A Duke Never Forgets (The Duke Hunters Club, #3)

by Blythe, Bianca

  “The only person here who is silly, Mr. Williams, is you.” Sebastian smiled as the man’s face darkened, and he swept out his hand to Genevieve. “Now, my dear, please let’s go home.”

  She blinked, then scrambled up beside him.

  He enjoyed feeling the sensation of her legs beside his, and her slender arms brushed his. Heavens, he wanted to crush her to him. Whatever abysmal financial circumstances he’d managed to get himself into, he’d had the good sense to marry her.

  She was utterly lovely.

  My queen.

  “Come on, Pegasus,” Sebastian said.

  Mr. Williams’ eyes widened, and his lips rounded.

  “I hope you understand I cannot work for a person who disrespects my wife,” Sebastian said.

  Mr. Williams’ brow furrowed. “Are you leaving?”

  “My dear sir,” Sebastian said. “I’d rather thought you would have realized that by now.”

  Anger shot over his employer’s face. A vein on his throat throbbed, and if Mr. Williams had thought that by wearing brown he would blend into the field, his red face negated the effort.

  “If you leave, you’re not coming back,” Mr. Williams shouted.

  Sebastian sighed.

  Blast it.

  He’d wanted to get a job. He needed the money. But he refused to work for a man who went about insulting his wife. Instead, Sebastian rustled his reins, and Pegasus moved forward.

  “You’ve left the plow on!” Mr. Williams yelled in a horrified tone.

  Sebastian ignored the man and let Pegasus continue on. He took his wife’s bare hand and pressed his lips to it. No doubt, she’d decided gloves were unnecessary in this heat, but a definite thrill moved through him as he touched her bare flesh.

  “I’m afraid that man is cross,” Genevieve said.

  “Never mind him,” Sebastian said, even though he was already wondering where he would find another position.

  The horse moved through the field, and he squeezed his wife’s hand, smiling at her. Her face pinkened most adorably, and his heart felt light, despite the continued screams from his now-former employer.

  The horse stopped at the fence, and Sebastian jumped from the cart.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  He unhooked Pegasus, then took his wife’s hand. “Come, my dear.”

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “Home.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “WOULD YOU LIKE TO SIT in the front?” Sebastian asked. “Then you can lean into my arms.”

  Genevieve hesitated. “I would prefer to sit behind you.”

  “Very well,” Sebastian said, even though he would prefer to wrap his arms about her delightful waist.

  As Sebastian rode toward the cottage, he strove to ignore the sensation of Genevieve’s bosom. Riding was sufficiently complex without having his mind focused on the sensation of two lovely round globes pressed against his back. It seemed impossible to think he’d forgotten the sight of his own wife’s bosom, but he had no doubt it would be wonderful.

  “I didn’t expect to find you at Mr. Williams’s field,” Sebastian said.

  “I don’t make a habit of it,” Genevieve said. “Hence, Mr. Williams’s shock.”

  He snorted.

  “But what were you doing there?” Genevieve asked.

  “Me?” Sebastian blinked.

  “You’re not supposed to be doing manual labor.”

  “I don’t mind. I assumed that’s what my muscles are for,” Sebastian said.

  “Nonsense.”

  “You don’t find them sufficient?” Sebastian reached behind his back. He grasped her small hand and placed it on his forearm. Then he flexed.

  She giggled. “You’re worse than Billy.”

  “Billy’s muscles are no comparison to mine,” Sebastian said.

  “That might be true,” Genevieve admitted. Her voice was at a higher pitch than before, and she withdrew her hand rapidly.

  Sebastian sighed, conscious that something must have happened between them. Something negative. “Why did you enter the field?”

  “I didn’t want you to work.”

  Sebastian frowned. He hadn’t expected her to say that. “I need to make money. I need to provide for my family.”

  “No, you don’t,” Genevieve said. “We have a cottage. We’re fine.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “I saw what your mother is paying for rent. It’s overpriced.”

  For an odd reason, Genevieve seemed to stifle a giggle.

  Well. People had always called Sebastian funny before, but he wasn’t aware his abilities to induce laughter were that consistent, even when speaking about expenses.

  Perhaps he was not.

  Perhaps he was simply meant to be with Genevieve and meant to make her laugh. Laughing had been an infrequent occurrence at his home. Before Papa was home, he was often gallivanting by himself in the city. From Mama’s sour expression, Sebastian assumed Papa had been visiting brothels, or perhaps, some expensive mistress installed in a London apartment.

  The sound of the waves was stronger here, and the road curved toward the ocean. He inhaled a delicious salty scent. Seagulls flapped ivory wings as they screamed. He wondered whether their frequent squawks derived from pleasure at hollering and directing everyone to observe their flying or simply trepidation during the act itself.

  “Did I like the ocean?” Sebastian asked.

  “You adored it.”

  Sebastian turned his head toward the sound of the waves. The road curved again, then suddenly, the ocean was before him. Sapphire waves tumbled together, flashing their diamond crests. He stared, watching the pattern of waves. More seagulls played, swirling over the water, occasionally skimming the surface to feast on tasty delights.

  This wasn’t sunrise or sunset, and no pink or orange light played on the waves. It didn’t matter. The ocean was already stunning, already perfect.

  “See how pretty it is?” Genevieve asked.

  Sebastian saw, but he found himself frowning.

  He’d spent his days entranced with the beauty of the sea when he should have concerned himself with caring for Genevieve.

  He’d neglected his duties, and she’d found his behavior so inconsistent that she’d gone to tell him he needn’t work. Somehow, he’d married an angel. His next step would be to make certain he deserved her.

  “I’ll find another job tomorrow,” Sebastian promised her.

  “You mustn’t,” Genevieve said.

  There was an odd urgency to her tone, and he frowned.

  Then his lips twitched. “Will you miss me, sweetheart?”

  She was silent, but it didn’t matter. He knew the answer: she would miss him.

  He beamed, contemplating this fact.

  The cottage came into view. It was smaller than his parents’ modest home in Hampshire, but the teal windows beckoned charmingly. The thatched roof seemed torn from a fairytale.

  Another horse was outside, and Pegasus grunted.

  “Who does that belong to?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Genevieve said. “Or perhaps—perhaps it belongs to the doctor. Let’s go inside.”

  His heart sank.

  Doctors might provide beneficial services, but he didn’t want anyone to tell him there was something wrong with him.

  The saddle seemed uncomfortable, but he was reluctant to leave it.

  “I want to gallop away with you,” Sebastian confessed. “I don’t want to be ill. I don’t want the doctor to tell me there’s anything wrong with me.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with you,” Genevieve said sternly. “You hit your head. It’s all quite normal. Well, perhaps not precisely normal. Still, it’s not unheard of. Even I’ve heard of amnesia before, and I couldn’t name all my organs if my life depended on it.”

  “Well, let’s hope you’ll never be called upon to do that.”

  “By some truly nefarious surgeon.” Genevieve giggled, and Sebastian j
oined her.

  The door swung open, and Mrs. Potter rushed out. Relief spread on her face when she noticed Sebastian.

  “I thought you’d gone,” Mrs. Potter said.

  Billy poked his head out. “She was awfully worried.”

  Mrs. Potter flashed a nervous smile and ran her fingers through her son’s locks. “Now, now.”

  “It’s true.” Billy jutted out his chin.

  Sebastian smiled. He’d thought Mrs. Potter reserved her maternal qualities for Genevieve and Billy. It was nice to feel part of a family. He hadn’t had siblings, and though he’d had second cousins, they’d been older than him and prone to dismiss him for coming from the less distinguished branch of the family.

  His mother had been conscious that Sebastian had less money than other sections of the family. She’d hinted at the need for him to find a wealthy heiress, spending too much of her funds after his father died on visits to tailors whom Beau Brummel would approve of.

  Sebastian was relieved he hadn’t succumbed to that vision. He didn’t want to wander long corridors to visit his wife. He didn’t want his children, when he had any, to be confined to a faraway nursery. He didn’t want the only time he saw them to be at night, after they’d spent hours rehearsing a new poem to recite or a new piano piece to play. He didn’t want them to quiver when they saw him, striving to remember their pieces.

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Mother,” he said.

  “Mother?” Her eyes widened a moment, and the pleasant feeling surging through him halted.

  “I don’t call you ‘Mother?’ I’m sorry. I—er—assumed.”

  “No, no,” she said hurriedly. “Mother is fine. It just took me by surprise.”

  He nodded. “What did I call you?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “Mrs. Potter.”

  “Terribly formal, considering we live together.”

  “I’ve always thought so too,” she said, giving him another smile.

  “This amnesia business isn’t completely horrible then,” he said.

  “No,” Mother said. “Absolutely not.”

  For some reason, Genevieve tensed behind him. Perhaps she was uncomfortable on the horse.

  He scrambled from the saddle, then he extended a hand to her. “My lady.”

  He assisted his wife from the horse, sweeping her into his arms. She gave a slight gasp, and even though the sea breeze should have cooled her, her cheeks pinkened in that delightful manner again.

  He clutched her in his arms, enjoying the feel of her warmth pressed against his chest, aware of the daintiness of her legs, aware of the delightful curve of her bosom.

  He’d touched that bosom.

  Perhaps only his back had touched her bosom, and perhaps both of them had been swathed in all manner of clothes, but he’d still enjoyed the sensation.

  This was his wife, and one day, hopefully soon, he would be tumbling with her on his sheets once again.

  Mother’s eyes widened, and Sebastian flushed.

  “Perhaps you should put me down,” Genevieve said, and it occurred to Sebastian that he may have been holding her for too long.

  Sebastian smiled as he put Genevieve down. She smoothed her dress quickly, but not before Sebastian noticed that her fingers quivered, and her eyes had an odd glazed look. He smirked.

  “The doctor is inside,” Mother said.

  “Oh.” Sebastian fought his shoulders’ sudden instinct to succumb to gravity. Mother shot him a sympathetic look. Evidently, he hadn’t managed to keep from appearing dejected. Blast it, seeing doctors was sufficiently horrible, even when he didn’t have something wrong with him. And Sebastian certainly had something wrong with him now.

  Sebastian let go of Genevieve reluctantly, then strode into the cottage. He didn’t consider himself shy, but an odd mixture of trepidation entered him. The trepidation did not vanish when he saw a man pacing the drawing room. He had on practical brown tweed clothes that probably would not look different if he had an unpleasant encounter with some country mud, or in his case, some smatterings of blood.

  The man ran his hand over his bald head, his contrastingly ample eyebrows drawn together in evident skepticism. No doubt he’d been informed of Sebastian’s condition.

  “You must be the man who can’t remember,” the doctor said.

  “And you are—?”

  “Mr. Dudley. I’ve been in the cottage waiting for you quite some time.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”

  “Hmph. We’ll make it short.”

  Sebastian’s opinion of the man soared. “Very well.”

  “You truly don’t remember anything past 1815?” the doctor asked.

  Sebastian shook his head.

  “Must have been nice to discover that we beat Bonaparte.”

  “I’d thought he’d managed to be beaten that first time.”

  “Er—yes.” The doctor coughed. “That should have perhaps been handled better. Well, he’s on a new island now. Hopefully, that—er—makes the difference.”

  Staying on a Mediterranean island seemed a punishment designed by someone who did not understand its pleasures. People seemed to speak of London with an overabundance of enthusiasm, as if they’d never realized that the Thames was a muddy, malignant version of any ocean.

  “So, I take it you hit your head.”

  “Er—yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Presumably at the spot which the bandage was covering. I’ve been informed there was some blood.”

  “Ah.” The doctor moved toward him slowly, as if wary of Sebastian having other, odder, more contagious diseases.

  Sebastian didn’t blame the doctor.

  Most people didn’t get amnesia.

  To think he’d been married to such a wonderful woman, and he’d been robbed of the opportunity to reminisce about her loveliness on their wedding day, their wedding night, and all the rest of their time together.

  He remembered being younger, and having the doctor visit his parents. Both of them had suffered from tuberculosis. Both of them had survived, but they’d been left weaker. No wonder they’d both died.

  The doctor inspected him, as if Sebastian were complaining of any ailment, continuing to ask him news items from the past few years.

  “Who’s king?” the doctor asked eagerly.

  “Not George III?” Sebastian asked.

  “No.” The doctor guffawed. “It’s George IV now. Our regent is all grown up.”

  “How nice,” Sebastian said faintly.

  The doctor narrowed his eyes. “You approve of him?”

  “I-I don’t know,” Sebastian stammered. “If he’s doing a good job.”

  The doctor scrutinized him, then sighed. “You truly don’t remember.”

  “No.”

  “I thought you might be more upset about it. I would be deeply upset if I couldn’t remember anything.”

  “I do remember most of my life,” Sebastian said.

  “The important things are the things that happened recently.”

  Sebastian was unsure about this, but he still sighed.

  “I—er—suppose I was trying to be happy that I’d married the right woman. I haven’t made all the right choices, but I did do a good job with that one.”

  “Ah, you might have a point there, young man.” The doctor rubbed his head, as if searching for long-vanished hair. “Well, you seem fine now. No broken bones.”

  “Er—no.” Sebastian shifted his legs over the floorboards. “Do you know how long this will last?”

  The doctor shrugged. “One cannot be certain. I’ll check on you in a fortnight.”

  Sebastian nodded politely, and he was relieved when the doctor left the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE DOCTOR EXITED THE room, and Genevieve hurried toward him.

  “Young lady?” the doctor asked.

  “I’m Mrs. Seagull,” Genevieve lied.

  “Ah...” The doctor assessed her, and
Genevieve wondered if Sebastian had said anything about her.

  “I was hoping to speak with you.”

  The doctor sighed. “Everyone wants to speak to a doctor.”

  Genevieve gave a wobbly smile. “Perhaps we can chat in the drawing room?”

  “Would you like your husband with you?”

  “Er—that’s not necessary.”

  “Modern women,” the doctor said, but he followed her into the drawing room.

  Genevieve casually placed her hand on the sideboard.

  The doctor eyed her oddly. “Do you feel well, Mrs. Seagull?”

  “Me? Oh, yes indeed,” she squeaked.

  He frowned, as if she’d just declared a passion for spiders, and he was convinced she was prevaricating.

  “You look unwell,” he said.

  “Nonsense. It—er—must be the light. Or this dress. It’s perhaps unflattering.”

  The doctor glowered. “Mrs. Seagull, I assure you I am an expert in judging whether a person is healthy or not. I have made that my life’s work.”

  “Naturally,” Genevieve rushed to say. “I didn’t mean to imply that you couldn’t.”

  “Now.” The doctor fixed his gaze on her. “What is it? I wager you have a headache. Women are always having headaches. My wife, in particular, is very prone to them.”

  “I don’t have a headache,” Genevieve said.

  “Oh.” The man frowned slightly, but then he brightened. “Perhaps it’s your monthly pain.”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” The doctor leaned closer to her. “When was the last time you received your scarlet visitor?”

  Genevieve furrowed her brow. She hadn’t expected to speak about that with him.

  “Ah, ha,” the doctor said triumphantly, and his chest swelled. “My dear, being with child is a very common affliction in young women, particularly those with husbands.”

  Genevieve blinked.

  “Naturally, I do not concern myself much with such matters. Such routine matters are trivial to my expertise.”

  Oh.

  It suddenly occurred to Genevieve what the doctor was implying. The room heated, as if someone were cooking Christmas dinner in the kitchen.

  “Actually, I wanted to speak to you about something else,” Genevieve said.