The Truth About Lady Felkirk

‘He is waking! Someone get his Grace and her Ladyship immediately.’

He opened his eyes at last and tried to sit up, but the room was still a blur and his back did not want to support him.

Who the devil was her Ladyship?

Something smelled wonderful. No. It was someone. Roses and cinnamon, close at his side. Muslin leaning against his bare arm and warm, silky skin touching his shoulder, then smoothing the hair on his brow. His senses were returning to him in a series of pleasant surprises.

‘Is someone going to explain to me what has happened, or will you leave me to guess? Did I take ill in the night?’

‘We heard nothing from you for months. When Justine brought you home you were in no state to say anything. There had been an accident.’

‘Who is this Justine?’

‘It seems there is much you have lost, and much that must be explained to you. But first and foremost you must know this. The woman before you now is Lady Felkirk.’

He paused again.

‘William, may I introduce to you your wife, Justine?’

AUTHOR NOTE

My first career, long before I settled into life as a writer, was in theatrical costuming. During the theatre season I spent eight hours a day, six days a week, sewing for others. In my spare time I sewed for myself. Over the years I have tried the majority of fibre arts. I taught myself to knit in high school. It took me two or three tries to learn tatting. It took fifty years and the advent of internet instructional videos for me to learn to crochet.

The one thing I've never tried, and never will, is bobbin lace. I have watched it being done and I know I am far too impatient to manage even a simple project. And, considering the mess my newest cat has made of the knitting basket, I can only imagine what he would do if given a pillow trailing a lot of threads, with bobbins just waiting to be batted.

How fortunate that I have Justine to work through any of my subconscious lace-making urges.

Happy reading.

The Truth About Lady Felkirk

Christine Merrill

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Jim: after thirty years, you must be near to sainthood.

CHRISTINE MERRILL lives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail. She has worked by turns in theatre costuming, where she was paid to play with period ballgowns, and as a librarian, where she spent the day surrounded by books. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Author Note

Title Page

Dedication

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Copyright

Chapter One

Everything hurt.

William Felkirk did not bother to open his eyes, but lay still and examined the thought. It was an exaggeration. Everything ached. Only his head truly hurt. A slow, thumping throb came from the back of it, punctuating each new idea.

He swallowed with effort. There was no saliva to soothe the process. How much had he been drinking, to get to this state? He could not seem to remember. The party at Adam’s house, which had been a celebration of his nephew’s christening, was far too sedate for him to have ended like this. But he could not recall having gone anywhere after. And since he was in Wales, where would he have gone?

His eyelids were still too heavy to open, but he did not need vision to find the crystal carafe by the bedside. A drink of water would help. His arm flailed bonelessly, numb fingers unable to close on the glass.

There was a gasp on the other side of the room and the shatter of porcelain as an ornament was dropped and broken. Clumsy maids. The girl had been cleaning around him, as though he was a piece of furniture. Was it really necessary to shout ‘He is waking!’ so that anyone in the hall could hear?

Then there were hurried footsteps to the door and a voice called for someone to get his Grace and her ladyship immediately.

He opened his eyes at last and tried to sit up, but the room was still a blur and his back did not want to support him. He stared at the ceiling and what little he could see of the bedposts. It was still his brother’s house. But Penelope had never been a ladyship, even before marrying Adam. Even now, she laughed about not feeling graceful enough to be her Grace, the Duchess of Bellston. Though she was just out of childbed, she was not so frail as to cede her duties as hostess to another. Who the devil was her ladyship?

He must have misheard. But the rueful shake of his head made the pain worse, as did the thundering of steps on the stairs and in the hall. Could not a man bear the shame of a hangover in privacy? He tried to sit up again, and as he did, he felt an arm at his back and hands lifting him, like a child, to settle him against the pillows.

‘There’s a good fellow.’ Adam was treating him like an invalid. It must be even worse than he thought. ‘A drink of water, perhaps?’ But instead of the cup he expected, there was a damp rag pressed to his lips.

Will spat and turned his head away. ‘...Hell?’ He must be parched for he could not seem to speak properly. But it had been enough to make his displeasure known.

‘You want a glass?’ Adam seemed to find this extraordinary. ‘Where is Justine? Find her, quickly.’

The rim of the cup met his lips. He reached for it, felt his arm flop, then tremble, and then the hand of his older brother was there to steady it so he could drink.

Crystal goblet. Crystal water. Cool and sweet, trickling, then coursing down his throat, which still felt as though it was full of cobwebs. Some of the pounding in his skull subsided. He paused. ‘Better.’ His voice croaked, but it was clearer.

There was another feminine gasp from the doorway.

‘He is waking,’ Adam said, softly, urgently. ‘Come to his side.’

‘I dare not.’ It was a woman’s voice: a melodious alto, with the faintest hint of an accent to it.

‘After so long, you must be the first thing he sees.’ He could feel Adam rise, and, as he watched, another hand came to guide the water glass.

Something smelled wonderful. No. It was someone. Roses, and cinnamon, close at his side. Muslin leaning against his bare arm and warm silky skin touching his shoulder, then smoothing the hair on his brow. His senses were returning to him, in a series of pleasant surprises.

When his vision could focus past the fingers on the cup, he saw a perfect, heart-shaped face, looking worriedly into his. It was the sort of face that made him wish he could paint, or at least draw, so that he might carry a copy of it with him for ever. Her eyes were the strange green gold of coins at the bottom of a fountain and he could not seem to stop staring at them. They were sad eyes and fearful. For a moment, he thought he saw the beginnings of a tear in one. Her pink lips trembled. Her hair was a mix of sunset golds and reds, partially obscured under a plain muslin cap. The curls swayed gently, as though their owner was eased away from him.

‘Do not be afraid,’ he said. Why was she here? And why was she so hesitant? He was not sure of much, least of all who this might be. But he was quite sure he did not want her to be in fear of him. Adam had been right. To wake to this was a gift, especially when one had such a damnable headache.

‘After all that has happened, he is concerned for you?’ Adam gave a short, satisfied laugh. ‘You have not changed at all, then, Will. We had so feared...’ His brother’s voice cracked with emotion.

‘Is it true?’ Adam’s wife, Penny, was here now, somewhere by the door. She was out of breath, as if she had rushed to the room.

Adam hissed at her to be silent.

‘The more, the merrier,’ Will muttered, still without the energy to turn away yet another visitor to his bedside. But when he turned his face to the duchess, something was wrong. Very wrong, in fact. She appeared to be pregnant. That could not be right. Just yesterday, he’d thought her rather thin. He’d enquired after her health and had listened to his brother’s complaints that the recent birth had taken too much from her. Today, she stood in the doorway of his bedroom, plump and healthy.

Will frowned. If it was a joke, it was both elaborate and pointless. The whole family was watching him, as though waiting for something. He had no idea what they expected. His head was swimming again. He went to rub his temple, but it took all his strength to lift his own arm.

The woman at his side grasped the hand and brought it down again, rubbing some feeling back into the fingers, flexing joints and massaging muscles. Then she laid it carefully on the counterpane and brought her own fingers up to stroke his forehead. Damn, but it felt good. If he were not still so tired, he’d have sent the family away, to test the extent of her familiarity with his body. Though she had hesitated at first, she did not seem the least bit shy now.

He relaxed back into the pillows that had been leaned against the headboard and sighed. Then, slowly, carefully, he flexed the fingers of each hand. It was difficult, as was moving his toes. But when next he raised his hand, he was able to gesture for the water without embarrassing himself. His beautiful nurse brought the glass to his lips again.

He licked a drop off his dry lips and swallowed again. ‘Is someone going to explain to me what has happened, or will you leave me to guess? Did I take ill in the night?’

‘Explain?’ Adam, again, speaking for the group. ‘What do you remember of the last months, Will?’

‘The Season, of course,’ he answered, wishing he could give a dismissive wave. ‘That blonde chit you were forcing on me. Why you think you can choose my wife, when I had no say in yours, I have no idea. And coming up to Wales with you for the christening. What did you put in the punch to get me into such a state? Straight gin?’

He meant to joke. But the faces around him were shocked to silence. Adam cleared his throat. ‘The christening was six months ago.’

‘Certainly not.’ He could remember it, as clearly as he could remember anything. It seemed distant, of course. But he had just woken up. When his head cleared...

‘Six months,’ Adam repeated. ‘After the party you left and would not tell us where you were going. You said you would be returning with a surprise.’

‘And what was it?’ Will asked. If he was here now, he must have returned, with a story that would explain his current condition.

‘We heard nothing from you, for months. When Justine brought you home, you were in no state to say anything. There had been an accident. She thought it best that you be with your family, when...’ Adam’s voice broke again and he looked away.

‘Who is this Justine?’ Will said, looking around. But judging by the shocked expression on the face of the woman holding his hand, the question answered itself.

‘You really don’t remember?’ she said. And he did not. Although how he could have forgotten a face or a voice like that, he was not sure.

‘I remember the christening,’ he repeated. ‘But I have no recollection of you at all.’

The gold eyes in front of him were open wide now, incredulous.

Adam cleared his throat again, the little noise he tended to make when he was about to be diplomatic. ‘It seems there is much you have lost and much that must be explained to you. But first and foremost, you must know this. The woman before you now is Lady Felkirk.’ He paused again. ‘William, may I introduce to you your wife, Justine.’

‘I have no wife.’ He’d had more than enough of this foolishness and swung his feet out of the bed to stand and walk away.

Or at least he tried. Instead, he flopped on the mattress like a beached fish, spilling the water and sliding halfway out of bed before his brother could steady him, and muscle him back to the centre.

‘It is all right. As long as you are getting better, it does not matter.’ There was the voice of the ministering angel again, his supposed wife. What had they called her? Justine?

The name, though it was as beautiful as its owner, held no resonance.

Adam leaned over the bed again, smiling, although the grin was somewhat stained. ‘Justine brought you home some two months ago, and you have lain insensible since then. I feared you would never...’ There was another pause, followed by a deep sigh. Perhaps fatherhood had made Adam soft, for Will could not recall ever hearing him sound near to tears. ‘The doctors did not give us much hope. To find you awake and almost yourself again...’

So he’d cracked his skull. He did not remember it, but it certainly explained the throbbing in his head. ‘What happened?’

‘A fall from a horse.’

That seemed possible. He sometimes overreached himself, when in the saddle. But his old friend, Jupiter, was the most steady of beasts, as long as he held the reins. And a wife... He stared pointedly at the woman leaning over him, waiting for her to add some explanation.

‘We were on our honeymoon,’ the woman said, gently, as though trying to prod the memory from him. ‘We met in Bath, at the beginning of summer.’

Still, nothing. What had he been doing in Bath? He abhorred the place, with its foul-tasting water and the meddling mamas of girls who could not make a proper match in London.

‘I am sure marriage must have been in your plans when you left us,’ Penny said, encouraging him. ‘You did promise us a surprise. But really, we had no idea how welcome it would be. When Justine returned with you...’ She gave an emotional pause again, just as his brother had done. ‘She has been so good to you. To all of us, really. She never lost hope.’ Under the guise of wiping her fogged spectacles, Penny withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

Only the woman, Justine, seemed to take it all calmly, as though a husband returning from death’s door with no memory of her was a thing that happened to everyone. When she spoke, her voice was unbroken and matter-of-fact. ‘You will be all right now. Everything is better than we could have hoped.’

‘As if being concussed and losing half a year of one’s life is a thing to be celebrated.’ He glared at her. Perhaps this lovely stranger had done nothing to deserve his anger. Or perhaps she had got him drunk and knocked him on the head so she could pretend to be his wife.

But that made no sense. He lacked the money and title necessary to be the target of such intriguing. If she meant him ill, why did she bring him home, afterwards? Why bother to nurse him back to health?

The mysterious Justine ignored his dark look and smiled down at him. ‘It is to be celebrated. The physician said you would never wake, yet, you did. Now that you can eat properly, you will grow stronger.’ But did he see a fleeting shadow in her eyes, as though his recovery was something less than a blessing?

Perhaps she was as confused as he, after all. Or perhaps he had hurt her. He had taken the trouble to marry her, only to forget her entirely. Now, he was snapping at her, blaming her for his sore head. Had he treated her thus, before the accident? Perhaps the marriage had been a mistake. If so, he could hardly blame her for a passing desire that his prolonged illness would end with her freedom.

When he looked again, her face was as cloudless as a summer day. The doubt had been an illusion, caused by his own paranoia. When he was stronger and had a chance to question her, things would be clearer. For now, he must rein in his wild thoughts and wait. He shook his head and immediately regretted it, as the pain, which had been ebbing, came rushing back.

She leaned closer, reaching across him for a cool cloth that lay beside the bed, pressing it against his forehead.

How did she know it would soothe him? It did not matter. If she guessed, she guessed correctly. He took her hand and squeezed it in what he hoped she would know as gratitude. But though the pain was lessening, his doubts were not. There was nothing the least bit familiar about the shape of the hand he held. Surely, if he had married her, the joining should not feel so entirely alien. As soon as he could do so without appearing awkward, he withdrew his hand.

She made sure the compress was secure and withdrew her own hands, folding them neatly in her lap as though equally relieved to be free of him.

While the two of them were clearly uncomfortable with each other, the rest of the room was ecstatic. ‘Whenever you are ready, we will bring you downstairs,’ Penny said. ‘Perhaps we can procure a Bath chair so that you might take sun in the garden.’

‘Nonsense.’ The compress slipped as he tried to struggle to his feet again. This time he made slightly more progress. He was able to swing both legs over the edge of the bed and sit up. Almost immediately, the dizziness took him and he felt himself sliding to the side.

Once again, Adam rushed in, taking his arm and holding him upright. ‘Easy. Do not try too much at once. There will be no Bath chair, if you do not wish it. You may go at your own pace. I am sure you will be walking well on your own in no time at all.’

‘But you do not need to do it now,’ Penny insisted. ‘Rest is still important. And quiet. For now, we will leave the two of you alone.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’ He and the woman spoke simultaneously.

‘You need your rest,’ Justine said, laying a hand gently on his chest to try to ease him back down to the mattress. ‘There will be time later for us to speak.’

‘I have had more than enough rest,’ he said. ‘If you are all to be believed, I have been asleep for months.’ She was probably right. His head ached from even this small bit of activity. He needed time to think. But before that, he needed answers. Despite the innocent look on the beautiful face in front of him, Justine knew more than she had said.

‘Leave, all of you. Please,’ he added after noticing the shocked looks on their faces at his short temper. ‘But send for my valet. After all this time in bed, I want to wash and dress. Until he arrives, I will talk to my wife.’

‘Of course,’ his brother said, with a relieved smile. ‘If you are well enough, you can come down to dinner, or we will have a tray sent up. Either way,’ he stepped forward again and clasped Will’s hand in a firm grip, ‘it is good to see you recovering. Come, Penny, I am sure they have much to discuss that does not concern us.’

Once they were gone and the door shut behind him, he was alone in a room with a woman who claimed to be his wife. He suppressed a rush of panic. He was still too weak to defend himself, should she not be as kind as she appeared. But why could he imagine such a sweet-faced thing as a danger to him? If she’d meant him harm, she’d have had ample opportunity before now.

Still, should not a new bride be happier to see her husband recovering? If she loved him, why was she standing at the side of his bed, mute like a criminal in the dock? There was something wrong about her. It was one of many things he could not place.

She seemed to realise this as well, for she attempted a hesitant smile and slipped easily back into the role of caregiver. ‘Is there something I can get for you? Anything that might give you comfort?’

‘What a good little nurse you are, to be so solicitous.’ he said, not feeling particularly grateful for it. ‘At the moment, there is nothing I need, other than an end to this charade.’

‘There is no charade,’ she said, looking more puzzled than frightened. ‘We are not trying to trick you. You were injured and have been unconscious for several months. Come to the window and you shall see. The christening was at Easter time. It is no longer spring, or even summer. The leaves are falling and the night air is chill.’

‘I do not need for you to tell me the weather,’ he grumbled, glancing at the grey sky beyond the glass. ‘I can see that for myself. And I know I was injured, for I still feel the pain of it.’ He ran a careful hand through his hair, surprised at the crease in the scalp. ‘But that does not explain the rest.’

‘What else is there?’ she said, though she must know full well what he meant.

‘It does not explain you. Who are you, really? And who are you to me?’ He looked full into the wide green eyes. ‘For I would swear before God that you are not my wife.’

‘William,’ she said, in a convincingly injured tone.

‘That is my name. And what is yours?’

‘Justine, of course.’

‘And before you married me?’ he said, unable to help sneering at such an unlikely prospect.

‘My surname? It was de Bryun.’ She paused as though waiting for the bit of information to jar loose some memory. But nothing came.

‘So you say,’ he replied. ‘I suppose next you will tell me you are an orphan.’

‘Yes,’ she said, unable to keep the hurt from her voice.

In a day, he might regret being so cavalier about her misery. At the moment, he had problems of his own. ‘So you have no one to verify your identity.’

‘I have a sister,’ she added. ‘But she was not present at the time of our wedding, nor was your family.’

‘I married without my family’s knowledge?’ Penny had hinted at as much. But it still made no sense. ‘So neither of us considered the feelings of others in this. We just suddenly...’ with effort, he managed to snap his fingers ‘...decided to wed.’

‘We discussed it beforehand,’ she assured him. ‘You said there would be time after. You said your brother had done something much the same to you.’

As he had. That marriage had been as sudden as this one. And Adam had admitted that he could not remember his wedding either. But while circumstances were similar, he had more sense than Adam and would never have behaved in that way. ‘You could have learned the details of Adam’s wedding anywhere,’ he said.

She sighed, as though she were in a classroom, being forced to recite. ‘But I did not learn it anywhere. I learned it from you. You told me that your father’s name was John, your mother’s name was Mary. They were Duke and Duchess of Bellston, of course. You had one sister, who died at birth. And you told me all about your brother. It was why I brought you here. Why would I have done that, if not for love of you?’

This was a puzzle. He rubbed his temple, for though he was sure there was a logical explanation for it, searching for it made his head ache. ‘You could have got any of that from a peerage book.’

‘Or you could have told me,’ she said, patiently. ‘And it is not so unusual that I have no parents. You have none either.’

That was perfectly true. So why did it seem somehow significant that she had none? He shook his head, half-expecting it to rattle as he did so, for he still felt like a broken china doll. ‘I suspect I can quiz you for hours and you will have an answer for everything. But there is one question I doubt you will answer to my satisfaction. What would have motivated me to take a wife?’