Forever and a Day. Delilah Marvelle

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      CHAPTER THREE

      She Ventures, and He Wins.

      —A Comedy Written by a Young Lady (1696)

       A MAN OBNOXIOUSLY CLEARED his throat from behind Georgia where she still lingered before Dr. Carter’s desk. “I realize the hour is anything but convenient, Dr. Carter, but I’m asking to depart all the same before I lead a revolt in the hall. None of the goddamn linens in our beds have been tended to in over three days. For those men who have fluids pouring out from more than the usual places, I find it vile and disturbing. You and your minions ought to be hanged for your wretched disregard for humanity. Hanged.”

       The harsh British voice startled Georgia into turning to the man. She instinctively pressed the small satchel in her hand against her hip, her eyes jumping from a broad chest up to a taut, masculine face. The man didn’t sound quite as mindless as Dr. Carter had led her to believe.

       The Brit, who lingered all but a stride away, glanced down at her and paused. His black hair had been brushed back from his forehead with tonic, giving him the appearance of the distinguished gentleman she had met on the street, but that sizable scab and the large yellowing bruise marring the right side of his cheekbone and square jaw made him look like one of the boys. Dried blood from the day of the accident still spattered parts of his knotted cravat and full sections of his outer gray coat near the width of his broad shoulder.

       Merciful God. They had never even washed his clothes. The rest of him appeared to be well scrubbed, though she sensed it was not anything the hospital had bothered with, but something he had insisted on.

       Shifting toward her, he searched her face and drew in a ragged breath. “I know you.”

       She smiled awkwardly. “Aye. That you do.”

       He half nodded. “Yes.” His shaven face flushed. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize anyone would be coming.” Stepping toward her, he reached out and swept up her hand, making her almost drop the satchel that was still pressed in the other one.

       Her heart flipped at the base of her throat as he bent over to softly kiss her bare hand.

       No one but her Raymond had ever kissed her hand like that. It was the signature of a gentleman who could see beyond the rags. Georgia swallowed against the tightness of her throat and tried to tug her hand loose only to find that the man wouldn’t let go. “Might I…have my hand back? Or do you plan on keepin’ it?”

       He glanced up and tightened his hold, that large hand taking complete command of hers.

       It was obvious he planned on keeping it.

       With a solid twist, she tugged her hand out of his, a rising heat overtaking her cheeks. “I realize things are a bit muddled for you, Brit, but when I ask for somethin’ back, you give it back. Be it a hand or anythin’ else. Agreed?”

       He edged closer, his pensive expression gauging her. “I apologize for being unable to remember the details pertaining to our relationship, but are you my wife?”

       Her lips parted. Oh, the poor man’s mind had been completely bashed. He didn’t remember her at all, and given his cheeky behavior on the street that day, he probably did have a wife, damn bastard.

       Dr. Carter cleared his throat from behind. “Mrs. Crusoe, I recommend you heed my earlier advice of not riling him into a form of paranoia. ’Tis best.”

      Mrs. Crusoe? Georgia swung toward the man and pointed at him. “Oh, no. Oh, no, no. There isn’t goin’ to be any of that.”

      “Mrs. Crusoe.” Dr. Carter’s voice dropped to a low warning. “I hold you responsible for his health and his delicate state of mind for as long as he is in your care. I will say no more.”

       Oh, this couldn’t be right. How could feeding into a man’s delusions be responsible? It wasn’t! She swiveled back, intent on settling this before she took him home. “Never you mind him, Brit. You and I most certainly aren’t married. In truth, I barely consider us friends.”

       “You barely consider us friends?” His mouth tightened as he continued to stare. “That isn’t at all what I remember.”

       She quirked a brow. “And what exactly do you remember?”

       He shifted his scabbed jaw and glanced toward Dr. Carter before recapturing her gaze. “’Tis hardly respectable to say, given that we are not married.”

       Her eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

       He smoothed his blood-spattered cravat against his throat and set his chin, avoiding her gaze. “Whilst I am pleased that you are here, for I was beginning to wonder if anyone would come, given my inability to remember names, I ask that we save this conversation for another time. Would you be so kind as to return me to my flat? I’m exhausted.”

       She paused. “Your flat? You mean you know where it is?”

       His brow wrinkled. “Yes and no. I thought it was located on rue des Francs-Bourgeois, but Dr. Carter informed me that we are not in Paris, but in New York. So I suppose the answer is no. I don’t know where my flat is.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters. You know where I live, don’t you?”

       She tapped her own temple. “If I knew where you lived, Brit, I’d be droppin’ you off right now and thankin’ the good Lord for havin’ saved me from a guilt I’ve no right to feel.”

       He eyed her. “I sense there is an animosity between us.”

       “You’d be sensin’ right, given what you wanted out of me before you earned that knock to your head.”

       “I see.” He blew out a pained breath and muttered, “I suppose that leaves me to find myself a hotel, as I am not one to perpetuate arguments I cannot even remember.” He paused and glanced down at himself, patting his coat pockets. “Did I not have a pocketbook? How am I to pay for anything?”

       Dr. Carter gathered several ledgers from his desk, organizing them. “Your pocketbook is already accounted for, Mr. Crusoe. How are you feeling?”

       “Aside from these damnable headaches, I feel remarkably well. Better.”

       “Good. ’Tis my hope that the headaches will fade in time. Try to rest.” Dr. Carter rounded the desk with a stack of ledgers in hand. “Now if you’ll both excuse me, I intend to retire early tonight and call upon an acquaintance of mine who happens to be the owner of the New-York Evening Post. Perhaps we can get this СКАЧАТЬ