My American Duchess (33 page)

T
rent 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 she 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.

M
erry 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.”

An involuntary shudder went through her. It was probably just as well that she couldn’t remember the rest.

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.”

“In sickness and in health,” he said, putting his arm around her.

“It was more than most husbands would do,” Merry
pointed out. “That was the action of a true friend, and I’m so grateful.”

For some reason, he didn’t seem happy with her thanks. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.

But Merry was confident she could coax him out of a bad mood. After all, she possessed all those new skills he’d taught her.

I
n the days following their quarrel, Trent had imagined Merry telling him bluntly that she had ceased to love him. In his bleakest moments, he had even imagined her declaring that she meant to return to America on the next boat.

But he had never imagined she would forget that she loved him.

Yet that’s what happened. Her love for him vanished along with her memory of the accident.

No matter how many times he ravished her, the word “love” never passed her lips. She screamed with pleasure, sobbing, panting, hoarse, undone. He turned her into the picture of debauched womanhood, glistening with sweat, her chest still heaving, her lips swollen and glossy from his kisses.

Desire, not love.

A drop of bitter irony found its way into his mind: he hadn’t wanted a wife who loved him, and now he had just that wife: Merry, without the awkward emotions and unspoken expectations.

She had even thanked him for taking care of her, as if he were any acquaintance. As if that was all they were.
Friends
.

He hated that word.

Yet if the accident robbed him of Merry’s love, she was
nevertheless still his. She was in
his
arms, in
his
bed, in
his
house.

The irony was that he knew to the core of his being that possession and friendship weren’t enough anymore. Having been loved by her, he wanted more.

Back in his study but unable to concentrate, he finally decided that the solution was up to him. He had to make her fall in love with him again.

He would woo her, as her father had wooed her mother. As her other fiancés had done, Bertie and Cedric and that other fool.

Kestril as well, now he thought of it.

According to the squire, the young fool had bankrupted himself over an orchid, and fled the country the night after Merry’s fall.

Trent was reasonably certain that most of the county had assured Kestril that it would be better to leave England than to face his wrath.

Instinct told him that the man precipitated the accident somehow. Maybe he tried to kiss Merry. Trent came back to himself to find that his hands were in fists and he was vibrating with rage.

A few days later, when he was absolutely certain that his wife had fully recovered—after she had started swatting him every time he inquired about her head—he woke her early in the morning and made love to her so passionately that she barely stirred when he kissed her nose and left for London.

He had two items of business in London. The first was a brief visit to Rundell & Bridge. He selected a superb diamond ring that was significantly larger than the one Cedric had stolen.

As long as he was there, he picked up an emerald
diadem as well, with a matching emerald manteau clasp, a pair of earrings, and an armlet. He hesitated over a pearl necklace that reminded him of Merry’s skin but decided in the end to return with her and let her choose what she’d like herself.

His second errand took a bit longer. But the power of his title—and the ducal purse—eventually triumphed.

He returned to the toll road and managed to arrive at Hawksmede at six o’clock that evening. His butler was shocked. “It’s a full three hours to London, Your Grace,” he kept saying. “The horses must have been running full out.”

“We made good time,” Trent said, handing over his hat and gloves. “I’ve given the gardeners a task that must be seen to immediately, Oswald. I’d be grateful if you’d send a couple of footmen outside to see if they can provide additional help. Where is the duchess?”

“One of the grooms drove her in the pony cart to the village, Your Grace.”

Trent took his hat back.

“I believe she is paying a call to the vicar,” Oswald called, as Trent barreled out the door.

Sure enough, he found Merry chatting with the vicar’s wife amid the crumbs of a tea cake.

Trent’s wholly unexpected appearance in the doorway made the duchess blink. For a thrilling moment, he thought Merry was about to jump up and throw herself into his arms.

But she didn’t. She was charming and friendly, but she had stopped kissing him in public.

When she fell back in love with him, he would demand it. She had to kiss him whenever they met or parted. No exceptions.

Later that evening, after they returned home, dressed for dinner, and met again in the drawing room, he scarcely
bade her good evening before he presented her with the emeralds.

“They’re beautiful!” Merry cried. Her eyes lit with pleasure; she examined each piece with delight; she danced over to a glass and put them all on, even the diadem, which she wore throughout dinner.

She thanked him extravagantly, but said nothing about love. Nor did she make any witticisms about an American wearing a crown, which frankly was half the reason he had chosen that set. He thought it would make her laugh.

He couldn’t give her his second gift until it was ready. And he had made up his mind to save the diamond ring until she fell back in love.

Later that evening, they scarcely made it up the stairs before tearing off each other’s clothing. He seduced her with a feverishness that approached madness . . . but she still said nothing about love.

Afterward, he couldn’t sleep. He lay on his back, Merry tucked against him, and alternated between cold sweats at remembering how she’d looked, seemingly lifeless on Montjoy’s lawn, and hot fear at the idea that he’d lost his chance.

The injury to her brain had not diminished her desire for him, but it had erased her love, leaving affection in its place. Not love.

Who could have dreamed those words meant so much?

Not he.

The galling thing was that he knew exactly what it was that he was feeling. After all, he had never stopped loving his mother, even after he was aware of her clear preference for Cedric.

In the morning, Trent waited until after breakfast before he took Merry’s arm and asked if she might accompany him to the gardens.

She looked up at him in surprise. “The gardens? I don’t really have time, Trent. I promised Mrs. Honeydukes that—”

“I want to show you something,” he said stubbornly. Merry still looked as if she might object, so Trent was forced to kiss her until she gave in.

If she wasn’t going to kiss him in public, he would have to kiss her instead.

Outside, Merry forgot about Mrs. Honeydukes and began pointing out all the ways in which the gardens were improving.

It was a damp morning, and she clung to his arm as she picked her way down the decrepit stone walks. Trent made a mental note to get the walks repaved by the following week, no matter how many stonecutters had to be brought out from London. He refused to contemplate her falling ever again.

They walked into the greenhouse.

“What is that?” Merry gasped, staring down into a gaping hole that had replaced two old tables.

Boothby stepped forward. “Morning, Your Graces! That’s a pit,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Yes, but what are your men doing to it?”

“Lining it with tanner’s bark,” he answered.

“For the cultivation of pineapple seedlings,” Trent put in.

Merry turned to him with a gasp. “You didn’t!”

Trent grinned and turned her to face the opposite corner where a shiny black stove with a brass pineapple on its door squatted. “We’ll have to build another forcing house for plants that don’t like as much heat the way pineapples do, but Boothby seems to have it all in hand. I brought along a man from Chelsea Physic Garden who’ll get the seedlings set up as soon as the men finish with the pit.”

“Oh, Trent!” Merry cried, laughing and crying at the same time. “This is so wonderful!” She came up on her toes and kissed him. “You make me so very happy. I think I am the luckiest duchess in all of England.”

“And America?”

“That goes without saying,” she said, twinkling at him. “I am the
only
American duchess.”

Nothing about love.

He watched as Merry ran outside to talk to Boothby about pineapple seedlings. Her silence was a gash in his heart.

It wasn’t possible that a crack on the head could excise someone’s love, was it? As decisively as a surgeon removed a bad tooth?

It took a few minutes before he understood what he had to do. He couldn’t simply hand over the pineapple stove—or the emeralds, for that matter—and expect them to do the work for him.

He had to say the words himself.

Right.

He could do that.

He had felt the cursed sentence welling up in his chest in the last two days, as if it were fighting to be said. He walked outside and got rid of Boothby and his crew with a jerk of his head.

Then he led Merry back into the greenhouse, lifted her onto his favorite table, braced his arms on either side of her so she couldn’t escape, and said, bluntly, “I love you, Merry.”

Her mouth fell open. “You what?”

“I adore you.” He could hear Merry’s voice in his memory, saying the same words. He cupped her face in his hands. “I love you more than I could have imagined possible.”

“Trent, are you saying this because I hurt my head?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.

“No. I’m saying it because it is true.” He snatched her up, burying his face in her hair. “I love you.” His voice was a husky growl. “I couldn’t stop myself, no matter how much I pretended not to feel the emotion. I pretended not to be making love to you, but I was.”

She pulled away, her eyes searching his. “Before, you preferred another word to describe that.”

“Fu—” He stopped.

The exchange she was talking about took place during their quarrel—the quarrel she had supposedly forgotten. And now he thought about it, she hadn’t gone back to calling him Jack in private, the way she had before they fought.