Page 26 of A Duke to Restore her Memory
He had to admit that Lydia was impressive – if she had been born a man, she might have run the world. He hadn’t met many people as efficient and doggedly determined as his older sister.
He turned to Lady Frances, watching her covertly. She really was a beautiful woman, with her auburn hair, willowy figure, and bright blue eyes. And her background and pedigree were impeccable.
A part of him really wished he could seriously consider her, for Frances had all the attributes that the next duchess must possess, but even if he could have contemplated courting her, he knew he could never follow through with it.
She is like another sister to me. There just isn’t any spark between us, no matter how much Lydia wants there to be. I wonder how long my sister will persist with this before she gives up.
His thoughts turned to Georgina. He started to grow warm. He felt plenty of sparks between him and the mysterious woman staying at his home. Too many. He felt a pang of regret consume him.
It was such a pity he had no idea who she was and her place in the world … and if he could indeed contemplate courting her.
Lydia had spoken an unpleasant truth again – there was a high probability that Georgina wasn’t a lady at all. There was probably no way he could ever contemplate her. And that was the end of that.
***
Christina gasped, rearing up in the bed, her heart pounding hard. She blinked, gazing around. All was darkness – she couldn’t see a thing. It was as if the darkness was consuming her entirely.
She was standing, facing an older man, who was well dressed and had thinning grey hair. A man who was very angry with her. The man’s eyes were bulging, and she could see a vein throbbing in his right temple.
His face was flushed with rage. He raised his voice to her, shouting at her, telling her she must obey him. She ran out of the room …
She blinked rapidly, trying to process it. She knew she had been in the midst of a very vivid dream. It was so vivid she felt as if she were still within it, as if the smell was still in her hair, the feel of it still crawling on her skin, and the sound of it reverberating in her ears.
She frowned, trying to slow her breathing. Her heartbeat was starting to regulate a little now, but the vision of the older man, who had been so angry with her, was still at the forefront of her mind.
It was hovering in front of her – so close she felt she could reach out and touch it.
Who was he?
A sickening, cloying feeling overtook her. She felt as if she really did know the man – as if he was a figure from her past and not just a figment of her imagination, a product of her dreams.
And if that were true – that she really did know the man – then perhaps there had been a good reason she had been riding the horse that day along the cliffs, with only a few clothes stuffed into a bag, along with an apple.
Her heart lurched with sudden fear.
Was he real? And why was he so angry with me?
She rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers, slowly massaging them, trying to formulate the man’s face in her mind again, to conjure him from the depths of her mind. But all she could see was his figure from her dream.
If the man were a part of her life – if she did actually know him, and what had occurred in the dream had actually happened – then her mind didn’t want to reveal it to her yet.
She slipped out of the bed, padding to the window, the long white nightgown she was wearing swishing around her bare legs.
Her teeth started to chatter a little – it was cold at this time of night, whatever the time was. The dead of night, probably. Her mind still felt foggy with sleep and the dream, so real that it was as if it were real life, and her waking life was the dream.
She reached the window, pulling back the thick curtain, gazing out.
The sky was inky black, and the moon was full and high in the distance, a creamy, pearlescent dream of a moon casting light over the gardens and the hills beyond. Suddenly, she was beset with the urge to feel the cold air on her face.
She undid the latch, pulling up the window and gasping. The air was cold and bracing, hitting her like a frigid slap to the face.
She gulped, feeling her hair lifting, streaming behind her. She leaned out the window, closing her eyes and relishing the feel of it. It felt like she was swimming – as if she had just dived into cool water.
Who was that man? And why was he so angry with me? Why can’t I remember? Why is my mind refusing to tell me? What is my mind hiding from me?
A wave of frustration swept over her. It had been over three weeks since the accident. Dr Watson had told her she had an excellent chance of fully recovering her memory, and yet the basic details of her life, even her real name, still eluded her.
A feeling of dread entered her heart. Perhaps she was never going to recover her memory and her life. Perhaps she was going to be stuck in this dreadful limbo forever. And if that were the case, then what was she going to do? Where was she going to go? She couldn’t stay here as a house guest of the Duke of Newquay forever.
