by Joyce Alec
“I am thinking of asking her to marry me,” Edward stunned the older man.
“Sir, I believe you are already married to her. Are you not?”
“Well, officially, yes,” he said, suddenly thinking how daft he must sound. “But I would like her to want to marry me.” His eyes dropped to the floor. “She didn’t… I didn’t… the first time.”
“It may not be my place, sir,” Fry began.
“No, Fry, I want you to tell me. What do you think?” He had learned to lean on Fry like a surrogate father. He never had a good relationship with his own father. And now, his father was bedridden and still wanted little to do with his son. He hadn’t seen him in weeks, not since his mother’s death.
“Well, sir,” Fry started, worried he was overstepping. “I think you should consider telling her the truth.”
“No,” Edward snapped. “I cannot.” He wished he could, but she would never forgive him. He could never tell her the truth.
“Do you love her?” Fry asked, now disregarding all protocol.
“I do,” said Edward, his heart suddenly aching. “I know our entire situation is a lie, but that is not. Do you think she loves me?”
“I believe she loves who she thinks you are.” He was slightly afraid he may be looking for another position soon, but he continued anyway. “You must trust in her if you truly love her. Otherwise, the lie continues.”
Edward lifted the brandy sifter to his mouth again, the golden liquor warming his parched throat. “Thank you, Fry. You are a true gentleman.”
“Sir,” Fry bowed again and eased out of the dark room.
Edward leaned back against the soft tufts of the leather sofa, swirling the brandy round and round in the large glass. He was so confused. He wanted to start his life with her. He wanted her to be his forever. She may never get her memory back. He did not want to waste another day. He would ask her to be his wife. His proper wife.
There was a soft knock on the heavy door. “I am fine, Fry,” he called out. “I have made my decision.”
“Truly?” Her velvet tone was unmistakable. “And what decision is that?”
He sat up quickly, sloshing the brandy all over his unbuttoned undershirt. “You scared the wits out of me,” he chastised.
“I am sorry, Edward,” she said, her eyes darting to the floor, suddenly aware his shirt was open.
He quickly closed his shirt and stood. “Pardon, milady.”
“Oh, it is quite alright, Edward,” she said, realizing she was in her dressing gowns, a severe lack of propriety on her part as well. She crossed the room and sat down in the lush cerise arm chair next to the fireplace.
Edward followed her lead and sat back down on the sofa. “Mrs. Parker would surely reprove us both for this, do you not think?” he laughed.
“Most certainly,” Chloé agreed.
Edward paused, thinking this was the perfect time to tell her how he felt. “Chloé, I would like to speak with you about something quite particular.”
“That sounds rather ominous, milord.”
She stiffened slightly as he moved closer to her. He shifted to the edge of the couch, his knees almost touching hers. He took her shaking hand in his and held it tightly.
“My Chloé,” he started, his eyes welling with tears. “You have captured my heart and soul.” Tears began streaking down her round cheeks. “I adore you. I love you. And I want to marry you.”
“Really?” she said so sweetly he felt his heart squeeze with emotion.
He nodded. “More than you could possibly imagine.”
“Then you shall marry me, my lord. You shall marry me.” She fell into him, their lips uniting in a passionate kiss. Neither wanted to pull away. They sat with their lips barely touching for ages.
Finally, Chloé pulled back. “But, what about my past?” she asked. “What if there is something that changes things? What if I hate Englishmen, and I do not know it?”
He grinned at her joke. “Chloé, do you love me?” he asked her seriously.
She stared into his eyes and squeezed his hand. “I do.”
“And I love you,” he said, raising her hand to his lips. “What could matter more than that?”
She felt instantly better. He had a brilliant way of doing that. “You are right, my love.” She paused thoughtfully. “Ah, my love.”
“Sounds good,” he leaned toward her to steal just one more kiss.
Edward helped Chloé out of the phaeton in front of Almack’s. Their entrance garnered the usual pomp and circumstance. Chloé adored it. Edward was a superstar among the ton, and he belonged to her. She felt such pride. They entered arm in arm, an obvious connection between them. This time, it was undeniable.
Chloé leaned in to whisper in Edward’s ear as they crossed the buzzing room. All eyes were glued to them, especially Charlotte Palmer’s. They could feel her stare boring holes through them as they approached their table.
All the gentlemen at the table rose to greet them at once. Edward shook everyone’s hand, and Chloé curtseyed to all. “Your highness,” Edward exclaimed, shocked to see the Prince Regent there.
“Edward, it is a pleasure,” he returned. “And who might this lovely lady be?” the prince asked, taking her hand for a quick peck.
“This is my future bride, Chloé Dalton,” Edward beamed.
The table went crazy. They all fell over themselves congratulating the couple. They could not be happier for their friend. Albany roared across the room for champagne for the new couple. If there was anyone not talking about them when they entered the hall, they were talking now. They created quite a spectacle.
After a few glasses of champagne, Chloé excused herself to the ladies’ room. She was on her way back to the table, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see a young man dressed in servant’s clothes. “Mademoiselle Dalton, est-ce vous? It is moi, Andre, from the house in France. I knew it was you. I saw you enter.”
Chloé looked alarmed at the man, who obviously thought he knew her. “I am sorry, sir, I do not…”
“You do not remember me?” He was completely hurt.
Chloé felt terrible. She did not mean to injure his feelings. “No, sir, I have been in an accident and cannot remember…”
“Dearest mademoiselle, your father took me in as a lad and gave me a job in the house. When your husband sold it, we were all put out on the street. And I heard your ship sank. Incroyable, I am so happy to find you here in London. I have been looking for a position, but it is near to impossible for a Frenchman, you see.”
Chloé’s mind began to spin. “My husband?” she asked.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he answered. “Your husband, over there.” He pointed to Edward, who had begun looking around for his fiancée.
Chloé’s eyes followed his outstretched arm directly to Edward, who met her gaze. Edward stood, troubled by the anxiety he could see on her face. He quickly made his way over to Chloé and the young man, who continued rattling on about Chloé getting married and leaving them all.
Just as Edward approached, Chloé’s memories began flooding back. Her mother. Her father. Her beloved home in France. The horrible deal her father struck with his English cousin. The cold, heartless man who married her and ripped her away from all that she had ever known. Edward could see it in her eyes as they hardened from a bright sapphire glow to steely blue coldness.
“Chloé, I…” was all he could get out before she struck him across the face with the force of any man.
Edward stood there, stunned as Chloé made her way across the gawking room and out the door.
6
Chloé had been walking for hours turning the events of the evening and the last weeks over and over in her head. She could not believe she had fallen in love with him. What a fantastic ruse! He probably orchestrated the entire thing. Her memory loss was a great coincidence! Oh, how it benefitted him. He rids himself of his obligation to preserve her home and ends up with a perfectly amiable wife. What
a fool she had been! Oh, his fictitious professions of love! What an actor! He sat by her bedside. Nursed her back to health. Talked with her for hours upon hours upon hours with nary a word about her past. The past he knew she deserved to remember. And then proposing? What a joke! They were already married! Her heart writhed in pain. She felt as though she was losing her entire world all over again.
Her eyes were so tear-filled, she could barely see. She had been walking aimlessly almost the entire night. She had no idea where she was. She began looking around and suddenly found herself afraid. The streets were dark with little lamplight to light her way. The row houses were tattered and stained. She did not know London very well, but knew instantly she was in a less-than-desirable neighborhood.
Cold raindrops began hitting her hard. She hated England’s harsh rain. And she had left without her mantle. She was freezing and growing increasingly frightened. She saw a soft glow on a tiny porch ahead of her. There was an older lady fortifying her doorway from the heavy rain. She ran up to the woman, scaring her half to death.
“Madame,” Chloé panted. “Pray, may I please come in for a moment?”
The woman quickly surmised Chloé was no threat to her and agreed she may enter, ushering her to the fire to warm herself.
“What is a young lady of birth doing around here?” the woman asked, obviously noticing Chloé’s regal gown and trimmings. “And without a cloak, in the pouring rain, no doubt.”
“I am sorry, madame, but my story is long and complicated,” Chloé answered, her words barely audible because her teeth were chattering quite ferociously.
“Aye, everyone who enters this door does so with a long and complicated story.” The woman moved around Chloé to stoke the fire and place a pot of water above it.
Chloé liked the way the woman worked the small house. She was so methodical, placing the water for boiling, folding the bedsheets for easier washing, soaking her brushes for easier cleaning.
“I presume you are running away from someone or something,” the woman mumbled. “This is a house for women who are running. You can stay here if you help in the kitchen. We need three meals a day for near to nine. Can you do that?”
Chloé considered her options and thought this may be her best bet for the near future. She needed to get her head straight before going back. That is, if she were going back. “What is your name, madame?” she asked the woman.
“Harper,” she croaked, clearing her throat.
“Well, Mrs. Harper, I believe I will accept your offer with many thanks.”
Mrs. Harper gave the shivering girl a warm cup of tea and showed her to an empty cot in the back room of the house. “I will have one of the girls find something for you to wear. It won’t do for you to be working in the kitchen in your finest.” She had the warm smile of Chloé’s childhood governess. Chloé instantly adored the older woman.
“You are a gift from God, dear Mrs. Harper,” Chloé praised, removing her wet over gown and falling exhausted onto the cot. Anonymous sleep could not come soon enough.
Edward awoke late with a giant hole in his heart. He had lost her. He knew this would happen. Fry was right. He should have been the one to tell her. Perhaps he could have softened the blow somehow. What a fool he was. And now he had no idea where she was or if she was even safe. He was numb with worry.
He looked for her all night long. No one had seen or heard anything. He feared the worst. The streets of London were not safe for a woman of privilege to be traveling at night alone. She had been so shielded from the likes of city predators that he worried she would trust the wrong person. His only hope was that she had found someone respectable to take her in. He called on Fry immediately to help orchestrate a search for her.
Edward was not the only one searching for Chloé. Charlotte Palmer watched the dramatic scene unfold at Almack’s and was quick to confront the man who seemed to cause the whole uproar. She spoke with him briefly and exited the club with more information than she imagined. She had a feeling her fortunes were changing. Edward Cayley was going to be hers. Now, she knew how she would make it happen. She set out immediately to enact her plan.
It didn’t take Charlotte long to find out where Chloé was. You cannot stroll into a bawdy house for prostitutes in a dinner gown in the middle of the night and not create some kind of stir. Charlotte was elated with her luck. She knew the silly girl must have no idea what kind of house Mrs. Harper’s was, but that was of no concern to Charlotte. She could not wait to tell Edward what kind of girl he wanted to marry. Living with prostitutes was an unredeemable act. Edward would not be able to show his face in society again if word got out.
7
Edward’s life was full of ironies of timing. Less than a week after losing Chloé, Edward received word that his father passed away. He was not sad. He was not joyful. He felt nothing. He was, perhaps, a bit more concerned with how his life would be altered now that he was the rightful Duke of Dorchester. His status with the ton instantly upgraded. And now, with his “fiancée” gone after a very public confrontation at Almack’s, the town was abuzz with rumors. His head pounded with bewilderment.
He left shortly after receiving the letter to intern his father next to his mother and speak with his father’s attorney regarding the transfer of the dukedom. He was determined to return quickly since Fry had received a possible lead on Chloé.
Edward returned three days later and was annoyed to find he must attend a ball being given by the Prince Regent. His mind was not in the game, and attending this ball was the last thing he wanted to do, but as the new Duke of Dorchester, it was his duty. His Royal Highness would expect nothing less.
He arrived at St. James’ in his best tailcoat and top hat. His lone arrival was marked by many murmurings about the crowd. He heard phrases such as “still alone” and “must have been a terrible fight” around the room. He held his head high, as any duke would, and searched out his circle.
Striding across the room, he was immediately accosted by Charlotte. Not feeling like dealing with her, he brushed her off with a curt, “Not now, Charlotte.”
Floored by his lack of manners, Charlotte angrily shoved a letter into his pocket, turned on her heel, and walked away. He would have to deal with her soon. Once he read the letter. She faded into the crowd. He would come for her.
Edward really did not want anything to do with Charlotte Palmer. They had once had a mild flirtation, but he did not appreciate her forward manner. She was untitled and from a family who came into their wealth under suspicious circumstances. She wrangled her way into Almack’s because the ladies of the club adored her undeniable beauty and flirtatious behavior. They believed it would attract more men, and it did, but she was only moderately suited for proper courtship.
Edward glided around the party accepting condolences on his father’s passing, as well as a number of questions regarding the whereabouts of his beautiful fiancée, which he expertly evaded by telling everyone she was in France on family business. They were all dreadfully forlorn to be without her exuberant company. Edward assured them she would be back soon, a dwindling hope in his heart wishing it to be true.
The first of his circle he encountered was Albany, of course. “Duke,” he bellowed to Edward. “The name fits you, you know,” he said, embracing his friend.
“Yes, well hopefully it does,” Edward replied, adjusting his waistcoat, running his hand across the crumpled letter Charlotte had thrust into a small pocket.
“Love letter?” Albany jeered, seeing the letter.
“I’m not sure,” Edward answered, pulling the letter out and opening it. “It’s from Charlotte.”
“Oh, dear,” Albany chortled. “I’d throw that directly into the fire if I were you.”
“You are probably correct, dear sir,” Edward responded with a smile.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Albany said, patting his friend on the back. “Good luck to you. I’m sure you will need it.”
Edward rolled his e
yes as his friend stalked across the room toward the Prince Regent. Edward turned back to the letter and began to read. The color drained from his face as he poured over every word. This could not be true. There is no possibility that what she said was true. He must find Charlotte and get to the bottom of her insulting message.
His eyes darted across the party, searching every corner, and then he saw her on the dance floor with Tembly. All propriety be damned, he marched directly over to her and grabbed her hand, dragging her away from his friend. “Sorry, Tem,” he said over his shoulder as he pulled her toward the hallway.
“What exactly are you playing at?” he hissed into her stunned face.
“Pardon me, sir, but I am simply being a good Samaritan,” she taunted. “I am sure you would like to know where your fiancée is, would you not? Since we all know she is not in France.”
He held the crumpled letter close to Charlotte’s face and seethed at her. “This will not have the effect you desire, madam, regardless of its accuracy.” And he turned abruptly and walked away, greeting the Prince Regent and disappearing out the front door.
8
As the sun rose the following day, Edward walked Monmouth Street searching out the location Charlotte noted in her letter. He could not believe Chloé would be staying at a bawdy house. There is no way this could be true. The Duke of Dorchester’s “fiancée” associating with bunters? This could ruin him.
He walked slowly up to Number 8 and peered through the dirty window. He could barely see inside, but there was a faint candle on. He moved closer and saw her scarlet curls flickering orange in the candlelight. There was a large, robust man standing next to her, his hand resting familiarly on her shoulder. Edward almost fell backward with disgust. Charlotte’s information was correct! How could this be? His darling Chloé. His innocent. His wife!
He turned on his heel and almost ran back to his townhouse. He had no idea how to fix this. He flung the heavy front door open. “Fry!” he screamed. “Fry!”
