The Girl with the Make-Believe Husband

Really? He was asking the lieutenant? “Sometime in the afternoon,” Cecilia said sharply, even though she had no idea what time she planned to fetch him. She waited for Major Wilkins to turn to her before adding, “The lieutenant is unlikely to have special knowledge of the matter.”

“She’s quite right,” the lieutenant said cheerfully. “My orders were to escort Mrs. Rokesby to her new accommodations. Tomorrow I’m back up to Haarlem.”

Cecilia gave Major Wilkins a bland smile.

“Of course,” the major said gruffly. “Forgive me, Mrs. Rokesby.”

“Think nothing of it,” Cecilia said. Much as she’d like to box the major’s ears, she knew she could not afford to alienate him. She was not certain of his precise job, but he seemed to be in charge of keeping track of the soldiers currently billeted nearby.

“Will you and Captain Rokesby be here at half five?” he asked.

She looked him squarely in the eye. “If you are coming with news of my brother, then yes, we will most definitely be here.”

“Very well. Good evening, ma’am.” He executed a sharp bow of his chin, and then said to her escort, “Lieutenant.”

Major Wilkins returned to his table, leaving Cecilia with the lieutenant, who let out a little oh before saying, “I almost forgot. Your key.”

“Thank you,” Cecilia said, taking it from him. She turned it over in her hand.

“Room twelve,” the lieutenant said.

“Yes,” Cecilia said, glancing down at the large “12” etched into the metal. “I will see myself up.”

The lieutenant gave a grateful nod; he was young and clearly uncomfortable with the idea of escorting a lady to her bedchamber, even a married one such as she.

Married. Dear God. How was she going to extricate herself from this web of lies? And perhaps more importantly, when? It wouldn’t be tomorrow. She might have claimed to be Edward’s wife so that she could remain by his side and nurse him to health, but it was clear—appallingly so—that the wife of Captain Rokesby held far more sway with Major Wilkins than the humble Miss Harcourt.

Cecilia knew that she owed it to Edward to end this farce as soon as possible, but her brother’s fate hung in the balance.

She would tell him the truth. Obviously.

Eventually.

She just couldn’t do it tomorrow. Tomorrow she had to be Mrs. Rokesby. And after that . . .

Cecilia sighed as she slipped the key into the lock of her room and turned. She feared she was going to have to be Mrs. Rokesby until she found her brother.

“Forgive me,” she whispered.

It would have to be enough.

Edward had every intention of being upright, in uniform, and ready to depart when Cecilia arrived at the hospital the following day. Instead he was in bed, wearing the same shirt he’d been in for he-truly-did-not-know-how-long, and sleeping so soundly Cecilia apparently thought he’d slipped back into a coma.

“Edward?” he heard, her voice whispering at the edges of his consciousness. “Edward?”

He mumbled something. Or maybe he grumbled it. He wasn’t sure what the difference was. Attitude, probably.

“Oh, thank God,” she whispered, and he sensed, rather than heard, her settle back into the chair next to his bed.

He should probably wake up.

Maybe he would open his eyes and the whole world would be restored to him. It would be June, and it would make sense that it was June. He would be married, and that would make sense too, especially if he remembered what it felt like to kiss her.

Because he’d really like to kiss her. It was all he’d thought about the night before. Or at least most. Half, at least. He was as randy as the next man, especially now that he was married to Cecilia Harcourt, but he also had a working sense of smell, and what he really wanted was to take a bath.

God help him, he stank.

He lay still for a few minutes, his mind resting serenely behind his closed eyelids. There was something rather pleasant about unmoving reflection. He didn’t have to do anything but think. He could not recall the last time he’d enjoyed such a luxury.

And yes, he was well aware that he could not recall anything of the last three or so months. He was still quite certain he had not spent it sifting peacefully through his own thoughts, listening to the muffled sounds of his wife beside him. He was reminded of those moments the day before, the ones right before he’d opened his eyes. He’d heard her breathing then, too. It was different, though, now that he knew who she was. It sounded the same, but it was different.

It was strange, really. He would never have believed that he’d one day be content to lie in bed and listen to a woman breathe. She emitted more sighs than he would have liked, though. She was tired. Maybe worried. Probably both.

He should tell her he was awake. It was past time.

But then he heard her murmur, “What am I to do with you?”

Honestly, he couldn’t resist. He opened his eyes. “With me?”

She shrieked, jumping so far out of her chair it was a wonder she didn’t hit the ceiling.

Edward started to laugh. Big belly laughs that hurt his ribs and squeezed his lungs, and even as Cecilia glared at him, her hand over her obviously racing heart, he laughed and laughed.

And just like before, he knew that this was not something he’d done in a very long while.

“You’re awake,” his wife accused.

“I wasn’t,” he said, “but then someone started whispering my name.”

“That was ages ago.”

He shrugged, unrepentant.

“You look better today,” she said.

He lifted his brows.

“A little less . . . gray.”

He decided to be grateful no one had offered him a looking glass. “I need to shave,” he said, rubbing his chin. How many days’ growth was this? At least two weeks. Probably closer to three. He frowned.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Does anyone know how long I was unconscious?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. No one knows how long you were unconscious before you were found, but I can’t imagine it was very long. They said the wound on your head was fresh.”

He winced. Fresh was the sort of word one liked when applied to strawberries, not skulls.

“So probably not more than eight days,” she concluded. “Why?”

“My beard,” he said. “It has been far more than a week since I last shaved.”

She stared at him for a moment. “I’m not sure what that means,” she finally said.

“Nor I,” he admitted. “But it’s worth taking note of it.”

“Have you a valet?”

He gave her a look.

“Don’t look at me that way. I know very well that many officers travel with a manservant.”

“I do not.”

A moment passed, then Cecilia said, “You must be very hungry. I got a bit of broth into you, but that’s all.”

Edward placed a hand on his midsection. His hipbones were definitely more prominent than they’d been since childhood. “I seem to have lost some weight.”

“Did you eat after I left yesterday?”

“Not much. I was famished, but then I started to feel ill.”

She nodded, glancing down at her hands before saying, “I did not have the opportunity to tell you yesterday, but I took the liberty of writing to your family.”

His family. Holy God above. He had not even thought of them.

His eyes met hers.

“They had been informed that you had gone missing,” she explained. “General Garth wrote to them several months ago.”

Edward put a hand to his face, covering his eyes. He could only imagine his mother. She would not have taken it well.

“I wrote that you had been injured, but I did not go into detail,” she said. “I thought it most important that they know you had been found.”

“Found,” Edward echoed. The word was apt. He had not been returned, nor had he escaped. Instead he had been found near Kip’s Bay. The devil only knew how he’d got there.

“When did you arrive in New York?” he asked abruptly. Better to ask questions about what he did not know than to agonize over what he did not remember.