Page 51 of His Duchess to Remember

Although, she could not tell if she was more desperate to know if he had somewhere safe to go to, or if she was more determined to find out where he might be, so she could go and confront him herself.

You will not leave us without a word. You will not abandon us without having the courtesy to say goodbye.

“He has a friend,” Mr. Lincoln replied. “The Duke of Knotgill. He might go there, although I can’t say for sure if the duke is in the city or at his estate.”

Octavia furrowed her brow, staring at the butler as if he had been keeping a terrible secret from her. “He is friends with the Duke of Knotgill? How did I not know about this?”

She knew of the man vaguely and did not care for the little she knew. Anthony Drew had a reputation for being something of a scoundrel, who reveled in chasing ladies, hunting game, gambling wildly, and draining public houses and gentlemen’s clubs of their liquor. Not at all the sort of person she would have thought might have any association with her husband.

Indeed, she reviled that sort of beast, who masqueraded as a gentleman.

“Fetch my carriage,” she said crisply, for if she was to have any rest tonight, she needed to speak to Malcolm.

She needed to see for herself if he had changed, or if this really was a simple matter of him trying to get some medicinal relief from the doctor. After all, Malcolm was a warrior, hardened and forged in the fires of battle: he might not tell her if he was in unbearable agony, for a soldier like him would never wish to appear weakened.

Mr. Lincoln hesitated, his hands coming up in a gesture of defense. “Your Grace, it is getting late.” He pointed a finger toward the clock. “It would be ten o’clock at least by the time you arrived, and if he is not at the Duke of Knotgill’s residence, then… I wouldn’t want you roaming around London alone, Your Grace. Wait until the morning. See if he doesn’t return by himself, most likely with the doctor in tow.”

Were it not for Simon, sleeping peacefully upstairs, Octavia might have insisted on leaving at once. But she did not want her son waking up to discover that neither of his parents were at home where they ought to be.

“Very well,” she muttered, her nerves in tatters. “I will wait until morning, but if he is not back by then, I shall be going to London.”

The butler exhaled slowly. “And I shall offer to accompany you, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.” Octavia gave a small nod of appreciation to Mr. Lincoln. “Might I have some tea? Something calming?”

The butler nodded. “Of course, Your Grace.”

He departed with a bow, leaving her quite alone in the drawing room, entirely at a loss with what to do with herself. It would be one of the longest nights of her life; she was certain of that.

“Do you remember the boy’s name?” Doctor Stanforth asked, his eyes a little bleary, his demeanor more disheveled than Malcolm had grown accustomed to.

Although that was probably to be expected, considering Malcolm and Anthony had located the good doctor at a public house a short distance from the Royal College of Surgeons before bringing him back to Anthony’s townhouse. The man had been with fellow physicians, no doubt regaling them with the mad tale of a duke with amnesia.

Malcolm nodded. “Quinn Hunter. His father worked for me until I had to dismiss him for theft and inebriation. His brothers are Trevor and Robert.”

“You remember inheriting Highcastle?”

“I do.”

“Being at war?”

“All of it,” Malcolm replied coldly.

“You remember your wedding?” A curious look sharpened the doctor’s gaze.

How could I forget it?

Octavia had looked extraordinarily beautiful, even then, but like a statue: so cold and detached. She had not been afraid of him, not then, but had walked toward him in that church with staunch determination. He had held her hand for just a second before letting it go, the ceremony passing with all the joy and excitement of a funeral.

It was only when they returned to Highcastle and their delayed wedding night approached that she had shown her nerves for the first time. But he had calmed her, soothed her, and they had done their duty. Yet, it had been more than that, more than just a perfunctory act that needed to be gotten out of the way.

By the end, she had almost welcomed him into her bedchamber, and when he had kissed her, held her, she had not felt like a stranger. If he thought about it now, he could still remember the tender, searching graze of her mouth on his, and how quickly she had learned, how much she had seemed to enjoy it. How close they became on those honeymoon nights, entangled as if they had no intention of parting and living separate lives.

That is why I left after a week…

He had forgotten that, too.

He had not wanted her to get too attached, nor himself.