Forever and a Day

by Delilah Marvelle

  A lone tear spilled its way down her cheek. She nodded and swiped at it. “All that matters is that you’ve found what I had lost. ’Tis good to know you have a father. ’Tis more than good, actually. ’Tis absolutely marvelous.”

  He tossed the satchel toward the table with a thudding chink and stepped toward her, unfolding his arms. “Come here, Georgia. Come here, before I tell everyone to leave.”

  She let out a sob, hurried toward him and flung herself into his arms, pressing him tightly against herself. “I told you someone would come.” She dug her entire face harder into his chest and tightened her hold. “I told you.”

  “That you did.” He pressed the side of her soft cheek against his chest and held her for a long moment, praying this wouldn’t be the last time he’d hold her. “It would seem I am bound to far more than wealth.”

  She leaned back and searched his face, still clinging to him. “What do you mean?”

  He swallowed. “I am a lord, and my father, who is waiting downstairs, appears to be a duke.”

  She gasped, her eyes widening, and scrambled out of his arms. A trembling hand drifted up to her mouth. She stared as if she no longer knew who he was.

  The world faded as if he were being dragged into a reality he didn’t want to be a part of. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m still the same man.”

  “I knew you had money, but I never once thought you were some…aristo.” She dropped her hand to her side. “Mother on high, had I known I most certainly wouldn’t have—” She stepped toward him, looking panicked. “We can’t have you lookin’ like this. Your father is goin’ to blame your wretched appearance on me.”

  He lowered his chin. “You do realize you just insulted my appearance?”

  “Oh, hush up and stand still.” Stuffing his linen shirt into his trousers, she smoothed it against his chest and shoulders, before readjusting his trousers on his hips with a firm tug. “There. Now—”

  She turned, grabbed up his boots from beside the chair and set them before him with a thud. “Put your boots on. I’ll go get a rag to polish them.” She grabbed the other, small satchel from off the table, the one containing his fob, and shoved it into his hand. “Don’t forget this. It has your money and your watch in it. Maybe now you’ll be able to find the key that winds it.” Turning, she jogged into the front room and disappeared.

  Only Georgia would think of winding a watch at a time like this. He glanced back at her. “Georgia.”

  “Put on your boots,” she called back, knowing he hadn’t.

  He heaved out a breath. Lowering his gaze to those boots, he leaned over and yanked each boot on, dreading everything that awaited him. It would be like waking up in the hospital again. Not knowing who or what to expect. What if he didn’t recognize his own father? What if he never recognized the man?

  Georgia reappeared with not only a wet rag, but his waistcoat, coat and brush in hand. “Put them on. Apologize to your father about the buttons. Will he want them back? Should I go dig them out? I should, shouldn’t I? They’re silver.”

  He slipped into his embroidered waistcoat, which she had laundered and dried for him all but yesterday. “I don’t think he’ll want them. They are, after all, my buttons. Not his.” He pulled on his coat, adjusting them both against his body and sighed. “Better?”

  “Much. Lower your head for me.” She turned him toward herself and reached up, brushing his hair back and out of his eyes with several quick strokes. She stepped back, smacking the brush against the palm of her hand and set her chin. “There. Much better. Now stand still.”

  Tossing aside the brush with a clatter, she kneeled before him on the wood floor and bent toward him, polishing his black leather boots with a rag as if she were now his servant.

  His eyes widened. “Georgia, what—?” He leaned down and yanked her savagely back onto her feet, causing her to stumble. He shook her. “What the hell are you doing?”

  She scrambled back, tightening her hold on the dirty, wet rag she clutched, and awkwardly replied, “Now I won’t get arrested for treatin’ you like a hog.”

  He captured her gaze, his throat tightening. “You treated me like a damn king.” In that breath and in that moment, he knew he could never live without her. Not even if he were married with fourteen children. Jesus, he was fucked. “I want you to meet him. I want you to come downstairs with me. Come.”

  Her brows pinched together as she stepped farther back and shook her head. “He doesn’t want to meet me.” She tossed aside the dirty rag and smoothed her hands against her gown. “I don’t even own a gown worth bein’ seen in.” She edged back, her cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry I made you live like this. I really am.”

  He fought the need to grab her and shake her for saying such a thing. “Cease.” He held out an impatient hand. “Now come. You’re going with me.”

  “Don’t do this to me, Robinson. Please don’t.” She pushed him toward the door, making him stumble against her weight. “What if you’re married? I’ll not be the cause of a broken marriage.”

  He leaned back toward her, clutching the small leather satchel hard. “What if I am unwed? What if I am free to love you? What then? Will you have me?”

  Tears now streamed down her pale face, reddening those pretty green eyes. “A man such as you, belongin’ to the duty of nobility and wealth, could never be free to love a woman like me. Don’t you see that?”

  His eyes widened. She didn’t even sound like herself. “Are you being blinded by something as stupid as status and wealth? Do you really want the west? Or do you really want me? ’Tis as simple as that.”

  She swiped away her tears. “Stop it,” she choked out. She swung away. “I haven’t the right to impose what I want upon you.”

  His throat burned in an effort to keep himself from grabbing her and shaking the wits out of her. “People who love each other will impose upon each other. That is the price and burden of love. Unless, of course…you don’t love me.”

  “This isn’t about love, Robinson.”

  “Then what is it about?” Rancor sharpened his voice.

  She shook her head again. “Regardless of whether you see it or not, I’ll only be a woman you dragged out of the mud and I’ll not do that to you or myself. I’ll not hang our dignity like this. I just won’t.”

  He leaned toward her and hit the satchel he was holding against his chest. “Our dignity? Our dignity? Dignity won’t mean a goddamn thing if we’re not together!”

  A sob escaped her. “That’s because you don’t know what it’s like to live without dignity. But I do, Robinson. I’ve been livin’ without it since I took my first breath and I’ll not do that to you. I’ll not.” She clamped a hand to her mouth and quickly veered out of sight, into the front room of her tenement.

  “Georgia?” he echoed after her. “Come with me. Please.”

  Silence pulsed.

  He swallowed, sensing that John and all four of the uniformed men were holding their breaths right along with him. It was degrading having his entire life fall apart before the eyes of men that he didn’t even know. Robinson lingered in the doorway, staring straight into her kitchen at the hanging rosary there on the far wall, and silently willed whatever God there was to get her to bend to his command.

  He waited and waited, swallowing back his disbelief. When she still didn’t reappear, he reached out and slammed the door shut lest he grab her and force her into coming with him.

  Through heaving breaths and a heavy-limbed haze, he lingered in the corridor as everyone silently awaited whatever was about to happen. It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

  Robinson swung away from her closed door and tossed the satchel he was holding over to John, who was barely two feet away. “Take this with an apology for the fist I gave you.”

  John paused and snapped it back out toward him. “Nah, I was the one who—”

  “Just keep Georgia out of trouble. That is all I ask.” Robinson turned and shoved past everyone.

/>   He pounded his way down the narrow stairs that led out toward the open entrance door. Thunder grumbled restlessly in the distance beyond the rushing rain as a strong, cool breeze forced its way in through the open door.

  When he reached the bottom stair, he paused and then veered toward the uneven plastered wall, wistfully sliding the tips of his fingers against it, wishing he could recapture that breathtaking moment when Georgia had made him believe that he was the only man she would ever love.

  He strode out of the tenement and onto the pavement, rain pelting his head, face and shoulders, soaking his morning coat within moments. A footman in a bright red uniform stood in the rain, his polished black boots encased in the mud road. He held the door open to a large black lacquered carriage.

  Pausing a few steps away from the carriage, he allowed the cold rain to soak him and numb what little he felt. Georgia hadn’t even fought half a breath for him. She, who wore a blade on her thigh and took on the world with fists and words to match, had set it all aside the moment it came to him. She obviously had never come to love him in the way he had come to love her.

  An older gentleman’s rugged face appeared, leaning far forward in the cushioned seat, a folded white handkerchief pressed against his nose and mouth. His silver tonic-sleeked hair glinted from the movement.

  Dark brown eyes widened as the man scanned the length of him. Lowering the handkerchief with a black leather-gloved hand, the older gentleman rose from his seat, revealing full black attire from boot to shoulder, save his linen shirt and a white cravat. The man quickly leaned out of the door and waved toward the young footman still holding the door open. “Get him out of this rain, Gilmore!” he shouted, his pale features flushing. “Now!”

  The footman rushed toward Robinson and grabbed hold of his arm, hurrying him at a jog toward the open door of the carriage and up the unfolded stairs. Robinson stumbled in and fell against the seat opposite the older man as the stairs were quickly folded back into place. The door was slammed shut, encasing Robinson in a world of gray velvet that smelled like mulled spice and cedar.

  He paused, glancing at nothing in particular. He knew that smell. It belonged to his life. It belonged to the life of Viscount Roderick Gideon Tremayne. He sucked in a breath, bringing up a trembling hand to his temple. His name. He knew his name. It wasn’t Robinson at all. It was…Roderick. He was Lord Roderick Gideon Tremayne. He swallowed and glanced at the man lingering before him. Why was it he had a name in his head but nothing else?

  The duke scrambled out of his black morning coat and stumbled to his booted feet. Draping Roderick with his own coat, the duke leaned toward him and touched his face. “Yardley,” he choked out, sitting beside him. “Assure me you were treated well.”

  “Yardley?” Roderick echoed, trying not to panic. “You mean my name isn’t Tremayne? Who the hell is Tremayne?”

  The man paused and blinked rapidly. “Tremayne is still you. ’Tis simply only one of your titles. As is Yardley.”

  A breath escaped him. “I see.” At least a part of his mind belonged to him. “Call me Tremayne. Please. I don’t know why, but I prefer it.”

  “Fine. Yes.” The man grasped his wrist with gloved fingers, gently bringing his bandaged hand toward himself. “What happened? Dr. Carter didn’t mention any injuries to your hand. Is it serious?”

  “Hardly. I scraped some skin off, that is all.” Roderick drew away his hand and set it back into his own lap. “Might we go? I don’t care to linger.”

  The duke grabbed his arm, his fingers pinching the wet skin beneath his linen shirt. “Will you cease with this morbid nonchalance? You’ve been missing for twelve days. Twelve! I’ve had countless men scouring this city since your valet informed me you had never returned from your walk that afternoon. ’Twas only blessed chance the owner of the Adelphi had personally delivered yesterday’s newspaper into my hands knowing that I was paying hordes of men, including the watch and all of its marshals, to hunt you down!”

  Roderick awkwardly glanced toward him, trying to understand what type of relationship he had with his father. “Forgive me for the heartache I have brought you.”

  The man released his arm. “All that matters is that you are safe. We’re leaving. Do you understand? Difficult though it may be for me to accept, given who he is and what he meant to your mother, we are done trying to convince Atwood to return with us to England. ’Tis his God-given right to stay behind and lead whatever life he chooses.”

  He sunk farther into his seat in utter confusion. “Atwood? Who is Atwood?”

  The duke’s eyes widened. He jerked toward him, searching his face. “You mean you really don’t remember?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  The man paused, still searching his face. “But you remember why we left London? Yes?”

  An eerie feeling clamped his gut. “No. I don’t.”

  The duke hissed out a breath, momentarily closing his eyes, pinching his gloved fingers into his forehead. “Dr. Carter warned me of your condition, but I… How does a man lose all that he is in a single breath?” Reopening his eyes, he dropped his hand to his side and shifted toward him, his features twisting. “You do remember me, though, yes? Given that you are acknowledging me?”

  Roderick swallowed. “I’m sorry to say that I don’t.”

  The duke leaned closer toward him, bringing with him the tangy scent of cigars, and lowered his voice. “Try harder, Tremayne. A son should always remember his father. Always.”

  Leaning back against the seat, Roderick whispered achingly, “Forgive me. It isn’t by choice that I cannot remember.”

  His Grace rapidly blinked back tears. He glanced away and eventually said in a choked tone, “You look half-dead. I’ll have the valet clean you up when we get to the hotel. We will be leaving on the next Red Star Line, which is in ten days’ time. Fortunately, I didn’t cancel those tickets.”

  Snatching up a cane from the seat before them with a trembling hand, the duke used the gold head to knock on the roof of the carriage before angling it against the seat.

  The carriage rolled forward, causing Roderick to sway against the sudden movement of the seat. He was leaving Georgia behind. She was going out west and he was going God knows where with a man he couldn’t even remember.

  Still in disbelief, he glanced toward the rain-sleeked glass window. A fleeting distorted image of Georgia rushing out of the tenement and into the rain in bare feet made him sit up.

  She dashed toward the carriage, sliding against the mud, her head appearing well below the window as she jumped up in an effort to try to see him. “Robinson!” she shouted, her small bare hand popping up and hitting the glass of the carriage as it slowly rolled its way past faster and faster. She darted alongside the carriage to keep up, her lopsided, red bundled hair sagging against the downpour. “If you’re not married or involved with any women, come back. If you’ll have me, come back. I’ll be here another week before headin’ west!” A sob escaped her as she fell back and disappeared, letting the carriage roll away.

  His breath caught in his throat as the clatter of the wheels and the rushing of rain muted all sound. She loved him. He knew everything between them had been real. He knew it had.

  He jerked toward the man beside him. “Am I married or involved with any women?”

  An astonished laugh escaped the duke’s lips as he glanced away from the window and back toward him. “I… Well… You had a mistress you dragged over from Paris to distract you from obsessing over your brother’s wife, but dismissed the woman when we left for New York. Is that what you wanted to know?”

  He choked. “My brother’s wife? I have a brother? And what do you mean I was obsessing over his wife? Do you mean to tell me I’m involved with his wife?”

  The duke’s features darkened. “You had a brother, Tremayne. And yes, you were involved with his wife. But that is all…done with.”

  Roderick threw back his head and raked his hands through his hair. That is why he was w
earing a mourning band. The one Georgia had asked him about in Dr. Carter’s office. The one he didn’t even remember wearing. He’d been in mourning for his own brother. Dearest God. What sort of man beds his own brother’s wife? He was an asshole and couldn’t even remember being one! When would his life be his own and feel real? When?

  He leveled his head and pushed out the breath he was holding. How he prayed Georgia would still love him, despite what he had once been, because he wasn’t the man his father spoke of anymore. He wasn’t. Nor would he be again.

  Roderick flung the coat from himself and jumped toward the door. “Stop the carriage. Now.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m engaged,” he rasped. “Now stop this carriage.”

  The duke leaned toward him and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him twice. “Get ahold of yourself.” Those brown eyes searched his face. “You are not engaged.”

  “I am as of this moment. I wish to be formally engaged to Mrs. Georgia Emily Milton. The widow of Raymond Milton and a woman I simply cannot and will not live without.”

  The duke’s eyes widened. “The one I just handed gold to? The one Dr. Carter kept telling me was charming but next to bloody mad?”

  “If she is mad, Your Grace, then the entire world is, too. She took me in and gave me a home and a mind when I had none and I am madly in love with her.”

  His Grace gasped, his aged face flushing. “You’ve only been gone for twelve days. Not twelve years.”

  “Time means nothing when two souls are perfectly matched. Now I am asking that you stop this carriage so that I may bring my fiancée home with me.”

  The duke’s brown eyes intently held his gaze. “You may not remember who and what you are but that does not change who and what you once were and what you must continue to be. You are the sole heir to a dukedom. Do you understand? This woman has no place in your world and I will not permit you to degrade yourself and all that we represent.”

  Roderick swayed, fighting the nausea seizing him. “I will set aside everything to make her my wife. I will. Even you. Even my name. Let there be no doubt in that.”