Of course you cannot recall, you dunce. You can’t recall a damned thing before you woke up and stared into Artemisia’s gorgeous eyes. You can’t even remember your own bloody name.

  He brushed aside the self-recriminations and bounded up the stairs with a tray full of split muffins, eggs, and sausage. Artemisia sat up in bed when he walked in.

  “Stay right there,” he ordered.

  “You are just as bossy out of bed as you are in it,” she complained with a quiet huff.

  “You love it.” He placed the tray gingerly across her knees and kissed her lightly. Then he toed off his shoes and took the place beside her. “Open.”

  “I do not need to be fed, Henry.”

  “Yes you do. I don’t want you wasting away from all the activity I put you through last night.”

  “About that,” she said around a mouthful of sausage. “I feel terrible. You were supposed to be resting, not exerting yourself to pleasure me.”

  “Do you always go out of your way looking for things to feel guilty about? Eat.” He held up a muffin with butter and jam, then poured her tea while she was chewing. “I enjoyed myself thoroughly. Apart from my bothersome missing memories, I feel right as rain this morning.”

  “You do seem very energetic.”

  Henry’s blood stirred. She was warm and pliant, and smelled so good. He set the tray aside and feasted upon her for an hour or so, tasting her delicate skin with a connoisseur’s thoroughness. Her sweet breasts, the dip of her throat, the slight roundness of her belly that made everything below his own navel stand at attention. Lower down, too, delving between her thighs with his tongue.

  “Your cream is sweeter than any other,” he declared, which made her giggle breathlessly.

  “You are thoroughly obscene,” she laughed.

  “You love it.”

  She did. He could see it in the flush of her skin and the warmth in her eyes. She was made for carnal pleasure and happiness. Why, then, was Artemisia plagued by guilt every time she did something she enjoyed?

  He pushed the thought aside, sliding into her gently lest she was tender from the night before. He did enjoy pushing her around in bed. Propping her hips on a pillow so that he could take her from behind. Flipping her over to watch her full breasts bounce with each thrust. Watching her beautiful face when she crested again, and again, and again.

  Only when he was satisfied that he had pleased the widow thoroughly did he allow himself to finish.

  Again came that warning bell in the back of his mind—You shouldn’t be doing this. He ought to be more careful. Artemisia might be convinced she was barren but the evidence she had presented was scant, in his admittedly unknowledgeable opinion. Her husband had a child out of wedlock yet she had never borne a child with him. What did that prove? Nothing. Perhaps they weren’t compatible that way.

  If he made her pregnant, he would simply have to marry her. Simple, really. The thought brought with it a calm certainty. He hoped it did happen.

  He shouldn’t. A horrifying thought occurred to him—What if he was married?

  When they finally pried themselves out of bed, it was nearly eleven. The sun had emerged to chase the thick storm clouds away. Hand-in-hand, he and Artemisia picked their way around puddles and cranky white geese. Time and again they approached villagers to ask the same question: Do you recognize this man?

  No one did.

  Not the butcher. Not the baker. Not Thomas Davies, the shopkeeper whose clothes Henry wore. Not even the proprietors of the rival local tavern and inn, the Cock and Bull. They were kindly, if rougher around the edges, than the owners of the Mermaid’s Rest.

  “Have you noticed something unusual about Cavalier Cove?” Artemisia asked thoughtfully when they had made their way through the entire village center and to the main road. She sat on a crumbling low stone wall. Tendrils escaped her pinned-up hair, dancing in the wind. His breath caught.

  “What about it?” he finally asked.

  “The village is unusually prosperous compared to other towns in Cornwall.”

  “I did notice that, yes. Isn’t this area rife with smuggling?”

  “That’s what I understand to be the case. It could also be the influence of the local viscount. He was supposed to be home by now, but he may have been delayed by the storm.” She gestured at the muddy mess stretching into the distance and sighed. “Poor Margaret. I hope this clears soon. I hate to think I’ll miss the baby’s birth on account of a little rain.”

  “In fairness, it was a lot of rain, not a little.”

  “True.” She hopped off the wall, bent to pick up a pebble, and threw it down the road. “What are we going to do, Henry?”

  “Return to the inn and make love again?” he asked hopefully.

  “Even when men are concussed, they only have one thing on their mind.” Artemisia rolled her eyes. “You should be resting, however. Not gallivanting about with me.”

  “I wouldn’t be resting at the inn, either.”

  She clearly wasn’t offended, for she tucked her arm around his waist and shaded her eyes to peer down at the rolling ocean below. “If one has to be stranded with a handsome stranger, this is hardly the worst place to end up.”

  “I am beginning to think I don’t want to remember my previous life,” he said, cupping her jaw and turning her face to his. His heart skipped a beat. Warmth tingled along his skin. “What if I stay with you?”

  She cast him a quick, tight smile. That was a no. Disappointment pinched him, hard.

  “It sounds as though you’re running away from something, Henry. Don’t you think you should figure out what it is before you ask to stay with a woman you’ve known for barely two days?”

  “But what a two days they have been,” he said.

  Artemisia sighed. “This has been unexpectedly wonderful.”

  Which meant that the only way things could go from here, was south.

  Seven

  ARTEMISIA

  Back at the Mermaid’s Rest, Artemisia consulted with her driver and decided that they would leave the next morning if the sun held. She simply could not wait any longer. Determined to enjoy her remaining time with Henry, they spent time wandering the seashore exploring the natural caves worn into the rocks below Cavalier Cove.

  Whomever he was, Henry was a gentleman with a sense of adventure. She found herself listening to his accent trying to decide whether that might be a clue as to his identity, but all she could discern was that he spoke like a man who was well-educated and likely hailed from near London. She was no student of accents, but nothing in the way he clipped his consonants and drawled his vowels stood out to her as belonging to anything other than the upper class. Landed gentry, perhaps?

  God forbid he prove to be someone from her social set. Artemisia had been fortunate to be born into a well-off genteel family, and she had married a dashing gentleman from an even wealthier family. With no other heirs to split the inheritance with, she lived comfortably off the income from her investments. A right Lady Russell, Margaret had called her, after reading Persuasion.

  She had no interest in marrying again, but she did enjoy male companionship. Perhaps she should keep Henry on. She could give him a proper job and bed him whenever they felt the urge. It wouldn’t be entirely scandal-free, but there were worse sins in the world than two people being together outside the bounds of marriage.

  What are you thinking? she scolded herself. What kind of example would that be to Margaret’s child?

  Unless one wished to consign oneself to the margins of society, like that absurd Lord Byron, anything more than a discreet affaire was unthinkable. She liked being involved in charities like the Widows Benevolent Society, even if years after their founding, they were still arguing over whether widows should properly have an apostrophe at the end. How many meetings had she sat through watching with amusement while women argued whether it should be plural or possessive? Either choice was correct, but the organization had yet to pick one and stick with it. A ridiculous thing to argue about, yet their earnestness amused her greatly. She wouldn’t want to lose their friendship over a man.

  At supper, she sat back in her chair and patted her full belly. “I cannot remember the last time I had such a wonderful day.” Reaching across the table, she squeezed Henry’s hand. “Thank you.”

  “I should be thanking you.” His eyes sparkled with warmth. “Without your generosity, I would still be wandering about as bare as the day I was born.”

  “I strongly doubt that. Cavalier Cove is an insular place but the people are kind. Someone would have helped you.”

  “Perhaps. But I am glad it was you.”

  Henry

  “The viscount still hasn’t returned from London?” Artemisia said worriedly to Mrs. Gosling.

  “Not yet, I am afraid. He must have been delayed by the same storm that kept you here in Cavalier Cove.”

  The storm wasn’t all that had delayed Mrs. Longwood from reaching her cousin. She would have left hours earlier if not for one last-ditch effort to find someone, anyone, who might know his true identity.

  “Unfortunately, I must travel on,” she said with genuine chagrin. Regret was written on her beautiful features. He’d had ample time to memorize the precise slant of her nose, the delicate sweep of her brows, the high rise of her cheekbones and the lushness of her mouth.

  He was losing this beautiful, generous, warm-hearted widow. Pain lodged behind his sternum. Indigestion, obviously. No one fell in love in the span of a few days. Still, there was no denying that he was head over heels in lust with her.

  “May I write to you?” he said.

  “Please. I would like to know how things turn out. I will be coming through Cavalier Cove again in six weeks or so, assuming everything goes well with Margaret and her baby. Perhaps we can…” She trailed off. Glanced down, her lashes forming spiky shadows on her cheeks. They opened a second later. Despite the mistiness in her eyes, her voice was steady. “I hope your memories come back, Henry. If they don’t, or if you need a place to stay…” She swallowed hard. “Write to me. We’ll discuss whether there could be a place for you with me.”

  “I will.”

  He begged a piece of paper and pen from Mrs. Gosling, Prescott’s housekeeper, and wrote down her cousin’s name and direction.

  “My lady, if we are to make it to the next inn before midnight, we must leave now,” her coachman insisted.

  “Please tell Lord Prescott that he has my thanks for taking Henry in,” she said to the housekeeper. Then, despite every fiber of his being wanting to drag her away and hold onto Artemisia like a child being deprived of a favorite toy, Henry handed her into the carriage and watched her drive off.

  He couldn’t even kiss her goodbye. Not with an audience. It simply wasn’t done.

  “What a kind woman.” Mrs. Gosling stared after the retreating vehicle with a sigh. “You don’t find such goodhearted people often nowadays. You were very fortunate to be found by Mrs. Longwood.”

  “I know,” he said, with a lump in his throat. They went inside, where the housekeeper showed him to a room with fresh clothes laid out for him. He washed and dressed, then wandered downstairs without the slightest idea how to occupy himself.

  “Might I take a walk?” he asked the housekeeper. “Tour the grounds? I find myself restless and in need of activity.”

  “Certainly you may. His lordship should be back any moment. Given the rains recently, I suggest you follow the trail to higher ground near the stables. The view of the bay from the fields will steal your breath. Turn left when you see the Davies’ cottage. Can’t miss it.”

  For the next hour, Henry sulked. The bright, beautiful day was lost upon him. He kicked rocks into the grass and kept his fists jammed into the pockets of his borrowed greatcoat. The viscount was a bit shorter and stockier. The ill-fitting clothes annoyed him.

  He wanted to be home. Wherever that was. He was tired of being a stranger everywhere he went.

  He wanted Artemisia. She was home. He should never have allowed her to ride off alone. Abruptly, he turned on his heel. He would return to the house, borrow paper and ink, and write to her immediately. He would tell her that he had fallen irrevocably in love with her and while he would maintain a respectful distance while she visited her family and helped her cousin recover from childbirth, he was going home with her.

  She had proposed the idea. He didn’t need to think it over. He knew that was what he wanted. He should have told her before she left.

  Henry’s steps quickened. He could still catch up with her. Gravel crunched beneath his boots. Lost in thought, he failed to notice the rider coming along the road behind him until the man spoke and startled him half out of his wits.

  “There you are, Hendrik. Everyone has been looking for you.”

  He whipped around to find a well-dressed man on a bay mount hard on his heels. The man was already swinging down, looping the tired horse’s reins over his forearm. The animal plodded along at his heels like a well-trained dog.

  “Who are you?” Henry asked.

  “You don’t recognize me? I am Viscount Prescott. Nathaniel is my given name, which I insist you use. We have known one another since our school days.” The stranger peered at him and whistled, long and low. “That must have been quite a black eye.”

  He’d forgotten all about the bruises around his eye. They had faded into patchy yellows and greens with only hints of violet. Artemisia hadn’t mentioned them since they fell into bed with one another.

  “I was found beside the road a few days ago with no memory of who I am,” he said. “Please. Start at the beginning. I remember nothing.”

  The stranger gaped at him in astonishment. “That would explain a great deal, if true. I must warn you that the rumor circulating is that you didn’t want to marry Lady Boyle and ran off to escape the match.”

  “Why on earth would I be betrothed to a lady?” he asked in astonishment.

  “Because, Lord Voss, you are a duke. What other kind of lady would you court?”

  Henry’s heart sank.

  Not a voluptuous widow with warm eyes and a sense of humor, that was certain, if Prescott spoke the truth.

  Eight

  ARTEMISIA

  With two days of travel still ahead of her, Artemisia had ample time to grieve the loss of Henry. She missed his smile. The way he volleyed every quip and insult like they were playing a verbal game of tennis.

  She missed his cock.

  Her soft parts were still tender when her carriage rumbled up the drive to Margaret’s stately country home. While not nearly as grand as Artemisia’s manor home, her cousin’s house was comfortable and elegantly appointed.

  “I’m so glad you’ve arrived,” Margaret said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it in time.”

  “So was I. The rain delayed us, and you will never believe what happened in Cavalier Cove.” Artemisia had to bend forward quite far to embrace her cousin around the bulge of her stomach. She described finding Henry by the side of the road—omitting the fact that he was naked when she found him, as well as the detail about sharing a room with him at the crowded inn, and the fact that they had spent much of those two nights and three partial days together having torrid sex together. There were some things you simply did not confess even to your friends.

  “You did the right thing,” her cousin told her. Artemisia smiled tightly, for she wasn’t at all certain she had. Leaving Henry with the viscount had felt wrong, yet bringing him here was no solution.

  Would he write to her? She clung to the possibility for days, until Margaret went into labor and her husband rode off to fetch the midwife himself, rather than stay and risk viewing the birth. Margaret laughed and said men were useless in such situations anyway, but Artemisia was indignant upon her behalf. He was the father and he should be there to witness the arrival of his firstborn.

  After that, she had no further time to contemplate Henry or Margaret’s cowardly spouse, for everything moved quickly. The midwife arrived near midnight, and the baby a few hours thereafter. A tiny boy, pink and wailing his confusion at being pushed from the warm security of his mother’s womb into the cold world. Artemisia held him by the window to watch dawn spread over the horizon of his first day while Margaret slept, entranced by his tiny toes and hands barely big enough to curl around her forefinger.

  Impossible to believe that she had been this tiny once. Henry, too.

  She pushed the thought of him away.

  He didn’t write to her. Day after day, she asked the head maid whether any correspondence had arrived for her. Each time, she was disappointed. Eventually, she stopped asking.

  An ache bloomed in Artemisia’s chest as she packed to depart for the two-week journey home. She would be lying if she said it hurt not to know what had happened to him, yet there was no one to lie to except her own self. She had never told her cousin about the precious, secret affair she’d had in Cavalier Cove. That story would remain untold. It would live on in her heart.

  Six Weeks Later

  Artemisia was standing in the circular drive outside the Gibbs’ home, kissing the baby’s sweet fingers one by one, tickling his toes, basking in the gummy smile he had just begun bestowing upon people.

  “Thank you for coming all this way, Artie. You’ve been such a help.”

  “It was my pleasure. This little one is a joy.” She poked his round tummy. The boy kicked his feet and drooled. She wasn’t going to say it out loud, but six weeks of sleepless nights had her feeling fatigued beyond anything she had ever experienced before. Her breasts felt achy and she had found all forms of food off-putting for the last several days. Artemisia thought she might be coming down with an illness. While she did not relish the thought of traveling while indisposed, she would welcome getting a full night of sleep for once.