Page 52 of His Duchess to Remember

“As I said, I remember all of it,” he said, his tone short.

“I have to ask,” the doctor said apologetically. “I have to be sure that you are recovered… although, considering the nature of this, nothing is truly certain.”

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that anything could yet happen,” the doctor replied, cautiously. “It is why I came to London; to seek the advice of my peers and minds that are far superior to my own.”

Anthony, who had been observing the entire conversation with intense curiosity, snorted from his position by the mantelpiece. “Really? It seemed to me like you were trying to seek advice in the bottom of a port glass.”

“Yes, well, there was much intelligent work done before then,” the doctor said defensively. “My associates wished to celebrate what is sure to be a momentous study into the complexities of the human brain. After all, Your Grace, you wouldn’t deny me the opportunity to write about this, would you?”

Malcolm’s lip curled in displeasure. Was he to be a curio? An unnatural thing to be studied by physicians and medical students? Had his temporary amnesia not already stripped him of enough?

“I would, of course, leave your identity out of my work,” the doctor added hastily.

Malcolm considered for a moment. “If I see a single mention of my name, I’ll make sure ye never write again.” He shrugged. “Otherwise, aye, do as ye will.”

The doctor visibly shuddered. “I wouldn’t dream of disrespecting your wishes, Your Grace.” He paused. “But, tell me… Do you feel like yourself now?”

It was an odd question, and one that Malcolm was not immediately sure how to answer. He had never given much thought to how it felt to be him.

He was not cheerful anymore, and there was weight where there had been a lightness of spirit before. There was the deep and indelible ache of loss that his amnesia had soothed… at least until he had been reminded that his mother and brother were dead. But hearing the vague details was vastly different to having lived through the actuality of it; those particular scars were still raw, even ten years later.

“Aye, I think so,” he replied.

“Well, allow me to return to Huntfield with you tomorrow,” the doctor said. “I can observe you for a couple of weeks, and if I’m satisfied that all is well and the return of your memories is permanent, then that will be that. I might ask if I can visit after a year or so, to continue my duty of care, but I won’t trouble you much more than that.”

Malcolm looked hard at the doctor. “If ye want to observe me, ye’ll have to be ready to travel back to yer usual post.”

“Pardon?”

“After I’ve spoken with my wife, I mean to go back to Scotland,” Malcolm said, determined. “It’s probably due time that ye went back too, so I suppose this is apt for ye.”

The doctor blinked in surprise. “But… I was under the impression that you would be staying at Huntfield? You seemed to be… um… comfortable there.”

“I will be returning to Highcastle,” Malcolm growled, shooting a look at Anthony in case he tried to dissuade him too. “Observe me there, Doctor, or don’t bother.”

He walked to the drawing room door, his grief and his losses tugging at the back of his thoughts, weighing him down. He did not bother to glance back at the doctor and his friend as he added, “I’ll retire for the night. I plan to leave before dawn. If ye’re nae at Huntfield by the day after tomorrow, Doctor, I’ll assume that yer study of me is over.”

With that, he left, trudging up the stairs to the guest room that Anthony had prepared for him. Although he knew he would get no sleep. How could he, with thoughts of his family—the one he had lost and the one he could not allow himself to have—racing through his head?

Perhaps, he would not even attempt to try and sleep. Perhaps, it would be better if he went back to Huntfield without delay.

Better to get it out of the way… for both of our sakes.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Octavia stared at the canopy of her four-poster bed, her hands gripping the coverlets tightly. She did not dare to look at the clock to see how many hours she had been lying there, hopelessly willing sleep to come, while being more awake than she had ever been.

Her mind simply would not quieten.

What if he has forgotten me? What if his condition got worse due to the exertion of the ride, and now has no memory of me whatsoever? What if he really has returned to Scotland? What if he is riding there right now? Should I go after him?

They were only a handful of the unanswered questions that circled around and around in her head. It was relentless. She had hoped that, eventually, the constant thinking would exhaust her enough to make her doze off, but, as of yet, she had had no such luck.

But is that not what I wanted? She frowned at the embroidered flowers, stitched into the canopy.

If he had gone back to Scotland, should she not be elated? Why did the very idea make her feel unsteady, uneasy, tying her stomach in knots?