When a Stranger Loves Me (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 3)

by Julianne MacLean

  “You always were such a considerate gentleman,” Elizabeth said with a smile. “It is why I accepted you to be my husband.”

  He was relieved she did not require more of an explanation or push him to reconsider, for he did not want to argue the point.

  At the same time, he questioned her polite, almost cheerful acquiescence. They had been torn apart by the most tragic of circumstances on their wedding night. She had wept for him on the rescue ship, believing him dead. One would think she would have been eager to welcome him back to her bed, to lie with him and assure herself that her happy marriage had been restored, and that she would not lose him again.

  Blake looked away, wishing he could remember something from their wedding night, but alas, he could not. When he closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself making love to Elizabeth, the only face he saw was Chelsea’s. And he felt a great wave of sorrow when he recalled the heavenly scent of her skin.

  Chapter 26

  Chelsea slept very little during the night. She tossed and turned while she fought to block out the disturbing image of Blake making love to Elizabeth, as he must have done on their first night back together, reunited as husband and wife.

  He must have gone to her bed and bestowed great pleasures upon her. He probably held her in his arms and promised never to leave her again and assured her that they would start fresh and settle back into the life he had promised her on their wedding day. Soon, he would become the man he had been before the loss of his memory and identity. He would convert back into the real Blake and leave behind the man Chelsea had known in Jersey, which in reality was nothing more than a fantasy. It was time for her to accept that.

  The crowning glory of her sleepless night, however, came at dawn, when she was gifted with the unexpected arrival of her courses. She woke up with heavy cramps in her belly and discovered she was not going to be a mother. She was not carrying Blake’s child. She had never conceived.

  It was a wonderful thing, she told herself miserably as she rose from bed, wept a little, then washed, dressed, and went downstairs for an early breakfast. Blake would certainly be relieved. There would be no need for any further contact between them. He would never have to tell his wife about his infidelity and break her heart in the process.

  In turn, Chelsea would be free to leave the palace straightaway, and they would both be able to forget they ever knew each other. He would move on with his life, as if his ordeal on the Jersey coast had never occurred. He would simply remember it like a strange dream, as would she. She hoped.

  Chelsea ate alone in the breakfast room and decided she would speak to Blake about her condition that very morning. But since it was too early for any such conversations and no one seemed to be up yet, she returned to her room to fetch her notebook, and made her way outdoors to write for a short while.

  She exited the palace and walked to the Italian Gardens, which she imagined would be restored one day. She stepped carefully around a number of holes and piles of dirt, looking down at the muddy puddles and dead flowers lying on the ground with their roots torn violently from the soil.

  It was a metaphor of her life, she supposed—torn apart and devastated. The color was all gone, replaced by bleakness and chaos. Only the statue of Venus remained in the center of the fountain, lonely and forlorn, as she looked out over this lifeless terrain.

  Chelsea stopped and hugged her notebook to her chest while looking up at the goddess’s melancholy expression, and remembered the colorful days in Jersey, when she and Blake went walking and riding on the beach. There had been so much passion and excitement. So much joy, laughter, and discovery.

  She looked down at the desolated ground. One day all of this would come alive and grow again, and one day she would get over the shame of her actions, and these terrible feelings of loss. She would forget about Blake. She must forget him. There was no other choice.

  Turning to find a quiet place in which to set her mind to prose, she ventured around the tall cedar hedge and arrived at a bench under a large oak tree. She sat down, opened her notebook, and withdrew a pencil from her pocket. She read over the last thing she had written.

  “I thought I saw you come out here.”

  Chelsea jumped at the unexpected appearance of another person so early in the morning, when she had thought the family was still sleeping. It was Lord John, strolling toward her with his hands in the pockets of his fine, tailored overcoat. His blond hair seemed particularly light in the sunshine.

  “Good morning,” she politely said. Although in her mind she grumbled about his arrival, for she only wanted to write, and she would not be able to do that with him sitting there, trying to engage her in light conversation.

  He sat down beside her, and she closed her notebook.

  “I’m quite glad I found you, actually,” he said. “I wanted to ask you some questions.”

  “I’ll do my best to answer them,” Chelsea replied.

  Lord John seemed intent on trying to decipher what she was thinking, and she found it somewhat intrusive, like a spider climbing up her arm.

  “Do you believe it’s true,” he asked, “that my brother-in-law remembers nothing about his life? I find it difficult to comprehend.” There was suspicion and a hint of irritation in his tone.

  “It is most remarkable,” she replied. “There is no question of that. But from what I understand, it is a true medical condition. It’s called amnesia.”

  “What causes it?”

  “No one really knows for sure, and I believe every case is different. From what I have learned over the past few weeks, some experts say it can occur from a blow to the head, which is what our physician concluded when he took into account the physical trauma Blake suffered in the storm. But I understand it can also occur due to shock or emotional trauma.”

  John squinted his eyes in the other direction. “Do the memories ever come back to a person who has lost them?”

  “I believe so, in some cases,” she said. “In other cases, no. The person simply begins a new life without ever remembering the old. That is what Lord Blake has been doing all this time—starting a new life. Even though he has returned to his home and family, he doesn’t remember any of it. It is all new to him. He might never remember.”

  John looked down at his shoes as he spoke. “Is there anything that can be done to cause a person to remember? Another blow to the head, for instance?”

  She thought about what she had learned from the doctor. “I don’t think so. I certainly wouldn’t want to try it.”

  He laughed. “No, we might end up killing the poor bloke.”

  She did not find the notion amusing, however, especially when Lord John spoke of it so lightly.

  For a few minutes more they sat on the bench, listening to the birds chirping in the treetops. John glanced at her sideways once or twice, and she felt some discomfort in the way he studied her eyes. She wished he would leave. She wanted to write.

  “Enlighten me if you will,” he said, turning his body more fully toward her. “What really happened between you and my brother-in-law in Jersey? Something tells me you did more than just save his life.”

  The presumption in Lord John’s eyes unnerved her, but she did her best to hide the fact. “To what are you referring, exactly?”

  He leaned back. “Come now, Chelsea. I didn’t mention anything to my sister, but I do recall your tainted history. You are no innocent. You’re quite a spitfire, if I remember the stories correctly. And Blake brought you back here without a chaperone. It is hardly what one would call proper. You were lovers, weren’t you?”

  Chelsea stood up and spoke with an aggression she could not suppress. “I do not wish to continue this conversation. Good day, sir.” She walked away.

  To her frustration, Lord John followed. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Stay and talk to me. I’ll be your friend.”

  �
�I don’t need a friend.”

  “No? I think you do. Your lover is with his wife now, and you are on your own. Why don’t you and I have a little fun? There’s nothing standing in our way.”

  “Except my refusal of your offer.” She reached the tall hedge and stopped. “And what you heard about me happened many years ago. I am no longer that foolish young girl. I am not interested in any kind of ‘fun’ with you or anyone else, so if you will please excuse me...”

  She turned to go, but he grabbed hold of her arms and pushed her into the thick green branches. Her notebook fell to the ground.

  “Don’t be like that, you cheap little tart. Come here now. Stop that!”

  She fought him with all the rage and fury that was bottled up inside her. After all that had occurred, she was overcome by it. She slapped at John and shoved him and held nothing back as she screamed and kicked and pushed. “Let go of me, you animal! Don’t touch me!”

  Chelsea slapped him hard across the face, which only incensed him further and caused him to push her deeper into the hedge. A sharp branch scraped her cheek. Bits of green cedar broke off and rained down on her head while she struggled and fought and spit in his face. At last she pushed him hard enough to send him flying backward out of the hedge and onto the grass.

  “You dirty wench,” he growled.

  “And you are a disgusting maggot!” she replied, bending down to pick up her notebook. “Do not ever come near me again. Do you understand me? If you do, I swear I will drive my pencil straight through your eyeball.”

  She turned and walked quickly around the hedge, found her way back to the Italian Gardens, and was soon running up the palace steps to safety.

  Back at the hedge, John rose to his feet. He tasted blood on his lip and wiped it with the back of his hand, then reached into his breast pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead.

  He had thought Lady Chelsea would be easier than that. If he had known she would be such a fighter, he wouldn’t have made the attempt.

  Then again, she had certainly aroused him with her grit. He liked spirit in a woman. Perhaps he would try again.

  Feeling somewhat depleted from the struggle, he decided to return to the bench, where he could sit for a few minutes and wait for his lip to stop bleeding, but before he reached the spot, he noticed a dark figure peer out from behind the oak tree, then retreat out of sight.

  Had someone witnessed what just happened? A servant perhaps? A member of the family who liked to rise early? That was just what he did not need.

  Deftly, John made his way closer, then swung himself around the tree trunk to confront the unwelcome spectator. He had already made his mind up to persuade whoever it was to keep his or her mouth shut, no matter the cost.

  But it was no servant or member of the family, which helped him to breathe easier.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” he asked. “I suppose you saw what just happened.”

  “I did,” his sister replied, looking none too pleased. “You are a monster, John. You always were. I should tell my husband what you tried to do to Lady Chelsea. You had no right.”

  John moved to the bench, sat down and dabbed his lip with the handkerchief. “You should tell him. If you were a proper wife, you would. But you won’t, because if you did such a ludicrous thing, I would tell Blake all about your sordid circumstances, not to mention the root of our family’s illustrious fortune—in particular Father’s interest in wicked little plants. You wouldn’t want that to happen, now would you?”

  Elizabeth’s lips pulled together in a tight line. “Maybe I would. Maybe I would like to see you dig your own grave, John. Then at least you would get what you deserve.”

  She walked off, striding past him in a huff and making her way back to the palace.

  Chapter 27

  Chelsea marched into Blake’s bedchamber, slammed the door behind her, and startled him from his sleep. “I came to tell you I will be leaving here today.”

  He sat up in a jolt on his elbows and shook himself awake. “I beg your pardon.”

  “I said I want to leave.”

  “No.”

  She gritted her teeth. “What do you mean, ‘no’? You cannot keep me here against my will. I want to leave, so please prepare your coach. I will need money for the train and passage across the Channel.”

  Tossing the covers aside, he rose from the bed in his nightshirt. “Tell me what has happened, and how you scratched your cheek.”

  Chelsea reached up and touched her face. Indeed, there was blood on her fingertips.

  Blake went to fetch a handkerchief from his chest of drawers, dipped it in a porcelain bowl filled with water on the washstand, then offered it to her. While she dabbed at the blood, he pulled on his trousers and shrugged into a shirt.

  Chelsea sat down in a chair.

  “Now tell me what has happened,” he said, buttoning the shirt before pulling on a waistcoat.

  Finally managing to calm her breathing, she looked up. “Your brother-in-law just tried to ravish me in the garden.”

  A menacing thundercloud darkened Blake’s expression. “He did what? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, but maybe you should ask him if he’s all right.”

  “Why? What did you do to him?”

  “He was in bad need of a good thrashing,” Chelsea explained. “So I gave him one. He ended up on the ground with a bloody lip.”

  “Well done. Where is he now?”

  “I left him by the cedar hedge, on the far side of the Italian Gardens. I don’t think anyone saw us. No one seems to be awake yet.” She dabbed again at the scratch on her cheek. “I cannot bear to remain here, Blake.” She passed the handkerchief back to him. “It is time for me to leave.”

  “No,” he replied as he tied his cravat, seeming shocked she would even suggest it.

  “Yes,” she countered.

  “I told you, until we know your condition, you cannot leave.”

  She looked down at the blood still on her fingertips. “That is the other reason why I am here,” she explained. “There will be no baby. I am not with child, so we are free of each other.”

  She did not look up. She couldn’t. She did not want to see the relief that was sure to be as clear as day in Blake’s eyes.

  “Are you certain?” he asked.

  “Yes. My courses arrived this morning.”

  She was aware of him crossing to the other side of the room in silence. “You don’t have to leave right away.”

  “Yes, I must. You are with your wife now. It is not right for me to be here. We must forget what happened between us and put it in the past.”

  He faced her. “Maybe I don’t want to forget.”

  Her gaze darted to his, and the hostility she had been working so hard to suppress finally exploded inside of her. “You have no choice in the matter.”

  “There are always choices.”

  “No, not in this case!”

  They were both quiet for a moment, then Blake took a step forward. “I want you to go to the library and stay there,” he said. “Promise me you will not move from there until I return.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I am going to have a word with John.”

  “Will you give him a bloody nose for me?” Chelsea asked.

  “It would be my pleasure,” Blake replied as he headed for the door. “Then I will tell him to pack his things, because he is no longer welcome here.”

  “But he is your brother-in-law,” she reminded him.

  Blake stopped and pointed a finger at her. “Just go to the library and wait for me.” The door slammed shut behind him before she could form a reply, let alone contemplate how she truly felt about the reality of finally saying goodbye to this man forever.

  Elizabeth stood at her wi
ndow, trying very hard not to cry. Everything that had occurred over the past few weeks had taken a toll on her spirits, and she was not sure she could bear one more day of this heartbreak.

  What was she doing here? She did not belong. She was trapped.

  And her brother was a snake and a rotter. She hated him. She hated her father. And Blake—dear, wonderful Blake—he was the kindest, noblest, most honorable man she had ever met in her life, yet she could not be happy here. She was miserable. She could not eat or sleep or concentrate on anything. All her smiles were artificial. Her laughter was untrue.

  Just then her husband came into view below her window. She leaned closer to the glass to watch him stride across the Italian Garden ruins, then disappear behind the hedges. A few seconds later he reappeared, turning this way and that, searching for something, or someone.

  Her brother, most likely.

  Elizabeth put a hand to her mouth. John would think that she had snitched and told Blake what had occurred. John would be upset with her. But she had not told her husband anything.

  She watched in horror from the second story window as Blake spotted John still sitting on the bench under the oak tree. Blake strode toward him, grabbed him by the coat lapels and threw him to the ground.

  John scrambled backward like a crab along the grass, then Blake stood over him, grabbed hold of his coat to hold him with one hand, and punched him repeatedly in the face with the other.

  Elizabeth covered her eyes. She could not watch.

  When she looked out again, Blake’s brother Devon was running across the lawn toward them. He must have witnessed the brawl from a window.

  Blake thrust John up against the tree and shouted at him—though she could not make out what he was saying. Devon grabbed hold of Blake’s shoulders and tore him away. John crumpled to the ground and curled into a ball, clutching his stomach.

  Blake said something to Devon, left John on the ground, and started back toward the house. He walked quickly. Was he coming to see her? Would he want to know what she had witnessed?