16. CHAPTER 16
S omething had shifted in their relationship since this morning. That scene at the beach would not leave her mind.
After arriving home, she had not seen him again until dinnertime. But the effect of their interaction had not faded. Where before their silences had been heavy and uncomfortable, now the very air seemed to shimmer between them. The dinner passed in a blur of candlelight and silver.
Vivienne would be hard-pressed to mention what dishes were served, although everything was delicious as always.
But she was aware only of him at the head of the table, of the way the light burnished the dark locks of his hair and carved weary lines beside his mouth that had not been there in the portrait above the mantel.
Every time she lifted her glass, she felt again the iron band of his arm about her ribs, the violent hammer of his heart against her breast, the way his hands had searched her as if to reassure himself she existed whole and living beneath them.
She had been half naked.
The knowledge warmed her cheeks now, and she brought the glass of wine to her lips to hide her reaction. And yet there had been nothing improper in him. Only urgency. Relief. Pain so raw she had felt almost ashamed to witness it.
His eyes that did not miss anything must have seen her heightened color.
"No ill effects from the swim?" he asked.
"None whatsoever. "
"You were chilled."
She had been chilled by the time they made it back to the house, but it had helped that he had ordered a hot bath for her.
A cold man would not be so attuned to her needs and well-being.
A distant one would not have trembled with fear at the thought of any harm befalling her.
Something had altered upon that strip of sand. She felt it in the quiet awareness that pulsed between them each time their eyes met and skittered away again.
She did not remember loving him. But she had understood, in those breathless moments while he dressed her in her garments with hands that knew exactly how, that once she must have trusted him beyond thought.
His fingers had laced her corset with firm certainty. Had arranged her skirts with a husband's touch.
The conviction of it had followed her back to the castle. She felt married to him now in a way she had not that morning.
"What did we talk about? Before."
Dalton's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down before answering.
"Everything," he said.
She had been in this house for weeks now. Performing the role of an amnesiac wife who had returned to a life she could not remember with what she hoped was grace and endurance.
She was tired of endurance.
"Everything is not an answer," she said. "It is an evasion. Give me something specific."
The corners of his eyes creased, and his lips twitched, as if he were about to smile.
"You used to say things like that," he said.
"Did I?"
"You did. It was one of the reasons I fell in love with you. You didn't fawn or demur. You spoke your mind. Challenged and teased me. "
The revelation sat in her chest. Warm and startling.
This was not only a revelation about their past relationship, but about her own personality.
She had felt this urge to speak her mind.
To be daring. But in recent times she had always repressed it.
Not knowing one's identity could make a person fearful and unsure.
"Tell me more about it," she pressed. "Not what we discussed. What we were like. Together."
He regarded her. The candlelight caught the silver threaded through his dark hair.
"We argued about poetry and literature," he said.
"We debated politics and social issues. You had opinions that would have scandalized half the House of Lords, and you delivered them over breakfast as though commenting on the weather.
We laughed. You made me laugh, Vivi, which was no small feat. " A pause. "We were happy."
The last two words cost him. She saw it in the tightening of his jaw, in the careful way he laid his napkin beside his plate, as though precision in small things could compensate for the rest.
The kind of marriage he was describing… she yearned for that.
"Why don't you talk to me the same way now?"
"Because you don't remember anything about our past life. Every time I think of a subject, I don't know if it will be adequate. I'm afraid to say the wrong thing and make matters worse."
He feared one misplaced word might shatter her.
"You can speak to me about anything you used to before. If I don't know something, I'll say so, and maybe you can enlighten me. Treat me the same way you used to. I want to learn more about my past life."
He paused. Hesitated. She had the impression that he was checking himself. Holding back.
"I want that too. But wouldn't that be considered manipulating your memories if I'm giving you my version of events?
I don't know how much to say. Also," another pause, "you seem to be uncomfortable around me.
Not that I blame you. If you don't remember me, then I'm only a stranger to you.
And yet we are married. It must be difficult for you to grapple with that.
And for me as well, to feel like an intruder at your side, when you are so familiar to me. "
"I see…" He did not feel like a stranger at the moment, but she did not know how to bridge this gulf between them.
If only she could remember something. A small detail to offer him.
To let him know she was still the same woman.
That same tension that had simmered between them since this morning was still humming in her body.
But she did not know how to tell him that.
"Show me," she said instead. "Show me something we did together. Something real."
He looked at her. The crease between his brows deepened, then smoothed.
"Will you walk with me? The gardens are beautiful at this hour."
"I should like that very much," she said.
Relief softened him. An endearing gratitude that was almost boyish.
He summoned a maid, and before Vivienne quite understood his intention, she brought him a wrap. He stepped behind her.
"Allow me."
The wool settled around her shoulders. His fingers brushed her nape, steady and reverent. Arranging the folds with meticulous care, as though the simple act mattered.
He did not offer his arm, yet she walked beside him, their steps matching.
Through the open doors, across the terrace, amid the formal beds, clipped hedges, and on gravel paths raked to mathematical precision.
At this hour, the last glimmer of daylight turned the stone walls to honey, and the air held the warmth of the day.
Gravel whispered underfoot. Somewhere a fountain murmured, but most of her awareness was on the man walking beside her, hands clasped behind his back. As if he were restraining himself.
Ahead, set on a rise at the garden's farthest edge, stood a small folly. White columns supporting a domed crown. The sunset caught the stone and set it glowing. By unspoken accord, they walked toward it and climbed the steps into the circular space together .
Classical in proportion but intimate in scale — a lover's retreat.
But it was not the folly that stopped her.
That scent… rich and honeyed, yet sharpened by something green and wild beneath.
She stopped.
Dalton was beside her. "Vivienne?"
She heard his voice, but her eyes turned inward. Her mind was no longer in the present. She was chasing an inkling.
The fragrance curled through her senses, slipping past reason into some locked and waiting chamber of her mind.
"That fragrance… I recognize it. I've been here before." She heard her voice as if from a distance. As if she were in two places at the same time. She was watching herself. On this very spot. Long ago. In a moment forgotten in the mists of her mind.
"Naturally. We have strolled through these gardens numerous times over the years."
But his voice was cautious. Guarded. He was holding back.
"No, but I mean… something important happened here.
" She let go of his arm, took two steps to stand in the center of the folly, turning around, her eyes touching over every piece of greenery that swathed the artificial ruin.
As if the statues could give her the answer she sought.
She pressed her hand to the nearest column.
The stone was warm. That smell… She went to a flower, inhaled deeper. Something else stirred. Another image.
A moonlit night. Soft music spilling out of the house. A melody surfaced in her brain, and she hummed it. She could not remember the name of the song, but the entire piece kept coming to her, the previous note conjuring the next, creating a path in her brain.
She looked at Dalton, and her breath caught.
Her heart tripped and tumbled inside her chest. He was frozen, as immobile as the stone statues that adorned the perimeter of the folly.
He was looking at her with such an intent expression.
His eyes bright with so much yearning and sorrow.
He looked almost stricken. Their gazes met and locked.
His face, younger, lit by moonlight. The music. His hands found hers.
"I have asked your father for your hand in marriage." His voice was low and gravelly.
The sentence did not make sense in the present. No, he was speaking to the Vivienne from long ago. And just as if his words had summoned her, that Vivienne from before smiled and asked.
"And what did he say?"
"He accepted." He stepped closer. "Vivienne, I am not a man given to poetry, but from the moment I saw you across a room full of people, I was drawn to you. As soon as I spoke to you, I knew you were my destiny. So I ask you now. Would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"
"Yes." The word rose from deep in her chest, from the part of her that knew things her mind had lost. They were joyous and yearning. "The answer is yes."
His eyes widened.
"You remember," he breathed.