Page 62 of His Duchess to Remember

His voice was tight, and his gaze swiftly flitted away.

“Has my husband spoken to you about his condition since your return to Huntfield?” she asked, relieved to finally have his attention.

The doctor pursed his lips. “Uh… no, not particularly. We have briefly discussed how he is feeling, and all seems to be well.”

“Does he not seem… different to you?” she urged, if only to convince herself that she was being silly.

“Not really, Your Grace. He is… um… Well, he is quite himself, or so it appears to me.” Stanforth clawed a hand through his hair, clearly eager to be out of the room and out of the conversation.

But why? Do you know something that I do not? Has my husband taken a turn for the worse?

She had been considering the possibilities over the past couple of days, in an attempt to figure out where the smiles, the laughter, and the easy demeanor had gone. This was the most horrifying possibility of them all, that Malcolm’s injury was degenerative, causing him to forget more.

“You would tell me if his condition had worsened, would you not?” she pressed.

At that, the doctor looked at her properly, no longer shying away. “Certainly I would, Your Grace. I promise you, his condition hasn’t worsened. He’s not going to forget more or become incapacitated.” He sighed. “As I have mentioned, amnesia is so uncommon and presents in such a multitude of ways that it has barely been studied. That being said, I am certain that His Grace will not deteriorate. In my medical opinion, he is on the path to recovery.”

Recovery? A faint shudder ran through her. Does that mean… remembering everything?

It was not that she wanted her husband to exist with a ten-year hole in his memories, but she did not know the Malcolm she married. He was a stranger to her. The Malcolm who had ridden to Huntfield and thrown his arms around her was the one she cared for, the one she knew a little better; the one she wished to know more closely, and who had become a true father to Simon.

“That is good,” she said, hoping the doctor could not hear the reluctance in her voice.

Just then, another thought came to her.

“Did you happen to see my husband while you were in London?” she asked, as innocently as she could.

A flicker of unease passed across the doctor’s face. “Briefly, yes.”

“Did he summon you to the townhouse?”

Stanforth’s throat bobbed. “To a townhouse.”

“He told me that he went to find you,” she said. “Why would he have done that if there was nothing amiss with his condition? Surely, he went to you to seek treatment? Otherwise, he would have waited until you came back.”

“He had suffered a… um… difficulty with his head,” the doctor replied. “I suppose he feared that things had worsened, but I was able to reassure him.”

Octavia’s frown deepened, for a ‘difficulty with his head’ seemed like a peculiar way to describe a headache. Then again, maybe he was trying not to worry her.

“Where exactly did you meet with him, and please do not lie to me,” she said with surprising authority. She was a duchess, after all, though she often forgot.

The doctor grimaced. “At the residence of the Duke of Knotgill. I believe they are friends. Together, they came to find me, for I was… otherwise occupied with some acquaintances of mine from the Royal College. All three of us went back to the Duke of Knotgill’s townhouse, where, as I say, I checked your husband and reassured him.” He paused uncertainly. “He was supposed to rest there, but he was gone before I woke at dawn.”

Octavia bristled at the mention of that name, the Duke of Knotgill. She still could not believe that such a rogue was acquainted with her husband, much less that Malcolm would truly be friends with him.

But he rode back to me once again.

The thought softened her worries and doubts, however temporarily. Wherever Malcolm was, it appeared he had a constant compulsion to return to her, even if it meant riding through the night.

“And you really do not think he seems different?” she asked, just one more time.

Stanforth hugged his medicine bag to his chest. “As I said, I think he seems entirely himself.”

With a sigh, Octavia nodded. Clearly, she was being paranoid, imagining problems that were not there. It was more than likely that Malcolm was just concerned still, his worries about Simon making him quieter and less cheerful. Indeed, Octavia could not say that she had been the most lighthearted version of herself either, so why was she expecting it of her husband?

“Thank you,” she said to the doctor.

He bowed his head. “It was my pleasure. I’ll come back in another couple of hours.” He stepped forward, then turned. “You should get some rest, Your Grace. And eat something. Your son will want you to be in good spirits and good health when he wakes up. I see it all too often, the mother—and, indeed, sometimes the father—making themselves sick while their child is unwell.”