Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Malcolm walked back and forth across the entrance hall, his gaze flitting periodically toward the top of the stairs. He figured it was a wife’s prerogative to make a husband stew, particularly a husband that she did not want around.
It had been several days since their dancing lesson, and she had not summoned him for another.
They had dined together in a civil manner each night, although Octavia’s short answers had let him know that she was in no mood to open up to him again.
Other than that, she had definitely been avoiding him.
Mostly, he had enjoyed time with his son, while trying to figure out how he could prove to Octavia that he could be trusted.
“Still waiting, Your Grace?” The butler appeared, carrying a tray.
Malcolm smiled. “I am.”
“Were the books I found for you helpful?”
“They were, thank ye.”
The butler had been instrumental in re-educating Malcolm in the ways of society. He would have asked Octavia but, considering her fresh reluctance to be around him, he had resorted to Mr. Lincoln who, as it turned out, was a treasure trove of societal information.
They had, of course, stopped short of practicing dances together. Although the butler had watched while Malcolm performed the steps, correcting him as he went.
I won’t embarrass ye, lass.
“Good. I’m glad.” The butler smiled. “Can I fetch you anything while you wait?”
Malcolm shook his head. “No, thank ye. It can’t be much longer now, else we’ll be verging on offensively late.” He paused. “Does Simon sleep well?”
“What do you mean, Your Grace?” Mr. Lincoln paused.
“Does he sleep through the night?” Malcolm glanced up the stairs once more. “I don’t want him to wake and wonder where his parents are.”
The butler smiled. “He sleeps well, Your Grace. He won’t even know you are gone.”
It should have been a comfort, but the words struck Malcolm in a way he had not expected. He won’t even ken I am gone. Perhaps that had been true over the past few years, but he refused to let it be true for the next five, ten, fifteen years.
Doctor Stanforth was still trying to rack his brain for ways to fix Malcolm’s affliction, but the longer Malcolm lived without his memories of the past decade, the more convinced he became that he was better off without them.
Important things could be relearned. The rest did not matter. Only his wife and his son mattered.
At that moment, she appeared: a vision in dark blue, embellished with glittering spangles that made her look like the night’s sky, awash with stars. Her hair had been curled and pinned, studded with little pearls, and there was a sapphire at her throat.
Mercy…
She looked radiant. So beautiful, so ethereal, so perfect that he once again had to ask himself what on earth had possessed him to stay away from her.
“I wish you luck, Your Grace,” Mr. Lincoln whispered with a pleased smile. “Don’t forget your steps.”
“I won’t,” Malcolm replied, too distracted to spare the man any of his attention.
Octavia seemed shy as she stood there at the top of the stairs, her palms anxiously smoothing down the front of her skirts.
Malcolm moved closer to the bottom of the stairs and, with a smile, lifted his hand toward her, beckoning for her to come to him.
Cheeks rosy, her gaze cast down, she began to descend.
“Definitely worth the wait,” he said as she reached him, her hand slipping into his.
Her blush deepened. “Apologies. My maid had some trouble getting my hair to behave. It does not like to be pinned into submission.”
“Then, ye should have worn it down,” he teased, imagining how long it might be, how soft and silky it might feel to the touch.
She gasped quietly. “I could not possibly! It would be a scandal.”
“More’s the pity.” He weaved her arm through his. “Although, ye look astonishingly beautiful as ye are.”
She turned her face away from him, but he could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile upon her lips before she quickly covered it.
“Come, we should depart,” she said stiffly. “I fear my unruly hair has already made us late and, unfortunately, unless my locks are on fire, most do not accept it as an excuse.”
She has a sense of humor too.
It might not have seemed like much but to him, that small joke almost felt like ice beginning to thaw. A warmth, tentatively reciprocated.
The carriage journey to Joan and Laurence’s estate was a blessedly short one, for Huntfield House was perfectly situated to be within reach of Octavia’s friends. A happy coincidence that she was perpetually grateful for.
“The trousers… look well on you,” she said awkwardly, unable to bear the silence that stretched between her side of the squabs and Malcolm’s.
“Well, that’s fortunate, because they don’t feel so pleasant,” he replied, lounging a little.
“I’ll never understand which fool decided to trap a man’s legs in tight fabric instead of letting them be free.
Ye didn’t see the Romans marching around in trousers; it’s probably why they were so victorious. ”
Octavia resisted the urge to chuckle. “It is funny how things change,” she said instead. “Now, gentlemen would raise their eyebrows at a man wearing anything resembling a skirt.”
“They don’t ken what they’re missing,” he quipped. “Truth be told, if they saw me in my kilt, they’d be green with envy.”
She tried to imagine the ton’s gentlemen all dressed in kilts and immediately squashed the thought: that was far too many bare legs to dwell upon.
Still, Malcolm did have very pleasing calves. Had he worn his kilt tonight, Octavia had no doubt that countless ladies would be swooning at the sight of them. Of him. Especially with that radiant smile of his.
No one will believe it is the same person.
A faint chill ran through her, envisioning the gossip that might circulate. Malcolm had never really been present in society, which was part of the reason she had fixed her hopes on him, but the few occasions when he had attended a ball or gathering had left a lasting impression.
The scandal sheets had talked about him for weeks, labeling him a ‘brooding beast’ and a ‘handsome terror’ and a ‘chilling addition to the London Season.’ The comments had been retracted, considering his status as a war hero, but the damage had already been done.
“That shade of blue becomes ye well,” he said, snatching her attention back. “It makes yer skin glow. It’s like moonlight. Which, I suppose, must make the freckles on yer nose and cheeks the sky’s prettiest constellations.”
She snapped her fan open and wafted it furiously at her face to cool the heat before it could redden her.
“You should not say such things,” she scolded, hating that she was secretly delighted.
“Why nae? A man can’t speak the truth to his wife?” Malcolm challenged with mischief in his eyes.
She shot him a look over the top of her fan. “Your plan will not work, Your Grace. Nor should it. You could regain your memories at any moment and, I promise you, you will be shocked that you are even riding in the same carriage as me.”
“Aye, but my plan is nae to regain them,” he said, startling her. “It has been weeks since the accident, and I don’t remember a thing. I don’t think they’re coming back.”
“Do not say that!” she rasped.
“Ye don’t think it’s better this way?”
Her mouth opened to retort, but no words came out. Instead, her mind faltered.
He is amusing, he is charming, he is pleasant to be around, he is earnest, and Simon is happier than I have ever seen him.
She shook off the thoughts. There was no use in thinking that way, when Doctor Stanforth had warned her that her husband could change at any moment. Just because Malcolm wanted to stay like this did not mean that he would.
More worryingly, who was to say that if Malcolm regained his memories, he would have any memory of what had occurred since his accident?
“Octavia?” he said her name so softly that her heart tried its very best to melt.
She resumed her hard glance. “I think it is a fruitless discussion.”
They fell back into that uncomfortable silence, interrupted only by the evening sounds of larks and doves, and the crunch of the carriage wheels on the country roads. More than once, Octavia wished to break that interminable quiet, but she held her tongue.
Before long, the carriage passed through the gates of Joan and Laurence’s estate, trundling down the pleasant driveway until it came to a halt outside the front doors.
Malcolm stepped out without waiting for the footman and turned to offer his hand.
With no choice but to accept, Octavia put her hand in his and allowed him to help her down.
What she had not anticipated, however, was the way he immediately put his arm around her waist and, with an encouraging smile, led her up the steps and into the entrance hall.
A small group had gathered there in the foyer, drinks in hand, whispering to one another. The gossipmongers who liked to see which guests were arriving.
Octavia’s heart plummeted as their conversation stopped and all eyes turned toward the newcomers.
“Is that…?” someone whispered.
“It must be,” someone else whispered back, though not as discreetly.
“I cannot remember the last time I saw the Duke of Highcastle in society,” another commented, adding with a snort, “Then again, I cannot remember the last time I saw the Duchess of Highcastle in society either.”
“Quite the recluse,” a different voice agreed.
Octavia suddenly felt grateful for Malcolm’s arm around her, steadying her, supporting her without saying a word.
Although that did not go unnoticed either.
“I never thought they were so close,” someone remarked in a mocking tone. “One would think they were newlyweds who had forgotten they were no longer partaking in their honeymoon.”
“I heard he has been gone for years,” another gossiper said, with odd pride.
“Well, I heard they have not spent a moment together since their honeymoon.” There was cruel laughter. “Who can blame her for wanting to stay away from society? The embarrassment would be enormous.”