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“I will.”

A blur of motion from the periphery of her vision startled Artemisia into peering down the road.

“What on earth is that?” Margaret breathed, following her.

“I believe that is a rider.” Artemisia gasped when the horse bucked, a wild kick to try and unseat the man clinging to its back.

“He’s coming too fast up the road.” She covered her mouth with one hand. “The horse has bolted. Someone try to catch him!” Margaret’s husband darted off, doing the most unhelpful thing imaginable and waving his arms while running straight toward the frightened beast. Too quickly—so fast Artemisia could hardly comprehend what she was seeing—the horse dodged the oncoming man, kicked viciously, and unseated the rider. He went flying comically into the air, his hair a crown, his eyes wide and startled. He landed with a sickening roll into the gutter.

“Henry!” Artemisia screamed, and ran to his prone body.

9

HENRY

He had died and gone to heaven. One minute he’d been airborne. The next, he fell to earth with the sickening force of Icarus. He didn’t mind being deceased—at least he had found her again.

Who? Henry racked his aching brain for the woman’s name. She was sobbing and patting his cheeks. Wet warmth trickled down his temple. Blood. Overhead, a puffy cloud drifted by.

“Artie?” he croaked.

“Don’t move. Your neck might be broken.”

He tried wiggling his toes. They worked. So did his fingers. Apart from a headache—another concussion, probably; the pain felt familiar—he was intact. He grabbed the widow and pulled her down.

“What are you—mmf.” After a beat of resistance, she kissed him back. “What are you doing here, Henry?”

“I came to find you.” He winced. “They did warn me the horse wasn’t fully broken, but I was in such a rush I didn’t care.”

“Now look at you,” she said with exasperated fondness. “A mess, all over again.”

“At least this time, I’m not naked.” He grinned. A reluctant chuckle shook her shoulders.

“You’re incorrigible,” she scolded. “You could have written me a letter, you know.”

“It’s complicated,” he said. “This will take a while to explain.”

Two servants helped him into the house, where he was put to bed with a cold cloth. Mr. Gibbs sent for a physician. There was no explaining anything until he had been cleared by the doctor. All afternoon, while he was supposed to be resting, memories came flooding back.

By the time they allowed him to join the family for dinner, he finally had his preposterous story straight. He eschewed the wine and tried to explain himself to his hosts.

“I met your cousin, Mrs. Longwood, when she found me naked by the side of the road.”

“Naked?” Mr. Gibbs sputtered.

“You didn’t tell us that part,” Margaret said sternly to Artemisia.

“It didn’t seem relevant.” Her cheeks burned bright-red. “What? I could hardly leave him lying there in the ditch.”

“In point of fact I was lying on a slight grade in the bushes. ’Twas the sight of my posterior that your cousin found so arresting.” He grinned. Artie kicked him beneath the table. “But we didn’t know who I was. I had lost my memory. I had no clothes and no known identity. No one locally recognized me. As I later discovered, I am Lord Hendrik Hancock, the duke of Voss, and until six weeks ago, I was a hunted man.”

“Do go on,” Margaret insisted. Even Artemisia looked intrigued. He had better make this story good. He had one chance to convince her to be his wife. If she said no…

He couldn’t bear to contemplate that outcome.

“I ran away from my own wedding,” he blurted out.

“Naked?” Artemisia blurted out. Her cheeks turned crimson.