Page 56 of His Duchess to Remember

“I’m surprised ye ever married me,” he said, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. The same one that Simon had when he was concentrating.

“What makes you say that?” Octavia asked.

He shrugged a shoulder. “From what I hear, I did a lot of frowning.”

“Oh, well, I knew exactly what I was getting,” she replied. “Back then, at least. You are not… the same now as you were then.”

His gaze dropped to the blankets, his hand gently squeezing Simon’s foot. “What was I like?”

She blew out a breath and rested her head against the post of Simon’s bed, letting her mind drift back to the first time she ever met Malcolm. The moment that had led to all of this, the decision that had changed the course of her life and given her what she wanted.

“Goodness, you were terrifying,” she said with a raspy laugh. “I was back in society for the first time in years. Properly, I mean. I was well beyond my debutante years and knew my options would be sparse, but I knew that what I wanted and who might agree to such a thing would make them sparser still. Then, of course, there was the fact that I had no desire to dance or speak or engage with any gentlemen at all, to make it all the more difficult.”

She chuckled into her free hand, wondering how it was possible that she had ever gotten married at all, considering the circumstances. But Malcolm was not laughing. He had raised his gaze again, those striking green eyes looking at her with curiosity.

“I had heard every rumor about you before I ever saw you,” she continued, remembering. “You were infamous. No lady, debutante or otherwise, was brave enough to approach you or to consider you as a match. Mothers were warning their daughters to stay away from you.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “And ye thought… what? Aye, there’s my perfect match?”

“Something like that.” She nodded, smiling.

“What did they say about me?”

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, digging deeper into her memory. “That you were a savage, an uncouth beast with a thirst for blood and a foul temper. A dangerous man who had likely killed his way into his unexpected fortune and status.”

“Charming,” Malcolm muttered, bringing another laugh to Octavia’s lips.

“I never believed them, not really. I know enough about society’s gossipmongers; they cannot help but embellish and sensationalize,” she told him. “But I did believe you might be in a position to give me what I wanted, seeing as society had already decided to dismiss you.”

He made a noise halfway between a grunt and a laugh. “How very sly of ye.”

“I saw an opportunity,” she said with a playful shrug. “And I… felt as if I owed you.”

She had not thought about the night they met in a very long time, putting it to the very back of her mind in a locked box of memories. There had been no reason to dig them out and blow off the dust, not until he came back into her life and stirred up plenty more memories she had assumed she would never think about again.

“Owed me?” Malcolm’s frown returned.

She nodded. “I was being bothered by a few potential suitors. I was… frightened by their attention, and they would not leave me alone. Then, all of a sudden, they just… parted and scurried off. And there you were.”

Her eyes closed in remembrance. He had been so tall and intimidating, and so breathtakingly handsome, even then, even wearing his hardest scowl. But rather than fear, she had been grateful for him at that moment. Relieved that he had chased away the other gentlemen.

So grateful, in fact, that…

“You asked me to dance with you, and I did not say no,” she told him, realizing that he would not remember any of this.

“I danced with ye?”

She nodded, her heart fluttering a little. She could not recall if her heart had fluttered back then, or if she had been too fixated on not making a wrong step, but the memory seemed warmer now.

“You were very direct,” she said, smirking. “I suppose I was too. You asked if I was in society to find a husband. I said that I was, and asked if you were in want of a wife that you did not want to live with. You said it was not disagreeable to you. The moment the dance was over, you kissed my hand and told me that we would see each other soon.”

“Did we?” he asked, a softness in his eyes.

She tilted her head from side to side. “It depends on your opinion of ‘soon.’ You wrote to me two days later, saying that you had thought about my terms. You asked if I had any others. We must have written our requirements back and forth for a fortnight, maybe longer, although I daresay I had more terms than you. Eventually, you wrote to Hugo and made a proposal of marriage. And that is… essentially that.”

She laughed, realizing how entirely unromantic it had all been. Even their letters had been short and business-like, devoid of any emotion or possibility of affection. It was precisely what she had longed for when she had entered society again, but now… How could she not laugh when her sister-in-law was convinced that she was falling in love with her husband? A man she was specifically not supposed to fall in love with or feel anything for at all.

How could she not laugh when she was in the nursery with her husband, both of them tending to their son, doting on their son, united as any family ought to be, while reminiscing about the past and reveling in the closeness? She was, at least.