning for herself, but it did cause him to add, “I could drag you off to Gretna Green, but even the Scots will not permit me to marry someone who has no name.”

  “Marry?” It was a squeak mixed with a whisper on top of a gasp—barely a word, more of a sound.

  Lord Thornton sighed. It was weary and aged, reflecting the number of years he held over her. “I should have come to this conclusion sooner. It really speaks ill of me that I did not. However, I did injure you, which resulted in the loss of your memory. Then, having kept you under the guise of my wife, it is the only thing that can be done. I have to marry you.”

  “You have to marry me,” she repeated slowly. How romantic. It was the proposal every lady dreams of, to be sure.

  Could he not at least pretend that some part of him—no matter how small—wanted to marry her?

  “It is the only option,” Lord Thornton continued. “I should have known it from the moment I found you alone, but I was distracted by the situation. However, I have come to the conclusion now and, yes, we will be married.”

  She cocked her head to the side. This was unlike any proposal she had ever heard. Not that she knew one way or the other if she’d ever received a proposal of marriage before.

  “But what if I’m already married,” she said, her hands drifting to her belly.

  Was she married? Could it be?

  “That would pose a complication, it is true. However, I do not believe that is the case.”

  “How do you know?” she asked, surprising herself with the amount of venom in her voice.

  How dare he! How could he assume that she wasn’t married? How could he think so little of her?

  How could he know that she was not married when she could not be sure of it herself?

  “You’re not wearing a ring, for one,” he ground out, as though this were the most excruciating conversation, “and there is not even the trace that you ever have.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking down to the ring finger of her left hand and rubbing it idly. She hadn’t considered that.

  “Once we find your family,” he continued, “we will marry, and your family shall have no objections.” His tone said that he would allow no further discussion. The words were spoken in precisely the same fashion as his earlier “no” when she implored him to release her.

  She felt defeated.

  She should be falling on her knees, thanking the heavens that she would be spared the humiliation of returning home, thoroughly ruined, and with a child growing in her womb whose father she couldn’t remember.

  She should be grateful that Lord Thornton was willing to marry her, even though it was her fault they were in this fix.

  She looked to the window. The curtain had been pulled across, leaving the interior in near darkness, but she could imagine the trees passing on the other side, their branches reaching out for her as though they were claws ripping at her heart.

  “Okay,” she finally said.

  “What?”

  “I will marry you,” she said, eying him directly, though she could no longer directly see his eyes in the dim light cast by the lantern attached to the outside of the carriage.

  What else could she do? She had almost nothing to her name, save for those coins which she had practically thrown at him earlier and he had not seen fit to return. Besides, if her family would not have her, what would happen to her then?

  She took a deep breath, resolving to be as optimistic as the predicament she was in would allow.

  Surely, marriage to Lord Thornton would not be entirely intolerable, she reasoned to herself. She had been posing as his wife for the past week and, during that time, he was distant, yes, and rather clipped and perhaps a bit volatile. Definitely commanding. But he was not as cruel as some aristocrats could be, and that was definitely a mark in his favor.

  It didn’t matter anyway. She had no choice but to marry him, just as he didn’t have a choice in marrying her. She had been the orchestrator of her own demise, and now they would both suffer the consequences.

  And the consequences were substantial.

  A child.

  Was she pregnant? It would seem so. She could feel the knowledge was true as though it were a sixth sense she’d forgotten that she had.

  Yes, she was with child, but she didn’t have to be.

  She gripped the package of tea once more, guilt gnawing at her stomach with a consuming hunger.

  How could she consider taking it? How could she not? How had she allowed herself to become so inebriated the night before? How could it be that the knowledge that seemed like it had been there forever had not been there last night?

  Her optimism fell with each question left unanswered.

  It wasn’t as though sulking would achieve anything. She merely wished that she could remember. If not who she was, then at least what she had done. She didn’t know who she was, but she wanted to think better of herself than to believe that she was the sort that would dally with just anyone.

  Had she been in love? Had she been unable to do away with her child because of that love?

  The questions made her head spin.

  How was she supposed to forget that she had forgotten?

  Chapter 13

  There was nothing quite like being at home. It wasn’t merely the fresh smell of the country that made breathing come easier, although that certainly was an advantage. And it wasn’t just the sights, either; everything was breathtaking in this part of the country because there was a little bit of everything here. There were hills and valleys, ocean and springs, and streams running through meadows filled with flowers, ruins abutting veritable palaces.

  Home in Cumbria was everything.

  Because home in Cumbria meant memories. Memories of a better time, of a quieter life, where the weight of the world wasn’t forgotten, but had not yet been learned.

  Home in Cumbria meant a childhood of being happy and free.

  He could almost bring himself back to the person he had been all those years ago, growing up in this country that had been his giant playground. He wasn’t the same person that had grown up here; he could hardly remember that boy. That child no longer existed. But the memories were still there, and suddenly each breath was suffocated by the nostalgia for that past he so wished he could have back.

  Home had been a distant dream that had kept him alive and fighting for his life for a time. But once he was free from captivity in France, he couldn’t stand to come back and find it changed. This was home, but it was never meant to be his. So, he deserted his home country in favor of traveling to wherever the winds of change carried him.

  But he had the duty of a title to get married and beget an heir. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around it. He couldn’t get married. He couldn’t take care of himself, much less a wife. He couldn’t get married. And yet he found himself… betrothed. To a woman who had no idea who she was. She appeared to be a lady, but what was a lady without a chaperone? What did that say about the woman he was going to marry? And what of the fortune set upon her head? Would it be enough for them to live respectably?

  The questions were enough to send his mind into a dizzying downfall.

  Desmond swallowed the lump that felt like a boulder in his throat.

  Could he do this? Could he really marry her? He never wanted to get married. He thought he’d been resolved against it. How was it that he found himself betrothed?

  He covered his mouth with his fist, breathing hard into it as the carriage rattled and jostled across the dirt roads into his estate, eventually beginning to slow. He didn’t move the curtains so that he could peek out at the home he remembered, too afraid of what he might see.

  He wasn’t merely returning home. He wa
s returning to a home that now actually belonged to him, with a lady that would soon become mistress of the house.

  For the past days he had been pretending this woman was his wife—or at least not denying that she was—and that had been difficult. When one was so set against marriage as Desmond, even the idea of pretending to be married was enough to agitate. And all the questions and concerns about who she was and what the future held were baffling. And yet, despite all of that, deciding to actually marry her wasn’t difficult at all.

  Funny that.

  In fact, he was resigned to it; it was what had to be done, after all. Desmond knew that he did have to marry the lady. He also knew that it didn’t have to be his idea. Yet, it had been. Although, if he were as truly against marriage as he had always claimed to be then would he not have waited to relent until her father challenged him to a duel at dawn?

  His only explanation for this lack of discontent could be that, at some point, his mind had been changed.

  But when? And by whom?

  He didn’t know the answers, but the fact remained that he was going to be marrying this girl, and the thought of that wasn’t quite as horrifying as it always had been. In fact, Desmond was almost content.

  He took a breath as the carriage lurched to a stop. The lump in his throat, he found, was gone.

  He was content, he told himself.

  Desmond stepped down from the carriage onto the familiar pebbled drive and offered his hand to assist the lady down behind him. Desmond took her hand, feeling his stomach turn as the ringing in his ears magnified, the darkness not relenting from his mind.

  He looked up to the house he had grown up in with his aunt and uncle, and he was numb. As a child, he would have raced inside, found Mr. and Mrs. Long—the Butler and Housekeeper he’d known almost his entire life—and hugged them both in an instant. But as an adult—as this adult—he could do nothing but wonder why he’d even bothered to come home.

  Thirty-two years left a mark on a man, and on Desmond that mark had been practically etched into his skin, engraved on his soul.

  He felt as though he were going to be sick.

  Home was a place he thought he’d never see again. And here it was, in front of him, almost exactly as he remembered it, but he didn’t take pleasure in his return. The air still smelled the same, the ground was just as firm under his feet as it always was, but he was different.

  And he wasn’t yet sure whether it was for the better, or the worse.

  *****

  Hollyfield was a fair distance from London.

  Waiting was even further.

  But it was where she was stuck. Waiting. A small town near the coast in Cumbria.

  They were practically in Scotland for crying out loud!

  She understood that Lord Thornton planned to marry her, but was it really necessary to drag her all this way to do so? It certainly seemed a bit unnecessary. And unwise.

  Wouldn’t the logical thing have been to go to London in search of her family instead of deeper into the reclusive country?

  Her concerns fell on deaf ears, so to speak. Not that she voiced them.

  The man was granite. Or perhaps, to put a finer point on it, he was a diamond in the rough. Either way, he was impossible to break.

  It wasn’t as if she was in any kind of a rush. Unless one took into account that she was with child and uncertain as to how far along she yet was, and an expeditious marriage would most certainly be in her best interest. But it wasn’t her decision to make.

  She was at the mercy of Lord Thornton now, and he wasn’t going to give her any of the answers she so desired.

  He was running from something—a man who had sent them flying off to a dilapidated home in the remote town of Waiting. She could only judge that the man was someone to fear. Lord Thornton did not look like a man who was easily intimidated. She wondered silently who, exactly, he was afraid of.

  Was Lord Thornton in some sort of trouble? It didn’t seem possible. He was a hero. But heroes fell from their pedestals all too often. Especially heroes who despised the attention.

  What she had gotten herself into, she couldn’t possibly imagine.

  Perhaps it wasn’t any of her business. Lord Thornton certainly didn’t owe her anything—it was more the opposite—but she couldn’t help but ardently desire the truth.

  She took Lord Thornton’s hand and stepped down out of the carriage where they had spent the entire night, alone and silent. Looking up at the house that would become her home, her first thought was, unceremoniously, this was where he was so determined to go?

  Hamilton Hall.

  It didn’t seem worth a sleepless night’s travel.

  The size of the home was modest at best, and the maintenance had clearly fallen short in recent years. The roof was appalling and the gardens overgrown with weeds. The home looked forgotten, abandoned.

  This cannot seriously be where he lives, she consoled.

  Though, it wasn’t his fault, she reminded herself. He’d only just returned from his years abroad; it was understandable that his house would be in somewhat disarray, even if his steward should have been seeing to the care in his absence. But he would put the funds into it and clean it up, make it respectable, presentable.

  “It’s not much, but it is home,” Lord Thornton said, almost as though he could read her thoughts. She could hear the defense in his rough tone, saw it matched with his rigid posture. “Just needs a little work.”

  She held a hand to her bonnet as a small gust of wind breezed past her when he turned and began walking toward the front door.

  She supposed he didn’t need to justify it to her. A home was a home was a home. Besides, it was not as though she could remember her own so it was not as though her expectations should be particularly high. She would have preferred a roof that wouldn’t leak, but she supposed small sacrifices could be made.

  Squaring her shoulders, hoping it would give her the strength to proceed, she forced her lips to tilt up at the corners, though she knew her eyes would read the uncertainty of her mind. She pulled her bonnet lower over her brow before limping after him towards the steps. The night spent in the modest carriage left her feeling a bit like stale bread. Stiff. And with every movement, her knees, her hips, her body seemed to protest.

  At the base of the steps, she was ready for a rest, but she was determined to do this. Hitching up her skirts, she stepped first with her left foot, followed by her right, shuffling upwards one step at a time, until all nine steps were behind her. She shook her head at the gentleman who paid her no attention as she came to stand beside him in front of the peeling door.

  “Shall we knock?” she queried.

  Lord Thornton’s head slowly turned, his narrowed eyes as much a defense as they were a warning. He opened the door and nodded his head. His tone condescending, he said, “Ladies first.”

  It was her turn for her eyes to narrow, before she took three labored steps through the front door which gave way to an equally unremarkable interior. Then she turned back to him. “You know, my lord, you could have resolved this issue long ago,” she said, clinically stating the obvious, only slightly veiling her irritation with her slight of tongue.

  The air shifted as his body stiffened.

  “Oh? And how might that have been?”

  She didn’t want to answer now, her boldness scurrying away. His rigid posture and granite tone made her want to shut her mouth. But her mouth had other plans, her frustration with him unable to be contained, releasing itself as mockery. “Well,” she said, blinking, “had you taken a wife earlier, her dowry would have surely paid for the upkeep.”

  Lord Thornton noticeably hardened beside her, and she immediately regretted the truth that so easily rolled off the tip of her tongue. She had taken it too far. It wasn’t his fault his home was in such disrepair—he hadn’t been home for the better half of a decade.

  Her eyes dropped to the scuffed plank floor, avoiding the anger she could feel rising with the te
nsion of the air.

  “Is it impossible,” he growled, “to imagine that I fancy myself as the sentimental sort who wishes to go against the grain and marry for love?”

  The stiffness in his voice made her guilt immediate. Her stomach knotted, her heart tensed, her jaw shivered trying to come up with something to say. But as the words sunk in, they made her feel rather hopeful, too.

  Because the words he had spoken…

  Well, they were rather romantic. It would be more romantic had he spoken a little less harshly and maybe tried to not imply that she had effectively crushed his dreams of making a love match. However, it was rather pleasant to think that a man of his rigidity would believe in a marriage based on love.

  Lord Thornton was guarded, always in control. He was clearly a man hiding the pain that was torturing his soul. Of course he believed in love.

  The thought made her want to sigh.

  She held it back. Barely.

  “It’s a nice idea, isn’t it? Love?” Her voice sounded as close to a sigh as it could get without actually being a sigh. For which she immediately regretted.

  You’re acting like a child! she wanted to scream at herself.

  Love. The notion was a distant fairytale, an impossible dream. Impossible because she had crushed any hope of either of them finding a love match.

  Lord Thornton surprised her with his honest answer, as if honesty and steel came hand in hand with him. “No,” he said blatantly, effectively disintegrating the entire monologue she had created of his essence.

  She beat down the sudden urge to cry as he ushered her into a worn, rose colored sitting room the furniture all covered with white sheets. They were having an actual conversation. Lord Thornton might be as severe as ever, but he was speaking with her. And it didn’t matter that she’d just been irritated with the man; he was here, present, and for the moment she didn’t feel nearly as alone.

  Pulling off her gloves and bonnet, she cut off the silence left after his blunt answer, unwilling to let the moment die, and broke in with, “You never thought about marrying?”