Page 8 of A Duke to Restore her Memory
Georgina was a mass of contradictions. She was a paradox.
“How are you?” he called, the wind threatening to snatch his voice entirely. “Are you comfortable?”
She turned slightly in the saddle. He noted the perfect line of her profile. She really was a very beautiful woman. He felt warmth enter his body, and his arms tightened around her. Somehow, it felt natural for her to be sitting against him in such a way.
“I am well,” she replied. Her green eyes were alight. “I am enjoying the ride. It is very beautiful here.”
He smiled. “It is. It is the most beautiful pocket of England … but then, I am biased. I was born here and have lived here for my entire life.” He took a deep breath. “Do you recognize anything we have passed? Any farmhouse or landmark, perhaps?”
She shook her head. “No. Not at all.” He heard the dejection and confusion in her voice. “It is as if I am seeing it for the very first time.”
He sighed. “Give it time, just like the physician said. Your memory will return. In the meantime, you are very welcome at Newquay Hall … we are approaching it now.”
“Where?” she asked, swivelling her head around. “Where is it?”
He pointed towards the left. “It is there, on the top of that hill, in the distance.” His heart filled with pride as he gazed at the house. “It is the finest home in the district. Even if I do say so myself.”
Georgina laughed. “Clearly, you love your home, Your Grace.”
“I do,” he replied, his mouth twitching. “I have never wanted to be anywhere else. I have spent time in London and abroad over the years, but nothing compares to Cornwall’s wild, untamed beauty. I miss the cliffs and the sea if I am away from them for too long.”
He realized he was speaking from his innermost heart as he uttered the words. It was true. He was always restless and sad if he was away from here for too long, yearning to return. It was an urge he couldn’t control. Something was always pulling him back to Cornwall and Newquay Hall.
“That is your home?” Her voice was filled with awe. “It is … magnificent. I have never seen anything like it.”
“How would you know?” he asked, his voice tinged with amusement. “You cannot remember. Perhaps you work in a great manor house just like my home.” He frowned suddenly. “You are a puzzle, Georgina. Your clothing suggests you are a servant or perhaps a farmer’s daughter … but you speak like a gentlewoman.”
She sighed heavily, looking distressed. “I wish I knew. But the harder I try to remember, the more it evades me. It makes my head pound so hard …”
“Do not distress yourself,” he said in a quiet voice. “You have suffered an injury. You need rest. The truth of who you are will reveal itself in the fullness of time, just as Dr Watson said.” He paused. “Do not try to push it.”
She nodded, but her eyes misted with tears. He felt a defensive urge sweep over him – a desire to protect and help her, which was so intense that it was astounding. He had just met this woman, after all. He had no idea who she was. He knew he must remain cautious, but it was proving hard.
“You are so very kind, Your Grace,” she said, visibly swallowing. “To open your home to a stranger like this is so very generous. Thank you … from the bottom of my heart.”
“You are welcome,” he said, his eyes lingering on that perfect profile before flickering to the angry gash on her head, cleaned and dressed now. “Here we are. Newquay Hall. My home.”
They rode through the high, imposing gates. The house loomed ahead of them. He felt her stiffen in apprehension, and the impulse to soothe and reassure this mysterious woman swept over him again.
Who was she? Was someone looking for her at this very moment? Would she recover her memory, as the physician had assured her … or would she stay as Georgina forevermore? And if so – where would she go, and what would she do?
***
Christina’s eyes swept over the grand house called Newquay Hall as they passed through the high, ornate metal gates towards the property. She hadn’t lied to him – it really was magnificent. And very daunting.
The estate surrounding the house was sprawling, with immaculate lawns, formal flower beds, and hedges. The house had thick stone walls, large windows, and turrets. Workers were scurrying among the gardens, pushing wheelbarrows and the like. It was a hive of activity.
She swallowed a painful lump in her throat. “This … this is really your home?”
He laughed, pulling up in front of the house. A servant sprang forward, taking the reins of the horse. The duke dismounted, helping her down.
She tried to ignore her pounding heart at the feel of his arms around her. She had been supremely conscious of them for the entire journey here. They were so strong, and the heat emanating from him had made her feel quite weak.
“Thank you,” she stammered, hastily stepping back.
They entered the house, Christina trying not to gape as she followed him down a long hallway towards the back of the house. A middle-aged woman dressed in a pristine grey gown and frilly white cap stepped forward as they entered the kitchen.
“Your Grace.” Christina felt herself blushing as the woman’s eyes swept over her, taking in every small detail, from the bandage on her forehead to the dirt and grime on her gown and skin. “Can I help you?”
