When a Stranger Loves Me

by Julianne MacLean

  Blake turned around and looked at the sketches he’d drawn the night before when sleep eluded him. They were splayed out on the table, arousing his senses even now, for they were drawn from the most powerful and potent memories in his mind. They were sketches of Chelsea’s nude form.

  He wanted her still. He could not deny it. He had lost complete control in her room just now, kissing her with wild desperation and wanting to do so much more—mere minutes after he’d told her he was a married man. And after he’d just been reunited with his wife, who had recently thought herself a widow and was barely over her grief. She had wept on his shoulder, and he stood there, feeling nothing.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  A knock sounded at his door. He did not want to answer it. He wanted to be alone.

  The visitor rapped a second time, and Blake could tell by the force of the knock that it was no servant or lady. It was someone with brawn.

  Curious, he pushed off the windowsill and went to answer the door, then found himself, for a second time, staring at his mirror image. But it was not Devon. It was someone he had not met before, and his eyes were brown instead of blue.

  “Vincent,” he said.

  The devious looking gentleman in the corridor inclined his head as if he were impressed. “They told me you wouldn’t remember me.”

  “I don’t.” Blake gave him a shrewd look. “But clearly we are related.”

  “Yes, clearly,” his brother said, seeming inexplicably amused.

  “Is something funny?” Blake asked. He was not in the mood for this. He had no time for games.

  “Yes, actually.” Vincent smirked and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb. “I just learned that you were taken in by a gorgeous hellion, who used you in the most appalling way.” He placed a hand over his heart in mock sympathy.

  Blake stared at his brother for a moment, then opened the door all the way and invited him to step inside.

  Vincent sauntered into the room. He glanced at the nude sketches on the table but seemed unaffected. Evidently he had seen his share of naked women.

  “What do you want?” Blake asked, feeling weary all of a sudden.

  “I am in want of nothing,” his brother replied, spreading his arms wide. “For I have just married the woman of my dreams, who incidentally is also a bit of a hellion, but that is why she is the only woman who exists for me. She’s awaiting my arrival in Newbury, where we have purchased a quaint little house on a lake in which to raise our daughter, so I am going to have to make this quick and then be off.” He looked around the room at the furniture, the pictures, then met Blake’s gaze again. “I couldn’t leave without seeing you in the flesh and satisfying myself that you are in fact alive and well, and let me be honest—I wanted to offer you some advice.”

  “You think I need advice?” Blake asked, unable to smother his frustration.

  His brother looked him in the eye. “I think what you need is a friend—a friend who’s been exactly where you are at this moment—minus the lost memories.” He returned to the door. “Why don’t we go amuse ourselves in a friendly game of billiards? The last time we played, you were the one offering me advice, so I think it’s high time I returned the favor.”

  Blake followed his brother out into the corridor, where he paused. “Do I enjoy billiards?” he asked. “Or more importantly, am I any good at it?”

  “You’re exceptional,” Vincent replied. “But the unfortunate news is, so am I, which means you only beat me half the time.”

  Blake felt some of the tension lifting from his shoulders.

  “Let’s go start a new game,” his brother said as they set off down the hall. “And we’ll see how much you remember.”

  Blake had to confess, he was anxious to find out.

  Chapter 25

  Dressed in black and white formal attire, Blake headed to the drawing room for a glass of champagne with the family and other guests before dinner. By some miracle, he arrived at the right doorway, but paused there a moment, perusing the room for Chelsea, because he was not entirely sure what he would say to her after what had happened in her room. Not only had he kissed her like a vile brute, he stormed out after informing her that she was his property and could not leave.

  It was not likely she would wish to talk about the weather with him tonight. She was more likely to throw a glass of champagne in his face.

  He did not see her with the others in the room, however. Instead, he locked eyes with another—his new bride, Elizabeth. She stood before the fireplace with her brother John, and held a glass of champagne in her hand. The instant she spotted him, she smiled.

  Blake inhaled deeply. At least he felt more relaxed since meeting Vincent, who had not told him what to do while they played billiards, but merely assured him that in time everything would work itself out. Vincent suggested that he simply continue along the path of his life until he could identify a proper course of action. Circumstances could change. He could change. Other people might reveal themselves in interesting ways, and all the pieces on the game board might very well move to new positions. In sum, Vincent suggested that he simply play it out and focus on one move at a time.

  At present, his next move was to eat dinner with his wife, and reacquaint himself with her brother.

  Crossing the room, he picked up a glass of champagne from a passing footman and approached John and Elizabeth.

  “Good evening,” he said, bowing slightly at the waist.

  John narrowed his eyes and looked Blake over from head to foot. “So bloody formal. You really don’t remember a thing, do you?”

  “We were not formal with each other?” Blake coolly replied. “Not even in a duke’s drawing room?”

  John looked around the room with a sneer. “We generally didn’t frequent dukes’ drawing rooms. We preferred darker establishments, where the rules were a bit more lax.”

  Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed with color and she lowered her gaze to the floor.

  Her brother turned to her. “Don’t be such a prude, Liz. You’re going to bore your husband to tears before the honeymoon even gets started. Isn’t that right, Blake?”

  Blake looked down at the young lady who had still not lifted her eyes, then turned his own steely gaze to John. “How is it we became friends?” he casually asked. “I am curious to know.”

  The man waved his champagne glass through the air, and spilled a few drops onto the carpet. “I was there the day you came to the Horticultural Society offices. You were asking all sorts of questions about the daily operations. You wanted to know where your father’s money would go, if you didn’t get your hands on it.”

  “And you answered my questions?”

  He squinted. “My father is chairman of the board, so I know how things work.” He guzzled the rest of his champagne and set the glass down on the mantel. “I invited you for a few drinks, and we discovered we had much in common. My sister, for one thing, who was in need of a husband.”

  “John,” she said with a note of pleading.

  “What’s the matter?” He picked up another glass of champagne when the footman came by. “You’re a pretty girl. It wasn’t hard to match you up with my new friend. Father was certainly pleased about it, under the circumstances.” He tipped the glass back and swallowed the entire contents in a single gulp.

  “The circumstances…?” Blake inquired.

  John stared at him intently, as if searching for some hidden truth in his eyes.

  “You’re the son of a duke,” he said at last, with challenge in his own eyes, mixed with a note of disdain. “It was quite a conquest for our little Liz. Or did you forget about your rank, like you forgot everything else?”

  Blake continued to watch John’s face as he leaned an arm on the mantel and looked distastefully around the room.

  “I lost my memories,” Blake told him, “not my intellect. Did I do something to offend you, John?”

  “No.”

  “Then I will respectfully suggest
you tell me what is causing your foul mood.”

  John looked at him uncertainly. “You seem different, that’s all.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The duke entered just then, and began quacking like a duck and waddling across the room. Everyone fell silent until he straightened, pointed a finger at Devon and laughed uproariously. “You thought I was serious, didn’t you? Look at your faces!”

  The family chuckled uncomfortably, then the tension lifted, conversation resumed, and the duke picked up a glass of champagne and joined his wife.

  Blake looked down at his own young wife, who had not lifted her eyes from the floor. “Would you care to walk with me to the gallery?” he gently asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” she replied. “That would be lovely.”

  He offered his arm and they excused themselves from John’s company.

  “Your brother is a curious fellow,” he said, when they had left the others behind.

  “I must apologize for his behavior. He can be rather uncouth sometimes, especially when he is drinking. We do not always get along.”

  “And yet I had become his close friend.” He could not imagine wanting to spend time with such a man—which only added to his confusion about the man he had been before the accident. Nothing anyone told him about the old Blake seemed to match the person he felt himself to be now. Even John had just said he seemed different.

  “He has a tendency to draw new friends into his circle,” Elizabeth said, “but he is not very good at keeping them there.”

  “So I would have eventually been shown the door?” Blake asked. “Or perhaps not, since we are now brothers. There is a certain permanency in that. Maybe that’s what he does not like.”

  She gave no reply. She merely quickened her step. “What is it you wanted to show me in the gallery?” she asked.

  “Nothing, really. I just wanted to walk with you.”

  “I see.”

  And walk is what they did, without saying much of anything else. When they reached the long gallery, they moved from portrait to portrait, but Blake could disclose nothing about any of the Pembroke ancestors in the paintings, for he was as good as a stranger here himself.

  At one point he commented on an area he did know something about—the effect of the brush strokes and colors used—but Elizabeth merely nodded, while glancing restlessly around the room. It was clear the artistry of these great masters held no interest for her.

  He knew that Chelsea, on the other hand, would have been enthralled.

  When they returned to the drawing room, she was there at last, sitting at the piano, her slender arms moving gracefully over the keys as she played a quiet melody, which made him stop on the threshold.

  He wished agonizingly to go to her and apologize for his behavior earlier. He also comprehended the notion that he might never touch her or hold her again. It was a wonder she was even here, joining the family for dinner tonight, after what had occurred between them. She could have packed her things and quit the palace entirely. It is what he would have done in her position. She was not without choices. She had a family to return home to.

  But she was here. She had not left.

  Elizabeth looked up at him. “What is it?” She glanced at Chelsea, then back at him again. “Is that the lady who saved your life?”

  “Yes,” he replied with deliberate indifference.

  Elizabeth tilted her head to the side. “She is much younger than I imagined.”

  “She is five and twenty,” he replied.

  His wife said nothing for a long moment, then her face warmed with a quiet gladness he had not expected. “Quite so. Well, you must introduce us. I am your wife, after all, and surely I must thank the lady who saved your life and brought you home to me.”

  He breathed deeply and reminded himself of Vincent’s wisdom, then escorted his very young bride across the room.

  Chelsea finished her piece, thanked her audience for their kind applause, then rose soberly from the piano bench to meet Blake’s wife.

  The young woman was exceedingly pretty, with hair the color of chestnuts and big brown eyes that exuded cheerfulness and enthusiasm. She held out her hand, eager to meet Chelsea, who moved forward with some reluctance.

  How was she ever going to hide her indignity from this lovely young lady who was not only attractive, but appeared to be pure of heart as well? She was an ideal choice for the wife of a respected son of a duke. Blake could take great pride in having her at his side. They would have a brilliant life together.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Blake,” Chelsea said with a warm smile that ripped her heart out and took ten years off her life.

  “And such a pleasure to meet you as well,” Elizabeth replied. “You are a hero, Lady Chelsea. You saved my husband. Please, you must tell me what happened, and how you came to find him when he was washed ashore.”

  They moved to a quieter corner of the room, where they sat down on a small striped sofa and Chelsea described the events of that blustery day. She related how she had found the gold watch on the beach, then ventured into the sea cave and discovered Blake unconscious on the rocks. She told Elizabeth about the physician who came to examine him, and how Blake woke up remembering nothing about his life or how he came to be there.

  Chelsea finally commented on what a relief it was to know at last what happened that night in the storm, for she and her family had spent many hours speculating about the circumstances.

  When the butler stepped into the room to announce that dinner was being served, she wanted to drop to her knees in gratitude and thank him for ending this ghastly torture. She could not bear to look into the young woman’s sweet, wide eyes for another excruciating second.

  In the dining room, she accepted the Duke of Pembroke’s arm to escort her to the supper table, hoping her moral debt to Blake and his family was now satisfied—because all she wanted to do was leave this place. There was no longer anything left to fight for. Anyone with any intelligence could see that the battle was over. She had no choice but to retreat.

  His appetite gone, Blake sat beside Elizabeth at dinner and did his best to engage her in conversation about the food and whatever else he could manage, but most of his attention was fixed on Chelsea, who was sitting across from him, beside John.

  He thought that her tête-à-tête with Elizabeth must have been difficult. Despite the fact that she had been warm and smiling, spoke well and made no mention of their affair, he saw the shame and regret in her eyes. He also heard it in her voice, because he knew her as intimately as a woman could be known. She was an open book to him. He had seen her at her best and worst. He knew her flaws and imperfections, and the depths of her shameful mistakes and failures.

  Why then, he asked himself, did he still long for her in the most wretched way imaginable? Even now he wanted to push his chair back, go to her, and lead her out of this palace to start a new life. He wouldn’t care if he didn’t have a farthing to his name. They would manage somehow. They could go back to Jersey and he could paint or raise horses. They would find some quaint little cottage on the coast and dig a vegetable garden. They would raise the child she was carrying in her womb—if she was carrying his child—and then they would have a dozen more, because he would make love to her every single, blessed night of the year.

  Realizing suddenly how long he had been drifting along upon these impossible daydreams, he looked to his left, and found himself the sole object of Elizabeth’s concerted attention.

  She smiled discreetly at him, but said nothing.

  He thought of his brother’s advice, and realized that time had indeed brought a certain degree of clarity, in one regard at least. He now knew which of these two women he truly desired. He wanted the one with all the flaws and imperfections.

  This knowledge did not ease his mind or resolve things, however, because duty and honor could not be ignored. If it were not for that, he would follow his impulses, but life was n
ot so simple. It was one thing to jilt a fiancée before a wedding, as Vincent had done. It was quite another to divorce a young lady who was in love with you. Not only would she be heartbroken, she would be socially ruined and scandalized.

  Chelsea, on the other hand, was already ruined. And she had single-handedly devised her devious plot to become pregnant and keep it secret from him, and therefore brought this misfortune upon herself. He had promised her nothing, and he owed her nothing.

  Elizabeth, on the other hand…

  They finished dinner and concluded with dessert, then the ladies retired to the drawing room while the gentlemen remained at the table for port and cigars. His father, the duke, appeared as sane as any man could be, and conversed intelligently about the weather and current events without the slightest indication of madness.

  The condition of his father’s mind was a strange phenomenon indeed, he decided as he leaned back in his chair and sipped his fine port, watching and listening to the others with profound interest.

  He noted that Devon was particularly pleased to see their father behave with some normalcy. Devon spoke to him about politics and the condition of the fields after the rains, and could not seem to quench his thirst to converse with him.

  His brother doted on their father. Clearly he adored him, which left Blake thinking about his conversation with Rebecca that first night in Jersey, when she tried to enlighten him about the privileges of being born a Sinclair.

  He was beginning to understand it now.

  Later, when they all gathered in the drawing room for the evening, Blake sat down beside his wife. He spoke quietly. “I hope you will not find this too disappointing, Elizabeth, but I think it best if I postpone coming to your bed tonight.”

  She frowned. “Why?”

  He lowered his voice further. “Because despite the fact that we are legally married,” he explained, “we are still strangers. At least in my mind, that is how I see it. I am very sorry for that, but if you will be patient, I would like to become acquainted with you again, in the way we must have been before the accident. I would like to court you, so to speak.”