Page 67 of His Duchess to Remember

It was Malcolm’s hope that Simon would become something in-between: a gentle man, but a strong one too. There was every chance he would be, considering he did not have a father so relentlessly cruel.

“I’m teaching him about butterflies,” Malcolm said. “He’s having trouble understanding how a caterpillar becomes a chrysalis becomes a butterfly, but we’re getting there.”

Simon, oblivious, stared at the caterpillar that was, at present, wiggling down his forearm. Transfixed by the creature.

“I have always thought it to be pure magic,” Octavia said with a dreamy smile. “Too much understanding can ruin things, sometimes.”

Malcolm laughed gruffly. “I would warn ye never to say that to a naturalist or a botanist or any manner of scientist.”

“Then, it is lucky I have no cause to meet such people,” Octavia replied, her smile hurting his heart. “Do not mistake me, I find the way the world works fascinating, but I do like to keep some of the mystery and magic.”

He knew he should have left for Scotland a week ago. He should have told her about his condition and gone, before he could spend too much time with her and their son. He should have put an end to the pretense the moment it began to veer into risky territory. He had told himself every morning that today would be the day that he revealed his restored memories and made his excuses to depart, but every night he went to bed with the secret still unspoken.

Would it be so terrible to stay?

The question circled around in his head almost constantly, the answer changing with each rotation. He was not his father, he knew that, but he might yet become him. Or what if his presence led Simon to become a man of cruelty? Worse yet, what if he truly began to care too much, and that care caused him to lose them?

“Was there something ye wanted?” he asked, perhaps a little coldly.

Octavia’s eyes narrowed for a moment. “I… received a letter from Evelyn. She has invited us to have dinner tomorrow.” She paused, lowering her gaze. “I thought it might be good for us to attend. You have not seen my brother in a long time, and I know he is keen to meet you again.”

I shouldn’t.

“Will there be others there?” he said.

“I do not think so.”

Would it make ye happy if I attended?

He nodded slowly. “And ye don’t want to dine with them on yer own?”

“As I say, I think it would be… pleasant for you to be there, to see my brother,” she murmured. “But if you do not want to, I shall not press the matter. I am aware that you are still not entirely comfortable with dinner parties.”

He knew she meant because he was supposed to have forgotten all of the etiquette he had been forced to learn by Anthony, but the same thing was true of him now. He could not stand dinner parties. Then again, if it was only going to be a party of four, he supposed he could bear it for an evening.

Put on a performance for her brother, then what?

He was aware he should probably refuse and stop delaying the truth, but instead, he offered her a smile and said, “Aye, why nae? I don’t mind dining with yer brother.”

He could not remember much of the man, but maybe he could take Hugo to one side and explain everything. Tell him to take care of Octavia in his absence, the way that he could not.

“Truly?” Octavia brightened, her head rising up, her eyes wide with joy.

Malcolm shrugged. “I have to eat; might as well be someone else’s effort.” He paused. “Shall I bring some rabbits?”

“Malcolm, no!” She covered her mouth with her hand, a laugh slipping through her fingers. “Goodness, I doubt I shall ever civilize you.”

“At my ripe old age of three-and-thirty, I can’t be learning new things,” he replied with a sad smile. “I’m sorry, but it’s true.”

I’m sorry I can’t be who ye deserve.

He wished he could be the memory-less version of himself that had not yet suffered too much, and had even prayed for it some nights, for his memories to be removed again. But there was no undoing it. After almost a fortnight, even the doctor had declared that the recovery was probably permanent.

“What a relief it must be!” Stanforth had said, rather proudly, as if he was the one who had put the memories back himself.

“Aye, a relief,” Malcolm had lied, for who would not choose to forget all of the worst things that had happened to them, if given the chance?

Octavia chuckled. “Ah, but the gardener is always saying that his dogs cannot be taught anything new, and then they go and learn a new trick anyway.”