Chapter 7
Seven
ARTEMISIA
Back at the Mermaid’s Rest, Artemisia consulted with her driver and decided that they would leave the next morning if the sun held.
She simply could not wait any longer. Determined to enjoy her remaining time with Henry, they spent time wandering the seashore exploring the natural caves worn into the rocks below Cavalier Cove.
Whomever he was, Henry was a gentleman with a sense of adventure.
She found herself listening to his accent trying to decide whether that might be a clue as to his identity, but all she could discern was that he spoke like a man who was well-educated and likely hailed from near London.
She was no student of accents, but nothing in the way he clipped his consonants and drawled his vowels stood out to her as belonging to anything other than the upper class. Landed gentry, perhaps?
God forbid he prove to be someone from her social set.
Artemisia had been fortunate to be born into a well-off genteel family, and she had married a dashing gentleman from an even wealthier family.
With no other heirs to split the inheritance with, she lived comfortably off the income from her investments.
A right Lady Russell, Margaret had called her, after reading Persuasion.
She had no interest in marrying again, but she did enjoy male companionship.
Perhaps she should keep Henry on. She could give him a proper job and bed him whenever they felt the urge.
It wouldn’t be entirely scandal-free, but there were worse sins in the world than two people being together outside the bounds of marriage.
What are you thinking? she scolded herself. What kind of example would that be to Margaret’s child?
Unless one wished to consign oneself to the margins of society, like that absurd Lord Byron, anything more than a discreet affaire was unthinkable.
She liked being involved in charities like the Widows Benevolent Society, even if years after their founding, they were still arguing over whether widows should properly have an apostrophe at the end.
How many meetings had she sat through watching with amusement while women argued whether it should be plural or possessive?
Either choice was correct, but the organization had yet to pick one and stick with it.
A ridiculous thing to argue about, yet their earnestness amused her greatly.
She wouldn’t want to lose their friendship over a man.
At supper, she sat back in her chair and patted her full belly. “I cannot remember the last time I had such a wonderful day.” Reaching across the table, she squeezed Henry’s hand. “Thank you.”
“I should be thanking you.” His eyes sparkled with warmth. “Without your generosity, I would still be wandering about as bare as the day I was born.”
“I strongly doubt that. Cavalier Cove is an insular place but the people are kind. Someone would have helped you.”
“Perhaps. But I am glad it was you.”
Henry
“The viscount still hasn’t returned from London?” Artemisia said worriedly to Mrs. Gosling.
“Not yet, I am afraid. He must have been delayed by the same storm that kept you here in Cavalier Cove.”
The storm wasn’t all that had delayed Mrs. Longwood from reaching her cousin. She would have left hours earlier if not for one last-ditch effort to find someone, anyone, who might know his true identity.
“Unfortunately, I must travel on,” she said with genuine chagrin. Regret was written on her beautiful features. He’d had ample time to memorize the precise slant of her nose, the delicate sweep of her brows, the high rise of her cheekbones and the lushness of her mouth.
He was losing this beautiful, generous, warm-hearted widow. Pain lodged behind his sternum. Indigestion, obviously. No one fell in love in the span of a few days. Still, there was no denying that he was head over heels in lust with her.
“May I write to you?” he said.
“Please. I would like to know how things turn out. I will be coming through Cavalier Cove again in six weeks or so, assuming everything goes well with Margaret and her baby. Perhaps we can…” She trailed off.
Glanced down, her lashes forming spiky shadows on her cheeks.
They opened a second later. Despite the mistiness in her eyes, her voice was steady.
“I hope your memories come back, Henry. If they don’t, or if you need a place to stay…
” She swallowed hard. “Write to me. We’ll discuss whether there could be a place for you with me. ”
“I will.”
He begged a piece of paper and pen from Mrs. Gosling, Prescott’s housekeeper, and wrote down her cousin’s name and direction.
“My lady, if we are to make it to the next inn before midnight, we must leave now,” her coachman insisted.
“Please tell Lord Prescott that he has my thanks for taking Henry in,” she said to the housekeeper. Then, despite every fiber of his being wanting to drag her away and hold onto Artemisia like a child being deprived of a favorite toy, Henry handed her into the carriage and watched her drive off.
He couldn’t even kiss her goodbye. Not with an audience. It simply wasn’t done.
“What a kind woman.” Mrs. Gosling stared after the retreating vehicle with a sigh. “You don’t find such goodhearted people often nowadays. You were very fortunate to be found by Mrs. Longwood.”
“I know,” he said, with a lump in his throat. They went inside, where the housekeeper showed him to a room with fresh clothes laid out for him. He washed and dressed, then wandered downstairs without the slightest idea how to occupy himself.
“Might I take a walk?” he asked the housekeeper. “Tour the grounds? I find myself restless and in need of activity.”
“Certainly you may. His lordship should be back any moment. Given the rains recently, I suggest you follow the trail to higher ground near the stables. The view of the bay from the fields will steal your breath. Turn left when you see the Davies’ cottage. Can’t miss it.”
For the next hour, Henry sulked. The bright, beautiful day was lost upon him. He kicked rocks into the grass and kept his fists jammed into the pockets of his borrowed greatcoat. The viscount was a bit shorter and stockier. The ill-fitting clothes annoyed him.
He wanted to be home. Wherever that was. He was tired of being a stranger everywhere he went.
He wanted Artemisia. She was home. He should never have allowed her to ride off alone.
Abruptly, he turned on his heel. He would return to the house, borrow paper and ink, and write to her immediately.
He would tell her that he had fallen irrevocably in love with her and while he would maintain a respectful distance while she visited her family and helped her cousin recover from childbirth, he was going home with her.
She had proposed the idea. He didn’t need to think it over. He knew that was what he wanted. He should have told her before she left.
Henry’s steps quickened. He could still catch up with her. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. Lost in thought, he failed to notice the rider coming along the road behind him until the man spoke and startled him half out of his wits.
“There you are, Hendrik. Everyone has been looking for you.”
He whipped around to find a well-dressed man on a bay mount hard on his heels. The man was already swinging down, looping the tired horse’s reins over his forearm. The animal plodded along at his heels like a well-trained dog.
“Who are you?” Henry asked.
“You don’t recognize me? I am Viscount Prescott. Nathaniel is my given name, which I insist you use. We have known one another since our school days.” The stranger peered at him and whistled, long and low. “That must have been quite a black eye.”
He’d forgotten all about the bruises around his eye. They had faded into patchy yellows and greens with only hints of violet. Artemisia hadn’t mentioned them since they fell into bed with one another.
“I was found beside the road a few days ago with no memory of who I am,” he said. “Please. Start at the beginning. I remember nothing.”
The stranger gaped at him in astonishment. “That would explain a great deal, if true. I must warn you that the rumor circulating is that you didn’t want to marry Lady Boyle and ran off to escape the match.”
“Why on earth would I be betrothed to a lady?” he asked in astonishment.
“Because, Lord Voss, you are a duke. What other kind of lady would you court?”
Henry’s heart sank.
Not a voluptuous widow with warm eyes and a sense of humor, that was certain, if Prescott spoke the truth.