4. CHAPTER 4
B y God, nothing had prepared him for the sight of her after so many years.
She appeared the same, and yet not. The same face he thought he would never see again. But she had looked at him without recognition, her eyes wide with fear instead of warm with love.
He regretted that the most. He had planned to introduce himself with care. To reassure her. He meant to protect her. Make her feel cherished. Safe.
But the news of her wedding had laid those plans to waste. He had barged into the church like a demon, shouting the truth that nobody in this parish suspected. And scaring her half to death.
He had seen her stricken expression, her dawning horror. Felt her brittle strength, and known the exact moment it deserted her. He was ready to catch her. To hold her in his arms, where she belonged.
And now she was here, cradled against his chest. Unconscious from the shock he had caused her.
"Don't touch her," he growled, gathering her tighter against him as the man she had tried to marry reached for her.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alfred by the church doors. He smirked and gave him a mocking tip of his hat. Then his cousin turned and vanished into the gray afternoon.
The bastard was escaping. Just as he had predicted he would .
Every reflex in Dalton's body screamed to give pursuit, to finish what he had started in that London holding cell. But he looked down at the woman in his arms, and his choice became obvious.
Her head lolled against his shoulder, the scent of orange blossom underlaid with her own warmth teasing his nostrils. Familiar. She looked so fragile. So pale.
God, please, let her be all right.
He turned to the rioting congregation. "Somebody get a doctor."
"I am the doctor." Her would-be husband replied with annoying steadiness. "I can help her."
Dalton decided he hated the man. Hated him more because there was nothing hate-worthy about him. He looked composed and competent — the sort of man people trusted on instinct. Vivienne had trusted him enough to marry him.
Wonderful.
"Let us retreat to the vestry," the rector suggested, indicating the narrow door beside the chancel.
Dalton followed, carrying her through the doorway, the skirts of her gown spilling over his arm. The doctor walked behind them.
The vestry was dim and cool, the air thick with beeswax and old incense. The rector rushed to clear the long oak table of ledgers and vestments while the doctor folded a green cloth into a makeshift cushion for her head.
"Lay her down here," the doctor ordered.
Dalton complied, his worry for his wife eclipsing his animosity.
"Stand back. She needs air. Open the windows."
He did as he was told, helped by the rector. He even retreated while the doctor checked her pulse and loosened her dress fastenings. That cost him more than he would ever admit.
The doctor patted his pockets, swore. "I don't have my smelling salts. Of course, I did not anticipate needing them today." A pointed look at Dalton.
Dalton ignored it and ducked out. In the nave, where a scattering of the congregation still lingered, he called out for smelling salts.
Two matrons came forward, vials extended.
He took both with a curt word of thanks and returned to the vestry — only to find the doctor rubbing his wife's hand between both of his own.
The man's thumb traced her knuckles with a familiarity that spoke of years of habit.
The sound that came from Dalton's throat was not that of a civilized man.
The doctor turned, met his eyes, and released her hand. To his credit, he did not flinch. "You have the salts? Good. Give them to me."
Having uncorked and inspected the two vials, the doctor brought one closer to her nose. She groaned. Her eyelids fluttered but remained closed.
Dalton strode to the washstand in the corner, poured water from the pitcher onto a cloth, and returned to her side. He bathed her forehead and temples while the doctor fanned her with a sheaf of papers, and for one absurd moment they worked over her in concert, neither willing to cede the patient.
After what felt like an age but was probably minutes, her lashes flickered. She stirred. Her breath caught.
Her eyes went to the doctor first.
She smiled.
And the doctor returned her smile with a tenderness that made Dalton want to put his fist through the wall. "There you are, Gracie."
That settled it. He was going to have to murder the doctor.
"Her name is Vivienne," he said, and his voice could have cut glass. "Her Grace, the Duchess of Dalton."
Vivienne's gaze snapped to him as if she had just noticed his presence. Then, with a strangled sound — something between a gasp and a whimper — she scrambled to sit up. He extended his hand to help her, but she took the doctor's hand instead and allowed him to support her.
His heart gave a painful squeeze at the small rejection, but he withdrew his hand and clasped it behind his back.
Her incredible hazel eyes stared at him. They were the most amazing color. At first glance, they might appear light brown, but when the sunlight caught them at the right angle, flecks of green lit them up from within. There was more green in the right one .
She pinned him with her gaze, and it struck him anew.
The miracle of her survival. Until now, he had been running high on emotional turmoil.
The shock of learning she was alive. The struggle to get to her, when the elements seemed determined to keep them apart.
Then learning she was getting married to another man.
Even when he saw her at the altar, with the drama of the moment and her fainting, he had not had an instant to pause.
Breathe. And absorb the fact that his wife was alive and in front of him.
He smiled. "Hello, Vivi."
"So it was not a nightmare," she said. "The scene at the church happened. You are real."
The smile fell from his face. A nightmare?
For him, she was a miracle. And she thought his presence was the stuff of nightmares?
He would not let her see how hard the blow landed. He had absorbed worse. The smile he attempted felt crooked and too wide, but it was the best he could manage.
"I’m afraid so."
Her expression softened, a small frown crumpling her brow.
The panic receded and something else replaced it — compassion.
Regret. As if she had noticed his reaction and were sorry to cause him pain.
As if, even amid the wreckage of the most bewildering day of her life, her first instinct was to offer comfort.
That was the most Vivienne thing in the world, and it nearly undid him.
"I’m sorry," she said. "But I do not remember you."
"I know." He lowered his eyes. He could not keep looking at her or he would break, and he would not break here. Not in front of her. His distress was distressing her. And that he could not have.
"You see, I was in an accident. And I remember nothing of my life before that."
He nodded. Cleared his throat. Took a breath.
"I know all of that. I was there on that ship and witnessed the wreckage.
" He swallowed. "It is not your fault. None of it is.
If anything, I am the one who should beg your forgiveness for not finding you before now.
I didn't know you had survived. I was led to believe…
" He shook his head. All the careful speeches he had prepared had fled.
"It does not matter. It was my failure. And I’m sorry it took me so long. "
"Excuse me, Your Grace," the rector interrupted.
He was a compact man of about fifty, with the careful bearing of someone accustomed to dealing with human foolishness.
His expression held no hostility, but no yielding either.
"I have a duty to this parish and to this woman we have sheltered for seven years, so I must ask: how can you be sure that our Gracie is your wife? "
Dalton barked a humorless laugh. "Her name is Vivienne, and I am certain because I know my wife. I have memorized the exact shade of her eyes. The scent of her skin, the inflection of her voice. I am intimately familiar with the tilt of her smile and the shape of her lips."
"But is it possible that, after so many years, and given your desire to believe this woman is her, you could be confused?" The rector insisted.
"Not bloody possible."
"Your Grace. I will ask that you not curse in my church."
"Then don't be so obtuse, Reverend. How many duchesses do you think were lost at sea seven years ago in this part of the world? How many do you think look exactly like her? I will not stand for being doubted when it comes to my wife."
Few men would dare to challenge him; most would mumble an apology and retreat when he used that tone. But to his credit, the rector did not back down. Tugging at the lapels of his coat, he replied.
"We are not doubting your memories, Your Grace. But she does not remember you, and there are no other witnesses present. Surely you comprehend we cannot just take the word of anyone who appears and claims to be related to her. Please understand that we only mean to protect her."
Dalton could almost admire the rector. He would be grateful that Vivienne had such staunch protectors once his emotions settled. Right now, he wished he could make everyone disappear so he could talk to his wife in private .
"In other words, Your Grace, we need to see proof that she is, indeed, your wife." The doctor added, making Dalton want to punch his face in.
As if the events of the day were not surreal enough, now he was being treated as if he were the enemy.
As if his own wife needed protection from him.
They had closed ranks around her, and he was the outsider.
The ramifications of her condition kept buffeting him one after the other, like the relentless waves of the sea.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew his watch. When he flipped the cover, the miniature photograph caught the vestry's dim light. It was of Vivienne and himself on their wedding day. Younger. Happy. Two people who did not yet know what trials life had in store for them.
He offered it without a word.
Vivienne took the watch. Their fingertips brushed, and the contact jolted through him. She pulled her hand back as if scalded. Had she felt it too?
She studied the miniature, tracing the photograph with one finger.
"She does look like me." Her eyes met his. "Would you be able to provide a detail about my person that only a husband would know?"
Good God, she wanted to quiz him. Here. In this vestry.
With these men listening. And it would have to be a physical detail — personal memories were useless when one party had none.
He held her eyes, and when he spoke, his voice dropped low for her alone, although the room was too small for privacy.
"You have a birthmark on the inside of your left knee. It looks like a butterfly and is about the size of my thumbnail. Reddish in color."
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the doctor stiffen with recognition. The bastard knew. He had seen her birthmark. For the man's sake, he hoped the doctor had come by that knowledge while tending to her injuries, and not… No, he could not even consider the possibility. Not today.
He kept his eyes on Vivienne. The flush that flooded her cheeks was answer enough. She nodded .
"And you said my name is Vivienne?" she asked, her curiosity overpowering the fear.
"Vivienne Rose St Aubyn." He paused. "Duchess of Dalton."
Something moved across her face. As if the name had unlocked a memory in her mind.
The doctor stepped forward. He had held himself together so far, but now his voice carried a raw edge that had nothing to do with medicine.
"That is very moving, Your Grace. But a photograph and a birthmark do not constitute legal proof.
We must consider her state of mind and her well-being.
What do you plan to do now that you have found her? "
Dalton turned to the man his wife had almost married. Assessed him for the first time. He was good-looking enough, he supposed. Brown hair, regular features. Average height and build. He had an air of calm competence about him that must be reassuring to patients.
One day, Dalton might feel grateful to the doctor for caring for Vivienne. Right now he felt only animosity.
"I plan to take my wife home, of course." He put enough force behind his words to make it clear he would not tolerate any interference.
Vivienne sucked in a breath. "I beg your pardon. Are my wishes and preferences of no importance, then?"
She spoke with the imperiousness of the duchess she could not remember being. Yet her voice trembled just the slightest bit. Enough to tell him she was terrified.
In all this time — since Alfred's revelation, through two nights on the Channel, through mud and flooded roads — he had never once considered that she might not want to come home. He had been so certain. So arrogant in his certainty.
It was where she belonged and where he wanted her. It was the right thing to do. His duty to care for her. To restore her to her rightful place, with her family and loved ones. It was his dearest wish. And he never, for one moment, considered that it might not be what she wanted as well.
He had imagined himself a rescuer. She saw a stranger claiming ownership .
Just a stranger. After fourteen years of marriage, three losses, one shipwreck, and seven years of grief that had nearly killed him.
Despite being forewarned of her amnesia, he had not fully grasped all that would mean. He still thought she would be glad to see him. As if… as if the mere force of his presence was enough to make her remember. To invoke her love and her memories.
He had been a fool.
Her love had vanished along with her memories.
His gaze snapped to her, at a loss for what to say. How to proceed.
"Of course, my dear. Forgive me. I didn't mean to imply I would take you against your will." He stopped. Started again. "I’m a stranger to you. I see that now."
It should have been crystal clear. She had been about to marry another man, for goodness' sake. Was she in love with the doctor then?
His throat felt tight. His chest burned with the strain of forcing air in and out. "But of course, I understand if you need some time…"
He trailed off. Meeting her gaze, holding it. Please let her say that she just needed some time to get used to the idea. He could not contemplate the notion that she might not want to go home with him.
Now, or ever.