by Eloisa James
Part of her wanted to run into the library, pull him away from the desk, and make him go to the dinner party with her. Didn’t he care in the least that Kestril would take it as blatant encouragement if she appeared alone?
But a duchess didn’t do that sort of thing. A duchess didn’t shout the way an American woman might. A duchess just climbed into the coach and silently ground her teeth.
The squire’s drawing room was unusually full; in addition to the usual neighbors, Lady Montjoy’s son had brought home with him four young men from Cambridge. With one glance, Merry could tell that all five young men were well into their cups.
Kestril popped up at her elbow the moment she turned from her hosts. Merry’s spirits sank when he greeted her with a tipsy grin.
“The evening is very fine, Your Grace, and our hostess has opened the doors leading to the garden. There is a magnificent prospect to the east and I am convinced you would find that it rivals even the finest such in America.”
Merry hesitated, but she might as well get it over with. She had to inform Kestril that they would no longer converse until he put a stop to his ardent compliments, not to mention his feverish glances.
“Montjoy built a splendid stone staircase, as straight as Jacob’s ladder, behind the house,” Kestril said. “You simply must see it, Your Grace. May I have the pleasure of escorting you there?”
This was her opportunity.
His breath was so brandy-filled that it was likely flammable. He leaned closer and slurred, “I will always take the greatest care with the woman who holds my heart in her keeping.”
Kestril understood love about as well as she had before her marriage. She should explain to him that love—true love—was something that came quietly in the night, like a thief who stole your heart.
It wasn’t a cheap emotion, to be given away to a pretty neighbor. Or to the three men with whom she’d been girlishly infatuated.
“All right,” she said with a sigh. “I would be glad of your escort to see the stairs.”
The staircase lay on the other side of a short rise, out of sight of the drawing room. Kestril had not exaggerated; it truly was splendid. It stretched all the way down the hill, with no obvious purpose other than to please.
“There are one hundred steps in all,” he told her.
“Why is the marble wet?” she asked. “It hasn’t rained today.”
“Hydraulics,” he explained, drawing her down several steps and pointing to a small opening at the top. “When the squire pulls a lever, water pours down the steps, cleansing away leaves and dirt.”
“That’s quite brilliant,” Merry said, immediately thinking of three or four places at Hawksmede where a staircase would be not only beautiful but useful. Likely her uncle would have ideas about the hydraulics. “Do you know—?”
She stopped because Kestril had dropped to his knees, awkwardly balanced on the step above her, still clutching her hand.
She gave a little tug, but he just brought her gloved hand to his mouth and started to kiss it.
“Mr. Kestril,” she scolded, pulling harder. “You are being entirely improper.”
“You remind me of an orchid, a neglected orchid blooming in the deepest forest,” he said, slavering kisses on her gloves. “You are my American orchid.”
“Stop kissing my hand this very moment!” Merry cried.
“I will never love any woman the way I love you,” he said soulfully. In contrast with Cedric, it was obvious that he had over-imbibed. His words were slurring together.
Merry tugged again, with more force. “Let go of my hand, sirrah!” Perhaps she ought to give him a kick. Her shoes were quite pointy. She moved up a step so that she was on the same level. “If you don’t let go, I shall kick you straight down this flight of steps, Mr. Kestril!”
He simply looked up at her, eyes wide and glassy. “I know you desire me as much as I desire you, Merry. I’ve seen it in your eyes.”
“How dare you use my first name?” She finally wrenched her hand free and wiped it on her gown.
Kestril scrambled to his feet. “I’m planning to travel into the jungle where I will discover a new orchid, which I will name after you. Perhaps a Comparettia merriana. Or Phalaenopsis americana, depending on what I discover.”
“You are a blackguard,” Merry snapped, “and exceedingly fortunate that my husband didn’t accompany—”
“What care I for husbands? Your hand is a white, white orchid. I love you; I adore you; my heart is in your hands!”
Before she could stop him, he again grabbed her hand and fell to his knees. But one of those knees slipped on the slick stone, and he pitched forward into Merry. She rocked on her high heels, moored by Kestril’s grip on her hand.
For a long second she swayed at the top of Squire Montjoy’s stone staircase, but then her weight pulled her hand from Kestril’s and she pitched down the steps.
There wasn’t time to scream.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Trent knew he was in a wild temper. He shouldn’t go to the squire’s dinner because if Kestril even looked at Merry, he would clip him on the jaw.
She hadn’t mentioned love in bed last night, or the night before, or the one before that. Perhaps she’d already fallen out of love. After all, that was the pattern. She fell in love; she fell out of love.
Maybe she’d succumb to Kestril next. The bolt of pure jealousy he felt shocked him into action. He leapt into the carriage as if he were heading to a fire.
His vehicle was forced to wait to enter the squire’s courtyard as another was obstructing it; he was startled to see grooms shouting and footmen darting about looking inefficient.
A hand grabbed his shoulder as Trent descended from the carriage. He turned to find his coachman behind him. “Yer Grace,” John shouted, “they’re saying the duchess . . . the duchess—” His voice was drowned out in the clamor.
In that moment, Trent registered that the carriage that had blocked the courtyard was that of the village doctor, who was unlikely to be an invited guest. His heart began pounding in his ears.
He didn’t wait to clarify what John was trying to tell him; he took off for the front door at full speed, following the sound of voices through open doors into the back garden.
Erupting from the house, he saw guests clustered at the top of the squire’s famed cascade of steps, peering down. Even as he ran past them and down the hill, his brain was piecing together the scene in front of him: people were kneeling beside someone . . . the doctor, too, was on his knees . . . there was a woman lying on the grass.
Trent’s lungs constricted in a silent howl. It was Merry. Her face was white; her eyes were closed and her forehead was bloody.
Dread wasn’t an emotion; it was bigger than that. It buckled a man’s knees and poisoned the air in his lungs.
When he reached the group, Trent shoved the squire to the side, dropped to his knees, and put a hand on his wife’s cheek. “Merry, what happened, darling? Are you all right? Can you open your eyes?”
Her eyes opened. Thank God, her eyes opened. Her forehead was scraped, but he didn’t see signs of a more serious injury.
“Trent,” she said in a wavering voice.
He felt a wave of relief so acute that he was almost unable to speak, along with a searing need to gather her into his arms and hold her. But first he had to know what was wrong, and whether she’d broken anything. “Are you hurt? What happened? Did you slip on the steps?”
“I’m not sure,” she said weakly.
“The duchess is suffering from commotio cerebri.”
Trent looked up and found a young stranger with a weedy beard crouching across from him. He went on importantly, “To put it in terms you can understand, she has a commotion of the brain caused by a concussive blow. But she has not broken any limbs.”
Trent shifted his eyes to the village doctor, who said, “Her Grace doesn’t recall the precise events which led to her injury, but Mr. Kestril has informed us that s
he slipped and tumbled down the steps while he was explaining the water feature of these steps.”
“Where is he?” Trent asked, keeping his voice even. Bloody Kestril.
“Hysterical fit,” the young man said. “Lady Montjoy took him off for a dose of bitters.”
“Her Grace tumbled around halfway down the steps,” the doctor said. “After ascertaining that her neck and spine appear to be uninjured, we moved her here while the grooms put together a provisional litter.”
Carefully, unable to stop himself, Trent pulled his wife into his arms. She turned her cheek against his chest without saying a word. His arms tightened until he was probably causing her pain. Without speaking, he buried his face in her hair, swallowing hard, aware that everyone could see he was clutching her but beyond caring.
“Your Grace, I am Simon Swansdown, Esquire, at your service,” the weedy stranger announced, though no one had asked. “I attended Cambridge University, then studied medicine for a year at the University of Edinburgh. I am now bound for London, where I’ll take my degree. I can assure you that memory loss is common in cases of injury to the brain.”
“‘Injury to the brain,’” Trent repeated. Merry was pale, but she appeared unharmed, other than the graze on her forehead. He ran one hand over her head, his other arm still holding her. He couldn’t find a bump.
“I can’t remember anything about the fall,” she said faintly. “I’m trying . . . but I just can’t.”
“You may never remember anything, Your Grace,” the doctor put in. “The more important point is that you have survived with a quite mild injury.”
“Commotio cerebri may cause memory loss of a few hours, days, or even weeks,” Swansdown said. “Patients frequently lose the memory of a length of time before the accident. Your Grace, do you know where you are?”
“On the grass,” Merry said wearily, closing her eyes. “Trent, can we please go home?”
“Can you tell us what day it is?” Swansdown asked.
“Will her memory come back in time?” Trent asked, ignoring Swansdown and looking to the doctor again.
“In my experience, it may or may not. It is impossible to say; there is much that we do not understand about this type of injury. He turned to Merry. “Your Grace, I would echo my . . . colleague’s question. Do you know what day it is?”
“The newest treatment to induce memory recovery is an injection of oil of turpentine,” Swansdown said importantly.
Merry’s brows drew together. “I’m not sure what day it is,” she whispered.
“It’s Saturday,” Trent said. “But it doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”
“You will suffer headaches on and off for a few days,” the doctor told her. “Oil of turpentine may be the latest treatment, but I am of the firm conviction that it is best to do as little as possible. I advise strict bed rest in a darkened room for the next several days.”
“What is the last thing you remember?” Trent asked, rocking Merry a little. She was a perfect bundle of soft woman and silky hair and everything he ever wanted in life.
“I can’t remember the accident at all.”
“You came to a dinner party at the squire’s house,” Trent said.
“I came by myself?” She looked confused. “Where were you?”
Regret made his chest convulse. “I didn’t accompany you. I am told you went for a walk with Mr. Kestril.” Kestril, who would answer for allowing Merry to topple down the stairs, though Trent didn’t voice it aloud.
“We don’t well understand the effect of blows to the brain,” the doctor said. “But clearly your wife knows who she is, Your Grace, and who you are. That’s all that matters.”
Trent nodded and rose to his feet, Merry in his arms. “I’ll take her home.”
“Don’t push Her Grace to remember, or allow her to become frustrated by what she has forgotten,” the doctor said, straightening. “In these cases, it’s important for the patient to remain tranquil. Racking her brain will do no good, and it might do harm.”
“I strongly recommend an injection of turpentine,” Swansdown piped up.
“As much rest as possible,” the doctor said firmly.
The Montjoys were waiting at the top of the steps. Trent nodded and thanked them for summoning the doctor. He was on the point of asking about Kestril’s whereabouts, when he glanced down at his wife’s blanched face and decided that Kestril could wait.
Trent managed to climb into their carriage without letting go of Merry. Inside, he propped himself in the corner, keeping the dearest person in his world safe in the circle of his arms. “What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked her again.
A few moments of silence, then: “Luncheon.”
That wasn’t bad. He dropped a kiss on her hair. “I was out of the house, so I don’t know how you spent the afternoon. You’ve forgotten an uneventful few hours. It’s possible your maid could jog your memory but perhaps you shouldn’t bother.”
She raised her head, frowning at him. “You weren’t out of the house, Jack. We had a picnic in the flax field.”
Trent’s heart skipped a beat. That was almost a week ago. They had spread a blanket and made love five . . . six days ago.
“Don’t you remember anything after that?” he asked carefully. “Our disagreement?” His throat felt rusty and dry.
“Disagreement?” Unease crossed her face. “This afternoon? Have I forgotten more than a single afternoon?”
“It was nothing important,” he answered quickly, brushing a kiss across her lips.
“What did we quarrel about?”
“Nothing,” he said. “A trifling matter.”
She snuggled back against his chest. “I’ve never had a headache quite like this one.”
“What does it feel like?”
“A clamp on my head. And I’m so tired.”
“Go to sleep, darling,” he said quietly. As her eyes lowered, he slowly caressed her back, like a lullaby his mother had never sung to him.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Merry spent the next few days in bed, as the doctor had ordered. The first day was the worst, because not only did her head throb intolerably, but she woke in the grip of the sort of nausea that almost made her wish the fall had finished her off.
“This is so humiliating,” she moaned, after losing yet another battle with the urge to retch.
“The doctor assures me an unsettled stomach is commonplace,” Trent said matter-of-factly. He handed the basin to her maid and seated himself on the edge of the bed, wiping her face with a wet cloth.
Merry kept falling asleep. Every time she awoke Trent was there, sitting beside her reading or working at the desk in his alcove.
He wasn’t the only one in the room. Snowdrop scratched the door until she was admitted. George, who usually ran in terror from the little white dog, ignored her altogether and fretted until he was allowed to curl up next to Merry on the bed.
The second and third days passed in the same way as the queasiness gradually went away. Trent brought her broth, and made her drink cup after cup because the doctor thought liquids were a good idea. He read the newspaper aloud to her, because words swam about on the page and made it impossible for her to even skim the headlines.
On the fourth day, Merry woke with the dawn to discover her husband’s strong arm curled around her middle, holding her firmly against his body.
Her head didn’t hurt, and the room wasn’t spinning. She felt neither queasy nor lethargic.
In fact, she felt splendid, entirely returned to normal. Except she wasn’t normal, was she? She’d lost a few days—she wasn’t sure how many—and would never get them back. It was the queerest thing, to have a slice of one’s existence simply vanish.
But did it matter? What mattered was that her husband was here and she loved him—
Just like that, it all came back. Everything. Well, everything up to the moment Kestril knelt at her feet and called her “his American orchid.”
The quarrel—the one that Trent had asked her about in the carriage—that memory was back, too. She swallowed hard, remembering that her husband had said their disagreement was unimportant. A trifling matter, he’d called it.
He didn’t want her to remember, because she had embarrassed him by expressing feelings he didn’t share.
In short, she had the miracle she had devoutly hoped for.
When Kestril had said, “I love you,” he had made a claim on her feelings. For the first time, she understood exactly what it felt like to be trapped by someone else’s emotion, their unreasonable demand for a response one couldn’t give.
Trent wasn’t disgusted by her, as she was by Kestril. But it was no wonder that his eyes darkened with distaste when she insisted on expressing herself. Considering her regrettable history, he had shown considerable forbearance during their disagreement.
She did love him, but that didn’t matter.
The accident, frightening as it was, had given her a gift: she was able to turn back the clock. No more babbling of love, making her husband uncomfortable. Over time, she would prove that she wasn’t shallow or inconstant.
For now, she would bury the whole idea deep in her heart. Perhaps she’d mention it in five years. Or ten.
She didn’t care if Trent ever said, “I love you.”
Well, not very much.
She stretched, happy to realize that her body was singing with health . . . and desire. Her marriage was reborn, fresh and new, and this time she wouldn’t make a mess of it.
When Trent awoke, it took a few minutes to persuade him that she didn’t need broth, and that her head no longer ached, and that she was fit as ever.
But once he calmed down, handed the dogs over to a footman, and came back to bed, Merry leaned her head against his shoulder and said, “I have to thank you for everything you’ve done since my accident to nurse me back to health.”
