The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband

“No,” he said. “I would rather be here with you.”

Again, she stilled. He didn’t need to see her to know it.

“The hospital was unbearable,” he said. “Some of the men . . .” He didn’t know how much to tell her, how much she already knew. Had she spent the night by his side while he was unconscious? Did she know what it meant to try to sleep while across the room, a man moaned in agony, crying out for his mother?

“I agree with you,” she said, nudging him to scoot into a more upright position. “This is a much more pleasant place to recuperate. But the doctor is at the hospital.”

“Do you think so?” he said with a hint of a smile. “I’d wager he’s downstairs having a pint. Or maybe over at the Fraunces. Better ale there, I think.”

“Speaking of drinks,” Cecilia said, her voice a delightful blend of no-nonsense and good humor, “here is your laudanum.”

“Considerably more potent than a pint,” Edward said, opening his eyes. It wasn’t so bright any longer; Cecilia had pulled the curtains shut.

She held the cup to his lips, but he gave her a little shake and said, “I can do it myself.”

“It’s a very small dose,” she promised.

“The doctor gave you instructions?”

“Yes, and I have some experience with the medicine. My father sometimes had megrims.”

“I did not realize,” he murmured.

“They were not frequent.”

He drank the drug, wincing at the bitter taste of it.

“It’s foul, I know,” she said, but she did not sound especially sympathetic.

“You’d think the alcohol would make it tolerable.”

She smiled a little at that. “I think the only thing that makes it tolerable is the promise of relief.”

He rubbed his temple. “It hurts, Cecilia.”

“I know.”

“I just want to feel like myself again.”

Her lips quivered. “We all want that.”

He yawned, even though logically it was still too soon for the opiate to have taken effect. “You still need to tell me,” he said, sliding back down under the covers.

“Tell you what?”

“Hmmm”—he made a funny little high-pitched noise as he thought about that—“everything.”

“Everything, eh? That might be a touch ambitious.”

“We have time.”

“We do?” Now she sounded amused.

He nodded, and he realized that the drug must have taken hold because he had the oddest feeling—he was too tired to yawn. But he was still able to get a few words out.

“We’re married,” he said. “We have the rest of our lives.”

Chapter 8

Edward Rokesby looks like a man, that’s what he looks like. Really, Cecilia, you should know better than to ask me to describe another man. His hair is brown. What more can I say?

Furthermore, if you must know, I show your miniature to everyone. I know I am not as frequently sentimental as you might like, but I do love you, dear sister, and I am proud to call you mine. Also, you are a far more prolific letter writer than any other of the men here enjoy, and I do enjoy basking in their jealousy.

Edward, in particular, suffers from the green-eyed monster whenever the mail is brought forth. He has three brothers and one sister, and in terms of correspondence, you outdo all of them put together.

—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia

Three hours later, Cecilia was still haunted by his words.

We’re married.

We have the rest of our lives.

Sitting at the small table tucked into the corner of their room at the Devil’s Head Inn, she let her forehead drop into her hands. She had to tell him the truth. She had to tell him everything.

But how?

And more to the immediate point, when?

She’d told herself that she had to wait until after their meeting with Major Wilkins. Well, that had happened, but now Edward seemed to have taken a turn for the worse. She could not upset him now. He still needed her.

Oh, stop lying to yourself, she almost said aloud. He didn’t need her. She might be making his recovery more pleasant, and maybe even more speedy, but if she were to suddenly disappear from his life, he would be just fine.

He’d needed her while he was unconscious. Now that he was awake she was not nearly so essential.

She looked over at him, sleeping peacefully in the bed. His dark hair had fallen forward over his brow. He needed a trim, but she found she liked it messy and untamed. It gave him a slightly rakish air, which was delightfully at odds with his upright character. His unruly locks reminded her that this honorable man still had a wicked and wry sense of humor, that he too could fall prey to frustration and anger.

He was not perfect.

He was real.

And somehow this made her feel even worse.

I will make this up to you, she vowed.

She would earn his forgiveness.

But it was becoming more and more difficult to imagine how that might be possible. Edward’s ironclad sense of honor—the very thing that had convinced her that she could not reveal her lie before they met with Major Wilkins—meant that she was caught in a new dilemma.

In his eyes, he had compromised her.

They might not be sharing a bed, but they were sharing a bedroom. Once Edward learned that she was not actually his wife, he would insist upon marrying her. He was above all a gentleman, and his gentleman’s honor would never allow him to do otherwise.

And while Cecilia could not stop herself from dreaming—just a little bit—about a life as Mrs. Edward Rokesby, how could she live with herself if she trapped him into marriage in truth?

He would resent her. No, he would hate her.

No, he wouldn’t hate her, but he would never forgive her.

She sighed. He was never going to forgive her, regardless.

“Cecilia?”

She startled. “You’re awake.”

Edward gave her a sleepy smile. “Barely.”

Cecilia stood and crossed the short distance to the bed. Edward had fallen asleep fully clothed, but about an hour into his nap she’d thought he looked uncomfortable and had removed his cravat. It was a testament to the laudanum that he’d barely stirred when she’d done so.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

He frowned, and Cecilia thought it a good sign that he had to think about it. “Better,” he said, then corrected himself with a little twist of his lips. “Improved.”

“Are you hungry?”

He had to think about that one too. “Yes, although I’m not sure if food would sit well in my stomach.”

“Try some broth,” she said. She stood and picked up the small tureen she’d fetched from the kitchen ten minutes earlier. “It’s still warm.”

He pushed himself up into a sitting position. “Did I sleep long?”

“About three hours. The laudanum worked quickly.”

“Three hours,” he murmured, sounding surprised. His brow furrowed as he blinked a few times.

“Are you trying to decide if your head still hurts?” Cecilia asked with a smile.

“No,” he answered plainly. “It definitely still hurts.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t really sure what to say to that, so she just added, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s different, though.”

She set the tureen on the table next to the bed and sat beside him. “Different?”

“Less piercing, I think. More of a dull ache.”

“Surely that must be an improvement.”

He touched his temple lightly and murmured, “I think so.”

“Do you need assistance?” Cecilia asked, motioning to the soup.

He gave her a hint of a smile. “I can manage, although a spoon might be helpful.”

“Oh!” She jumped to her feet. “I’m so sorry. Do you know, I think they forgot to give me one.”

“No matter. I can just drink it.” He raised the tureen to his lips and took a sip.

“Good?” Cecilia asked when he let out a satisfied sigh.

“Quite. Thank you for getting it.”