by Anna Bennett
She pressed her naked body against his and rolled on top of him. “Perhaps the morning has something to recommend it after all.”
A half hour later, she was shooting him a sleepy, sated smile. He reached for her dressing gown where it lay at the end of his massive bed and held it open for her as she reluctantly tossed back the sheets and padded toward him, slipping her arms into the sleeves.
“We’ll leave for Drake’s office in a couple of hours,” he said. “Are you nervous?”
“Yes. About the meeting and about leaving here afterward,” she admitted.
“You don’t have to leave today,” he said, damn near close to begging. “You could stay another week.”
She cinched the tie of her dressing gown and looked at him with sad eyes. “Would it change anything?”
He knew what she was asking. Would he ever be able to give his heart to her completely and without reservation? Would he ever be able to love her the way she deserved to be loved? And he owed her an honest answer.
“No,” he said simply. “I wish I could be the man you deserve.”
A tear trickled down her cheek as she turned to leave. “I wish you could see that you are.”
* * *
Apparently, Delilah had a Friday morning tradition that revolved around The Debutante’s Revenge column—and this week, Caroline was invited to participate. The custom involved sleeping later than usual and taking breakfast in Delilah’s bedchamber. As soon as the new edition of the London Hearsay was delivered, the butler presented it to Delilah, who proceeded with her first, ceremonial reading of the column.
Delilah had insisted that Caroline come to her room in her nightgown and crawl into bed beside her while they waited for breakfast. When Molly arrived, bearing a cart laden with silver serving platters and delicate china, they bounded out of bed like perfect heathens. While the delicious aromas of tea, scones, ham, and eggs wafted around the room, they sat in a pair of comfortable armchairs flanking a window, filled their plates, and dove into their feast with gusto.
Caroline would have adored the coziness of the morning—if she hadn’t known it was her last in that house.
When the butler knocked on the door with the newspaper tucked under his elbow, Delilah set down her teacup and rubbed her palms in anticipation. “Thank you, Stodges.”
She waited for him to leave, then turned to Caroline. “Ready?”
Her heart beating wildly, she nodded. Of course it was highly unlikely she was the authoress of the column, but a small part of her still thought—even hoped—that she might be. If The Debutante’s Revenge appeared in the paper as expected, however, she could put that theory to rest. Because the only columns she’d written in the past week were the ones in her journal.
Delilah opened the paper and smoothed it across her lap. “Here it is.”
Caroline tamped down the disappointment that niggled inside. So, she wasn’t the authoress. She’d been foolish to think she could be.
She and Caroline both took a moment to admire the accompanying sketch of a couple sitting beneath a parasol, gazing at each other as though they were on the verge of sneaking a kiss.
Then Delilah cleared her throat, and, blue eyes gleaming with anticipation, she raised her chin like a town crier preparing to read a royal proclamation.
The Debutante’s Revenge Dear Debutantes,
When it comes to matters of the heart, every maid, miss, and matron considers herself an expert. But for a young woman on the marriage mart, no opinion is more important than her own. She is likely to have many well-meaning relatives and friends offering her advice or cautioning her against certain gentlemen. In the end, however, she is the only one who can determine which suitor is the best match for her.
This life-altering choice should not be made based on a gentleman’s fortune or rank or even his manners. Instead, a debutante should look for someone who makes her days brighter and her sorrows lighter. She should seek a man who can make her pulse race with a simple glance and who appreciates her not in spite of her foibles, but because of them.
If you are fortunate to find a love so rare, grab hold of it. Refuse to let go.
For several seconds after Delilah finished reading, neither she nor Caroline said anything.
Caroline felt that odd tingling sensation again—the one that she’d been having more frequently lately. The one that made her feel like she might be on the verge of remembering.
Delilah’s gaze flicked over the paper again, as if she were slowly devouring every word—for a second time. When she looked up, her expression was unusually sober. “What do you think of the column?” she asked Caroline. “Do you agree?”
She nodded, thoughtful. “I do. If I was lucky enough to fall in love…” she paused to swallow past the knot in her throat, “… I would do everything in my power to protect that love. To nurture it and let it grow.”
“That’s what I think too.” Determination sparked in Delilah’s eyes. “Sometimes the right advice makes everything seem clear.”
Caroline frowned. “You’re not planning to do anything rash, are you?”
“Don’t worry about me. You have enough on your plate as it is. Which reminds me,” she said with a mischievous smile, “I have something for you.”
She set down the paper, strode to her armoire, and pulled out a stack of three neatly folded gowns. Handing them to Caroline, she said, “These are the most practical, serviceable dresses I could find in my wardrobe—perfectly suitable for a companion or governess. Take them with you when you go to the boardinghouse.”
“Oh, Delilah,” Caroline said, deeply touched. “I couldn’t.”
“Nonsense,” Delilah countered. “I know you want to make your own way, but everyone needs a little help getting started. Nash is going to pay your rent for the first month and give you some spending money.”
“You’ve both been so good to me. And so generous,” Caroline choked out. “I promise that I’ll write to you and let you know as soon as I secure a position. And I’ll try to visit you if I can.”
“You’d better,” Delilah teased, but she was sniffling too. Glancing at the clock, she added, “You should go now and dress for your meeting with the mysterious woman. I’m hoping that she’ll know who you are and take you home so that you’ll be able to forget all about your plans to live in a boardinghouse.”
“I hope so too,” Caroline said. But the truth was, it didn’t matter to her whether she lived in a cramped attic room or a royal palace.
Any future that didn’t include Nash was doomed to be bleak.
Chapter 22
“A gentleman needn’t always agree with you, but he must always respect you. Never apologize for who you are or what you believe in.”
—The Debutante’s Revenge
An hour later, Caroline sat beside Nash in his elegant coach as it rumbled through the streets. “I should warn you about Drake’s office,” Nash was saying. “Imagine a study where there are more books on the floor than on shelves. Odd pieces of furniture and knickknacks placed randomly around the room. Stacks of paper piled everywhere—except the desk. “That’s what Drake’s office is like.”
Caroline smiled at Nash’s attempt to calm her nerves—and perhaps his own. “It sounds charming.”
“Hardly.” He squeezed her hand. “We’ll be lucky if we can round up the necessary chairs for our meeting.” Turning serious, he added, “No matter what happens, I’ll be right there with you.”
“I know,” she said. “Thank you.”
“How are you feeling today?” he asked.
“I feel fine.” Physically, at least. Inside, her heart was breaking. “I’m a little worried about Delilah, though.”
His forehead creased. “Why is that?”
Caroline hesitated. “There was a new edition of The Debutante’s Revenge in the paper today, and after she read it, she—”
Bam. The coach suddenly lurched to the left, and Caroline’s head slammed into the window. Pain explo
ded behind her eyes. Radiated down her neck.
“Caroline!” Nash cradled her head in his hands and searched her face. “Are you all right?” His voice was threaded with panic.
She blinked up at his handsome face. Saw a mix of fear and concern swirling in his golden eyes. “What was that?” she asked, wincing.
“We must have hit a rut in the road. I’m surprised we didn’t lose a wheel.” Nash gently moved his fingers, inspecting her head. “Let me see if you’re bleeding.”
The coach had continued rolling along, and Caroline felt every jostle in her skull, but the pain was already receding into a dull ache.
“You have a lump right here,” he said, gently touching a tender spot above her left ear. “I’m going to tell the driver to take us home. We should have Dr. Cupton examine you.”
Caroline frowned. She was so close to meeting the veiled woman. So close to discovering her own identity. “No.” She clasped his wrist and pulled his hand away from her head. “It’s just a little bump, and I’m fine.”
Nash arched a dark brow, clearly skeptical. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” She pasted on a smile and brushed a stray tendril away from her face. “I’m not as fragile as I look,” she joked.
Nash’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he pressed a light kiss to her forehead. “Very well. We’ll be at Drake’s office in a few minutes, but you must tell me if the pain worsens.”
“I will,” she promised.
She laced her fingers through his and stared out the window, mentally preparing herself for the meeting ahead. But as the houses, storefronts, and offices rushed by outside the coach, a strange sensation took root in her chest. Wrapped its tendrils around her heart. Refused to let go.
Blaming her frazzled nerves, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and resolved to distract herself with pleasant thoughts.
She remembered the night in Nash’s bedchamber when he’d slowly unraveled the strip of cloth binding her breasts. The heat in his honey-colored eyes had made her belly flutter. She saw the scene behind her eyelids, but she felt it too. Like a dream. But more real.
Silk slid against her skin as she spun away from him, but instead of growing looser, the bands grew tighter with each turn. She couldn’t stop spinning. The cloth squeezed her rib cage too tightly. She tried to take a deep breath but couldn’t. She was gasping, desperate for air—
And suddenly, she stood in front of a mirror, breathing quite normally and running her hands over her bound torso. She hauled a boy’s shirt over her head and stepped into a pair of trousers—only she wasn’t in Nash’s room anymore. She was in another place. Not home, exactly, but close.
And before she could properly analyze that, she was back in the Grey Goose.
The tavern teemed with people, and this time, Nash wasn’t at her side.
He was there, though. Sitting across the room, observing her as though her disguise hadn’t quite convinced him. His scrutiny had been so unsettling that she decided to leave.
And then two men were blocking her path. Or perhaps it was three men.
Yes, it was definitely three. One of them demanded she give him her bag.
Oh God.
She saw it all.
Her futile attempt to distract the men and run away.
Them catching her, sneering down at her with their nostrils flared.
Nash stepping in and the knock-down fight that ensued—ending with her slamming into a table.
Pitiful moans. Blinding pain. Blackness.
Her eyes flew open. Her mouth was dry, her skin was clammy, and her heart raced like she’d climbed a mountain. But she was still in Nash’s coach, and he was sitting beside her, holding her hand and grounding her in the present like an anchor.
What on earth was wrong with her? She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow. She’d just had some sort of breakthrough—she was sure of it. The scenes that had played out behind her eyelids weren’t just random thoughts. They were … memories.
She was almost scared to believe it in case it wasn’t true, but it seemed that, finally, snippets of her life before the injury were coming back to her.
But the most central question remained. Who was she?
“We’re here,” Nash announced as the coach rolled to a stop in front of a brick building with a blue arched door. He turned toward her, and the bolstering smile on his face evaporated. “You’re very pale, Caroline. Are you sure that you want to do this right now? We could reschedule the meeting.”
“I don’t want to put it off,” she said firmly. “I’m simply a bit dazed because just now I … I think I remembered something. Something that happened before I lost my memory.”
“My God.” His gaze snapped to hers, and his eyes glowed with a mix of hope and apprehension and … tenderness. A tenderness that made her whole body thrum. “What do you remember?” he asked soberly.
“That night at the Grey Goose. The first time we were both there,” she said haltingly, piecing it all together. “Before I knew who you were.”
A footman opened the door of the cab, and Nash waved him off. “Give us another moment, please, Thomas.” To Caroline, he said, “Go on.”
“I was in trouble, and you came to my defense,” she said, picturing it again in her head. “You were holding your own against the men … until I smiled at you.”
Nash’s golden eyes gleamed. “You are remembering,” he said, his voice low with awe.
Caroline nodded. “It’s a start.” She couldn’t help thinking that remembering the night she’d hit her head was like finding the end of a thread. The hardest part was done. Now she merely had to follow that thread, wherever it might lead. “I still don’t know who I am, but I do know this—I’m closer than ever to finding out.”
* * *
Nash escorted Caroline up the walkway to Drake’s office, relieved to see that after the bump to her head she was still clear-eyed and steady on her feet. Drake’s secretary, Herbert, greeted them in the antechamber. “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” he said. Bowing in Caroline’s direction, he added, “Miss Caroline.” He waved a lanky arm at the door behind him. “Mr. Drake and his guest are waiting for you inside.”
Nash leaned close to her ear. “Everything will be all right,” he assured her.
She stared at the closed door and swallowed. “How do you know?”
“Because I know you.” He gave her hand one last squeeze and led her into Drake’s office.
The solicitor sat behind his desk, and a slender woman dressed in black perched on a chair across from him, her back to Nash and Caroline.
Herbert had apparently cleared a path through the cluttered office to a pair of empty chairs, also near Drake’s desk. As Nash and Caroline walked toward them, Drake and the woman stood and faced them.
“Miss Caroline,” Drake said warmly. “Stonebridge has told me much about you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Caroline smiled back. “I’ve heard a lot about you as well. Thank you for your help with the advertisement.”
When Caroline turned to face the woman, Drake cleared his throat. “Allow me to introduce Miss Serena Labelle.”
Nash blinked. He’d heard the name before but couldn’t say where.
Serena hesitated, then lifted her veil and placed it on top of her hat. She had dark hair laced with gray, a pointed chin, and hazel eyes that seemed strangely wistful as she looked at Caroline. “When I read the description in your ad, I thought I might know you. And I do.”
“I don’t recognize you.” Caroline searched Serena’s face. “Have we met?”
The woman shook her head. “Not really. Mr. Drake told me you are suffering from memory loss. Aside from that, are you well?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes,” Caroline said. “And I’m starting to remember. Little things. But I still don’t know who I am.”
“I imagine this is all rather nerve-racking,” Serena said, sympathetic. “Would you care to sit?”
Serena clasped her gloved hands in front of her. “Your name is Miss Lily Hartley. Your parents live several blocks from here in an elegant town house. Your sister, Fiona, is married to the Earl of Ravenport. And you … you are an heiress.”
Nash watched Caroline’s face—that is, Lily’s face—closely. The relief that shone in her eyes matched his own. She wasn’t married. Her family lived here in town. Maybe he wasn’t mad to think there might be a future for them.
As if she were privy to his thoughts, she silently reached over the arm of her chair and laced her fingers through his. That simple touch told him everything—that she wanted him with her, whether she was Caroline or Lily.
“My name is Lily Hartley,” she repeated to herself before turning to Nash, her beautiful face awash with joy. “Yes. That sounds right. My name is Lily.”
He took her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Hartley.”
She cast a soft smile in his direction before turning to Serena. “Are you a friend of my parents?”
Serena shook her head. “Not really.”
Lily took a deep breath, and then her smile faltered. “My poor family. They must be sick with worry.”
“I thought the same thing,” Serena said. “So I made some discreet inquiries over the last few days. Apparently, your parents and sister are out of town. Perhaps that’s why they haven’t been frantically searching for you. They may not even know you’re missing.”
Caroline took a step back and slowly sank into the chair behind her. “That would explain a lot.” She looked up at Serena. “But you haven’t told me how you know me or how you knew about my birthmark.”
Nash had been wondering the same thing. He began repeating the woman’s name over and over in his head, hoping to jog his own memory. Vaguely recalled hearing her name whispered in his club.
