excitement of waking up you may not be feeling all your pains, but unfortunately your wound extends down to near your temple, and there are quite a few nerves in the face, so certain facial expressions—frowns, for example—might pull at the stitches and be quite uncomfortable.”
Helena didn’t mind the pain, but the possibility of cranial bleeding was rather frightful. “What should I do now?”
“Take some light nourishment and rest. This is no time to strain yourself,” replied Miss Redmayne. “And don’t tax your head trying to remember. It will not hasten the recovery of your memory.”
“Can I read?”
“In a few days, yes, but for now it will likely exacerbate your headache. You must remember, Lady Hastings, even though you’ve regained your consciousness, you are still only three days past a major injury.”
The mere thought of sitting in bed for days on end with nothing to do already exacerbated her headache. But something in Miss Redmayne’s calm authority precluded arguing: Helena would feel too much like a quarrelsome child.
Miss Redmayne allowed Fitz and Hastings to enter the room. Helena’s eyes lingered on the latter for a moment—those cheekbones were sharp enough to cut marble. He returned the attention, but instead of the outright adoration from earlier, he gazed upon her with uncertainty, as if he’d been cast upon some distant shore and was encountering the natives for the first time.
“Where is my husband?” asked Venetia.
“He’s in the passage outside,” answered Fitz. “Now that Helena is better, he doesn’t wish to further intrude on her privacy, as he is not a blood relation.”
Miss Redmayne repeated much of what she’d told Helena, but added, “Your Grace, my lords, Lady Fitzhugh, I ask you to disperse. You will be of no use sitting here—let the nurse watch over Lady Hastings. She needs to rest and so do you. And if not, at least get some exercise and fresh air. You’ve been cooped up long enough.”
“I’d like Lord Hastings to remain,” Helena heard herself say. She’d posed no questions concerning him to Venetia and Millie, partly because she still wished he’d go away, and partly because she believed he should answer her questions himself.
Judging by his flabbergasted reaction, it was as if she’d asked the man to perform a handstand that very instant. But he was quick to recover. “Yes, of course. There is nothing I’d like more.”
That voice of his—she’d heard it earlier, but now she was surprised by its rich, pure timbre.
Venetia, Fitz, and Millie each embraced Helena, taking care not to touch her where she’d been bruised.
“If you’d like a few minutes of privacy, I can have Nurse Jennings leave her shift early,” said Miss Redmayne.
“Thank you,” replied Helena.
“You have until Nurse Gardner arrives, my lord, my lady. After that Lady Hastings must rest.”
Doctor and nurse departed. Helena and Hastings were alone in the room, but he did not approach her bed. Instead he stood near the wall, his hands behind his back. She realized after some time that he was waiting for her to speak first.
“I’m not sure whether I should apologize for not remembering you, or whether I should ask you to apologize for saddling me with a husband out of the blue. What do you recommend?”
He stared at her. Then he shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe his ears. “So you really don’t remember me.”
It was less a question to her than a reminder to himself.
“No, I don’t remember you at all.”
He ran his fingers through his hair. His curls appeared wonderfully springy. “You might be surprised to know that I am usually astonishingly witty and eloquent. But I am currently at a loss for words.”
She tilted her head back slightly. “You have a high regard for yourself.”
“So do you—a high regard for yourself, that is,” he said, smiling slightly. “You believe—believed—that modesty is for those with something to be modest about.”
It did sound like something she might agree with.
She felt herself relax a little. The prospect of being married to a man she couldn’t remember had wound her tighter than a twisted rope. But speaking with him, so far, was not an unpleasant experience. That voice of his—if a viola could speak, it would probably speak with his voice. And that smile…
He was not, perhaps, conventionally handsome, but he was some kind of handsome—perhaps even some kind of gorgeous: beautiful skin, long brows, a dent just beneath his lower lip caused by the slightly forward angle of his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, but they