When a Stranger Loves Me

by Julianne MacLean

  The butler entered behind him.

  “The green drawing room is…?” Blake pointed to the right.

  “It’s this way, my lord,” the butler helpfully answered, gesturing to the left. “Allow me to show you.”

  Blake wondered how long it would take before he learned his way around this monstrosity of a house.

  The butler led him through the long library, across another central hall of marble, and through two more drawing rooms, before they arrived at a third larger one, which boasted floor-to-ceiling tapestries on two facing walls and green floral paper on the others.

  Seated on the sofa at the far end of the room was a young couple he did not recognize. Devon and Rebecca sat in two chairs opposite, engaged in conversation with them. Rebecca was pouring tea.

  The moment he walked into the room, they fell silent.

  Without a single idea about who these people were, he stood inside the door, waiting for someone to say something.

  Devon stood. “Blake, you’re here at last.”

  “I was sketching.”

  His brother cleared his throat and gestured to the others. “Allow me to introduce…” He hesitated, however, and looked down at the couple on the sofa, the young lady in particular. “I do beg your pardon. This must seem strange.”

  The lady’s face flushed with color. She appeared to be fighting tears. “Yes, Lord Hawthorne.”

  Devon turned back to Blake. “I’ve explained to our guests that you lost your memories in the accident, so this is somewhat awkward—introducing you to people you already know.”

  Blake studied them both carefully. The gentleman was close to his own age, with blond hair and a taste for fashionable attire. The lady was younger—perhaps eighteen or so—with a quiet, oval face, a dainty, upturned nose, and shiny auburn hair.

  He made every effort to remember them and hunted through his mind for something to grab hold of, even a tiny splinter of an image, but there were no recollections. None at all.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “What my brother told you is true, and I apologize for what must seem to be rudeness on my part.”

  The gentleman squinted at him, as if trying to decipher if this was some kind of trick, while the lady’s expression grew more despairing.

  A heaviness settled in his stomach, while he stood locked in the young woman’s emotional gaze.

  “So you don’t remember us at all?” the gentleman asked, still watching him skeptically. “You have no recollection whatsoever of our friendship, or your relationship to my sister?”

  Blake tried to relax. He glanced questioningly at Devon, who stepped in at once to offer an explanation. He gestured toward the young couple. “This is Mr. Fenton, and his sister…” He paused, as if unsure what to call her. “…Elizabeth.”

  Devon allowed Blake a moment to comprehend the names. A horrible sensation of dread washed over him.

  His brother continued. “Their father is Baron Ridgeley, who is the director of the London Horticultural Society. They have recently returned from France, after a brief stop in Jersey shortly after we departed. They were searching for you, just as we were. Earl Neufeld informed them that I had arrived the day before and already brought you home. So here they are.”

  Blake regarded the young lady again. She was holding her chin high, but he could see she was also holding her breath. Her hands were clasped together so tightly, her knuckles were white.

  “Rebecca and I,” Devon continued, “have just learned that before you disappeared, you were traveling with the Fentons to France on their private sailing vessel, which I regret to say collided with another ship in a storm. The boat went down, but thankfully all the passengers were pulled from the water. All except for one.”

  “Me, obviously,” Blake said, relieved at least to finally hear an explanation as to why he had spent a night thrashing about in the frigid waters of the English Channel.

  They were all quiet for a long time, waiting for more of a reaction from him, perhaps.

  “But there is something else,” young Mr. Fenton said, sitting forward, still scrutinizing him, as if he were waiting for a slip that might reveal that Blake was lying, and was in fact in full possession of his memories. He did not seem able to accept that it was possible for a man to completely forget his life.

  “Something very important,” Devon added. “You might want to sit down, Blake.”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  Devon glanced uneasily at Rebecca, then at last offered the rest of the story. “The morning before you boarded the ship bound for France, you and Elizabeth were married under special license. She has the certificate to prove it, and even has a letter from our father, who evidently had written to give you his blessing and had sent you on your merry way.”

  Blake stared at his brother, baffled. “But he has said nothing about it.”

  “No, but his memory, I’m sorry to say, is worse than yours.”

  Blake frowned. This was all quite impossible to believe. He was married to this woman? Married?

  “It’s true, Blake,” Devon said, standing up. “I’ve seen the certificate myself. Elizabeth is your wife.”

  Blake looked down at her. She maintained her composure for only a brief moment, then cupped her forehead in a trembling hand, bowed her head, and surrendered to a fit of weeping.

  Chapter 22

  Rebecca stood, which persuaded the others to rise from their chairs as well. “We shall leave you two alone,” she said.

  The next thing Blake knew, the door was swinging shut behind them, and Elizabeth—his wife?—was flying off the sofa and rushing into his arms.

  “Oh, Blake,” she sobbed. “You have no idea what I’ve been through these past few weeks. I thought you were dead!”

  He held her in his arms and tried to comfort her while she shuddered and wept inconsolably onto his sleeve.

  He was in shock. He could not embrace her the same way in return—with heartache and passion and wild desperation. He didn’t know this woman. She was a stranger to him, and seemed no older than a child. He still could not accept that this was true.

  And God…dear God! All he could think of was Chelsea, and how he had made love to her so many times like a free man—a man who was at liberty to become intimate with a beautiful woman who’d offered her body to him willingly and eagerly, without consequences, mere days after he’d married someone else.

  Allegedly.

  Not only that, but he had let himself fall in love with her, even though he’d fought to control those emotions as best he could. On that final night, before he discovered her ploy, he wanted to marry her. He was going to journey out into the world to discover his identity for one purpose alone—to enable him to spend the rest of his life with her.

  Now, at last, he knew the whole truth. According to what he was just told, he had not been a free man in Jersey, nor was he a free man now. He felt like he was being tossed about in those waves again, out of control, sucking in water as panic threatened to drown the life out of him.

  When the young lady regained her composure, he took a step back, held her away from him so he could look at her face. Perhaps he would remember something. Even just a single, fleeting moment he had spent with her.

  If he had married her, he must have been in love with her, or at the very least, admired her. He must have felt some affection or passion if he had gone to the trouble of securing his father’s blessing, then spoke vows before God, promising her a lifetime of love and fidelity.

  But when he looked into her eyes, he saw nothing familiar, and the only thing he felt was frustration and guilt for not knowing her.

  “Perhaps we should sit down,” he suggested.

  “Yes, of course.”

  They sat on the sofa and faced each other.

  “Do you have the marriage certificate with you?” he asked, needing to see it for himself.

  “Yes.” Her hands were trembling as she opened her reticule and pulled it out. “
This is what I presented to your brother when we first arrived. He didn’t believe it either.”

  He glanced up at her briefly before he unfolded the page and looked it over. This was indeed his signature. He recognized that, at least. All appeared to be in order.

  He handed it back to her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, while she slid it into her reticule, then withdrew a handkerchief and blew her nose. “This must be difficult for you.”

  She nodded and looked like she might cry again. He quickly engaged her in conversation to thwart another breakdown.

  “Can you tell me how we met?” he asked. “Or what our wedding day was like?”

  “We met by the orchids in the conservatory of the Horticultural Society. You were there to speak to my father and learn about the organization, because your father had placed a provision in his will to bequeath his money to the society instead of you and your brothers if you did not quickly marry.”

  “I told you about that?” They must have known each other intimately indeed if he had revealed such personal family secrets.

  “You told my brother, actually,” she replied. “You and he became good friends straightaway, and spent a great deal of time together at the clubs. He is the one who encouraged you to court me. He felt we would be a good match, and of course, I fell in love with you instantly.”

  But did I fall in love with you? he wanted to ask, but refrained, for he didn’t wish to shine too bright a light on the fact that he felt absolutely nothing for this young lady now—nothing but confusion and regret for his lack of ardor, which surely must be breaking her heart if she was at all perceptive.

  “Did I court you properly?” he asked instead.

  “Yes, for a couple of weeks. We danced at some balls and went driving in the park. You seemed very determined to secure yourself a wife, and you secured me without the slightest dithering. You were very keen to have it quickly done because of your father’s wishes.”

  It had been swift and to the point, then, without a lot of wild and foolish passions, or insane, all-consuming desires.

  She placed her hand on his knee. He looked down at it impassively, then she slowly withdrew it and set it back on her own lap. An awkward silence ensued.

  “May I ask how old you are?” he inquired.

  “I am eighteen.”

  “I see.” Something churned inside his gut, and he looked away from her, toward the window.

  “I was told,” she said, “that you were injured when they found you in Jersey.”

  “Yes, I must have been wounded in the accident,” he replied. “Perhaps I became caught in the rigging, or I might have been impaled on a sharp rock when I was washed ashore.”

  She lowered her gaze. “You would have been without clothes when they found you. I understand it was a lady…”

  He watched her face go pale. “That’s right.” Then he thought about the boat going down.

  Of course, of course…

  “I had no clothes,” he said, “because it was our wedding night.”

  “Yes. We were together in the cabin before the collision occurred. Water came rushing in very fast. There wasn’t time for anything.”

  Had she been naked, too, when they pulled her from the sea?

  “If only you could know how devastated I was,” she told him, “when I regained consciousness on the other ship and you were not with us.”

  “I’m sorry you had to suffer through that,” he said.

  Eyes still lowered, she nodded, and another awkward silence surrounded them like a dense fog rolling into the room.

  “Why did you not previously inform my family of the accident?” he asked, as he pondered all the particulars of his disappearance. “They had no idea where I was all this time. They were sick with worry.”

  At last she looked up. “My father wanted to tell your family in person, rather than send a letter with such devastating news, and we were holding out hope that you might have survived and we would find you.”

  He was not satisfied with this. “I was missing for a month. Could you not have told them the truth, so they could help in the search?”

  She seemed somewhat frustrated with his lack of understanding. “The only reason they were worried about you was because your father did not tell them where you were. If they had been informed that you were bound for France on your honeymoon, as we thought they were, they would never have spent a single minute worrying. They would have been rejoicing.”

  “And no one would have ever found me.”

  “We would have found you,” she insisted, “for we, too, saw the piece in the paper, as your brother did. We were only a day behind him.”

  Still, he was not pleased to know that they had kept his disappearance secret from his family all this time.

  Deciding he would let the matter drop for the time being, he sat and listened while she told him about their wedding ceremony and other details about his friendship with her brother, John—none of which he remembered.

  Then she posed a question. He suspected she had been waiting for just the right moment to ask it.

  “When we arrived in Jersey,” she said, “they told us you brought the lady home with you—the one who found you on the beach. Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “And is she here now? At the palace?”

  “Yes.”

  She studied him curiously. “May I ask why she accompanied you?”

  Blake took great care in deciding how he should reply. Would it be best to tell her the truth?

  As he looked into her youthful brown eyes, however, he decided that no, he could not do that to her—at least not until he knew what he was going to do about all this.

  “My family felt beholden to her,” he explained, “so my brother offered to show her Pembroke Palace.”

  “She came without a chaperone?”

  He paused. “She is of an age that didn’t require…” He hesitated, and began again. “Her family felt that Lady Hawthorne’s presence was enough.”

  “So she is an older lady, then?” Elizabeth asked, seeming happy to hear it.

  “Not terribly old.” He did not want to talk about it. Perhaps she sensed it, for she asked him if he would like a cup of tea. He declined, but she leaned forward to pour some for herself.

  Another prolonged silence followed, while they both looked away from each other. She stirred her tea and set the spoon down in the saucer with a noticeable clink.

  “You mentioned earlier that you were sketching,” she said cheerfully, sitting up straighter and seeming relieved to have thought of something to talk about. “May I ask what you were drawing?”

  “The statue of Venus, down in the garden,” he replied, wondering if she had an interest in art.

  “Is that what you like to draw? Statues? I suppose they are easier than people, because they don’t move.”

  “I sketch many things,” he said, “including people.”

  She raised her teacup and held it in front of her mouth as she spoke. “Gracious, I had no idea you liked to draw. I wonder…” She set the cup down in the saucer again and appeared somewhat perplexed. “What is the point in it, if you are not going to earn a living from it, which clearly you would not do.”

  How could he possibly explain why he did it? The truth was, it fed his soul—a soul he suspected had been starving in this repressed and dutiful life he had been living. But he was not at ease saying that to her.

  “I do it because I enjoy it.”

  “Do you paint the pictures as well, in order to add color? Or are they just pencil drawings?”

  Just pencil drawings…

  “No, I have not painted my sketches, but I am told I used to paint with oils when I was a boy, and that the canvases are at the London house, buried somewhere in the attic. I may very well try it again one day soon. I feel rather inclined.”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “I see.” She giggled. “I don’t think I could draw a flower without it looking like a
sun. But of course drawing is for children.”

  He drew his head back.

  “Except in your case, of course!” she stammered. “I only meant that the pictures I would draw would look like the work of a child, because I am not artistic. I cannot even embroider anything without a pattern.” She took another sip of tea. “I like to sing, though!” she added, almost desperately.

  They sat in silence again, while he looked toward the window, feeling bewildered by the man he was before he’d been lost at sea. What was it about this woman that had stirred his soul? Anything? Would he discover it eventually? Or perhaps his soul had been dead and buried, and he had not thought it would ever live again. Perhaps that is why he’d simply done his duty and obeyed his father’s wishes.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Enter!” he called out, grateful for the interruption.

  “Have you had a chance to become reacquainted?” Rebecca asked as she entered the drawing room with Devon and John.

  “Oh yes!” Elizabeth replied, wiggling in the seat. “We have indeed, and everything is perfect now. I am so happy.”

  He turned to look at her—she seemed so very young—and felt only a deep sense of dread for what lay in his future, for he did not know how this situation was going to play out. There were two women in his life now—one he felt passionate about—for he both desired her and was infuriated by her—and one for whom he felt nothing at all but guilt and obligation.

  Chelsea, however, could be carrying his child.

  But so, also, he supposed, could this woman. She was his wife. They had been together on their wedding night.

  Before he had a chance to think about what he was doing or what he should be doing, he was on his feet.

  “Where are you going?” Devon calmly asked. “To see Father, I hope. He’s still waiting for you, and has probably become impatient.”

  He was not waiting, and they both knew it.

  Blake let out a deep breath. Thank God he had someone on his side. Devon—his brother—who somehow understood so much about him, without ever being told a thing.

  “I’ll go and see what he wants,” Blake replied.