The Duke Is But a Dream--A Debutante Diaries Novel Read online

  She walked him to the door and curled a hand behind his neck, pulling him down for one last kiss, so pure and sweet that he considered carrying her back to her bed. But she broke it off and gently guided him out the door. “Don’t forget you’re supposed to be a blacksmith tomorrow,” she whispered. “Good night, Nash.”

  Chapter 12

  “Do not allow anyone to scold you for daydreaming. If others mock you for being lost in thought, it is likely because they are intrigued by your blissful expression. Let them wonder.”

  —The Debutante’s Revenge

  As Caroline and Delilah finished up breakfast the next morning, Delilah set down her teacup and smiled like a satisfied cat. “I have a little surprise for you,” she said. “Come to the drawing room with me.”

  Caroline followed her friend, grateful for the distraction. She’d slept well but remained as confused as ever. She still had no memory of who she was, but with each day that passed, she became more attached to Nash and Delilah.

  If the ad worked as she and Nash hoped, someone who knew her would come forward, and she would have to leave Nash—to return home. What happened between them after that … well, that all depended upon who Caroline was. Whether she turned out to be married, betrothed, or single. A proper lady, a genteel companion, or a barmaid. Her head spun with the possibilities.

  Nash claimed he was incapable of a love that was deep and all-consuming.

  But she knew differently. She’d seen him stay by her bedside all night. She’d heard the emotion in his throat when he talked about Emily and his father, enjoyed the laughter he shared with Delilah. She’d felt the tenderness in his touch and the passion in his kisses. He could love completely—if he’d only let himself.

  Caroline walked into the drawing room and sank into a chair beside the hearth where a fire burned, low and inviting. Delilah strode to a mahogany cabinet, pulled something out of a drawer, and hid it behind her as she walked closer. “I was thinking about our conversation yesterday,” she began. “And how you felt a connection to The Debutante’s Revenge.”

  “I do,” Caroline said. “It’s sort of a faint awareness. Like something you half remember from a dream—but everything is terribly murky.”

  “Well, we concluded that you’re not the artist of the column’s sketches, but it is possible that you’re the writer of the column,” Delilah said cheerfully.

  “It’s also possible I’m a princess from a tiny but wealthy kingdom,” Caroline countered. “Possible. But not likely.”

  “Perhaps not,” Delilah said with a shrug. “But you might as well try your hand at writing.” She produced a small, leather-bound journal from behind her back and handed it to Caroline. “What do you think?”

  Caroline ran her hands over the fine, supple leather, and flipped through the creamy smooth pages. “It’s gorgeous. Almost too pretty to write in.”

  “Nonsense.” Delilah sat in the chair across from Caroline, leaning forward expectantly. “You must write in it if you feel the urge. You could try writing a column, or you could simply keep it as a diary of sorts. One day, when you discover that you are, in fact, the princess of a tiny, wealthy kingdom, you will want to remember this particular episode in your life. You will tell the fascinating tale to your faithful subjects, who will pass it down for generations to come until it becomes legend.”

  Caroline laughed. “Well then, I had better make the story good.”

  Delilah shot her a wry grin. “If you don’t mind, I should like to be described as a fair and gentle maiden.”

  “With a kind heart and a fiery spirit,” Caroline added.

  “You see,” Delilah said, “I just knew you’d excel at this.”

  Caroline clasped the journal to her chest, touched. “I shall treasure this always. Thank you.” She gave Delilah a fierce hug and swallowed the lump clogging her throat.

  “I’m glad you like it,” Delilah said warmly. “I hope it gives you some comfort.”

  “It already has,” Caroline assured her. “And you’re correct—it can’t hurt to try writing a column. Perhaps the words will flow out of me. I have nothing to lose.” She hesitated a moment, then asked, “Have there been whispers about the author? Rumors as to who she might be?”

  Delilah’s sunny face darkened ever so slightly as she shook her head. “Can you imagine the repercussions if the writer of the column was exposed? She’d be shunned. Cast out of polite society and spoken of only in sad, hushed tones. I pray that never happens.”

  Caroline suppressed a shudder. “What if the column is penned by a man?”

  “I daresay the consequences would not be so dire for him,” Delilah replied dryly. “But after studying every issue of The Debutante’s Revenge at great length, I’m confident it’s written by a woman. She comprehends the nuances and pitfalls of the marriage mart and accurately portrays them—from the female point of view.”

  “I tend to agree,” Caroline said. “That narrows the field of possibilities to half the population of London.”

  Delilah’s bright blue eyes twinkled. “Speculation has been rampant since the very first column, but I do have a theory.”

  Caroline sat down again, listening intently. “Please, go on.”

  “It must be someone who has access to grand balls, esteemed drawing rooms, and aristocratic parties. But I suspect she exists somewhere on the fringes—not spurned exactly, but certainly not embraced to the bosom of London’s elite.”

  “Yes, that does stand to reason.” Caroline thought about the columns she’d studied the day before and smiled. “Anyone who encourages young women to nick brandy from their fathers and brothers does not adhere closely to society’s strictures.”

  Delilah’s face split into a mischievous grin. “She also recommends sultry gazes, forbidden books, and daydreaming. It’s no wonder she’s gone to great lengths to conceal her identity.”

  “I certainly have no wish to expose her, but I can’t escape the feeling that she somehow is key to discovering who I am.” Caroline marched to the window, swept aside the plush curtains, and looked out over the square. Gentlemen walked along, swinging their canes. Nannies chatted as they pushed their prams down the pavement. Ladies on their way to the milliner’s shop twirled pretty parasols. Beyond the walls of the duke’s town house, life progressed at its usual, brisk pace.

  Everyone seemed to be sailing somewhere exciting and new while she was marooned on the shore, no boat in sight.

  * * *

  As Nash and Caroline rumbled through the dark streets of London in a hackney cab, he enumerated in his head all the ways their plans could go awry.

  Delilah could awake and discover he and Caroline were gone.

  One of the Grey Goose’s patrons could see through his or Caroline’s disguise.

  They could end up in another tavern brawl.

  But, if he was honest with himself, the real source of his worry was how Caroline would respond to returning to the scene of her injury. She desperately wanted her memory back, and he … he wanted that for her too. But he couldn’t help wondering what that might mean for him and for their unconventional courtship—if it could even be called that.

  There hadn’t been any formal introductions or ballroom dances or walks in the park. He didn’t know her surname, and neither did she. But after spending less than a week with her, he was already having difficulty imagining a future without her. A dangerous development, that.

  He glanced over at her gazing out the window on the seat beside him. Remembered it was her first time out of the house since she’d hit her head. “Does anything look familiar?” he asked.

  She continued staring at the passing houses, shops, squares, and streets as though they might disappear if she took her eyes off them. “Not in the sense that I can recall being in specific places, but…”

  “But?” he prompted.

  “I do sense that I belong here. Does that make any sense at all?”

  “It does.” He longed to tell her that perha
ps her instincts were telling her she belonged with him, but instead, he reached between them and held her hand, wishing they weren’t both wearing rough leather gloves.

  “Remember,” he said, “anything that compromises your disguise puts you at risk. So try not to talk. Stay close. And, for the love of God, no smiling.”

  Predictably defiant, she beamed at him. “From the moment we step out of the cab, I promise to stay by your side, silent and sullen.”

  “You’ll need to if we’re going to have the slightest chance of fooling anyone.” He scowled at her long lashes and elfish chin. “Let’s hope the taproom is dimly lit and the clientele are pleasantly drunk.”

  As the cab rolled to a stop, she took a deep breath, gave his hand a little squeeze, and released it. “Here we go,” she said, all her hopes and fears for the evening plain on her lovely face.

  “Everything will be fine,” he said. “Trust me.”

  It took every ounce of restraint he possessed not to grasp her waist as she hopped out of the cab or place his hand at the small of her back.

  For the next half hour, they were blacksmith and apprentice. He pulled his cap low over his brow and strode to the door of the taproom. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Caroline followed at Nash’s heels, taking in the exterior of the Grey Goose. Large mullioned windows, cloudy with smoke, flanked either side of a black door sporting a tarnished brass kickplate. Above the door, the tavern sign hung from an iron brace, swinging slightly in the night breeze.

  None of it looked familiar in the least.

  But she stepped over the threshold, undaunted. Perhaps something inside would jar her stubborn memory.

  Nash led the way through the sparsely populated taproom to a booth in the corner, and she slid onto the wooden bench opposite him. In the center of the room, one table of men played cards, another sang bawdy songs and ogled the waitresses. The acrid smells of liquor, smoke, and urine filled her head, and she fought back a wave of nausea.

  “Are you all right?” Nash asked softly.

  She opened her mouth to reply, then, remembering her vow of silence, clamped her lips shut and nodded.

  A barmaid sauntered over and gave Nash a slow, seductive smile. “Drinks, gentlemen?” she asked, not sparing a glance for Caroline.

  “Two ales, please,” Nash said.

  The barmaid pursed her red lips and stared over her shoulder at him as she walked away, bottom swaying.

  Nash turned to Caroline and shot her an apologetic glance. “This is the booth where I first saw you that night,” he said. “You were sitting alone in that exact spot, looking much as you do now.”

  Caroline shifted on the hard bench, wondering how it was possible that she had no recollection of being there just a few days before. She placed her palms flat on the table, letting her fingertips trace its grooves and gouges, waiting for a memory to take root. But none did.

  “The room was more crowded, then,” Nash elaborated. “It was earlier in the evening, and scores of men poured through the door, looking like they’d come straight from the docks.”

  The barmaid returned, setting their glasses on the table with a thunk that made ale slosh over the rims. But instead of leaving them to their drinks, she snaked her arm around Nash’s neck and whispered in his ear. He gave a curt shake of his head, and she retreated, pouting.

  Caroline took a healthy swig of ale.

  Nash shot a pointed look at her glass and arched a brow.

  In response, she lifted her glass, silently toasted him, and drained half. In no time at all, the bitter ale warmed her belly and loosened her limbs.

  Nash held his mug in midair and stared at her across the table, his expression impassive. Then his amber eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth split into a grin. “Cheers,” he said, before raising his glass and drinking.

  His charming manner melted her insides, and she felt her own mouth curling into a smile.

  “Don’t,” he warned under his breath. “Your smile is what betrayed you last time.”

  Her smile?

  Reading the question in her eyes, he continued. “I stepped in, taking your side, and you smiled at me. That’s when I knew that you weren’t who you seemed.”

  She frowned and tried to remember. Tried to imagine herself doing the things Nash described. None of it seemed real—and somehow that frightened her more than his account of what had happened.

  “Hearing this and not remembering must be upsetting,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.” His tortured expression made her desperate to rise from her seat, perch on his lap, and kiss him on the mouth. If she hadn’t been dressed as a boy, perhaps she would have.

  But blending in and escaping detection was essential, so she settled for surreptitiously extending a leg beneath the table and brushing her knee against the outside of his thigh. His warm gaze snapped to hers and the current between them raised the hairs on the back of her arms.

  Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to leave the tavern. She’d thought that it would hold answers for her, but the crass jokes, pungent smells, and raucous music felt as foreign to her as another language.

  She believed Nash when he said she’d been there.

  But that didn’t mean she belonged there.

  She flicked her eyes toward the door and shrugged one shoulder in a silent plea.

  “Ready to go?” Nash asked.

  When she nodded, he slapped a few coins on the table and eased himself out of the booth.

  She endeavored not to stare at his broad shoulders and powerful back as she followed him toward the door. She could scarcely wait to reach the relative safety of a hackney cab, where she would be free to speak and smile and—

  A warm, clammy hand grasped at Caroline’s wrist, stopping her in her tracks and whirling her around.

  “I recognize you.” A tall barmaid with overly rouged cheeks held Caroline’s forearm tightly and moved closer—till their noses were only an inch apart. “You’re the same boy—nay, girl—who was knocked out cold a few nights ago.”

  Blast. Caroline swiveled her head, looking for Nash, who was almost to the door, unaware that she’d been detained. Swallowing, she turned back toward the barmaid and shook her head in a feeble denial.

  “No?” the barmaid drawled. “Then tell me your name, lad.”

  Caroline yanked her arm loose, attracting the attention of a couple of burly men at a nearby table who must have assumed she’d been harassing the waitress. They stood, blocking her path.

  Dash it all, where was Nash?

  She was about to make a run for it when he angled his way between the two oafs, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and pulled her through the men, rushing her out the door. “I can’t turn my back on you for even a minute?” he whispered in her ear.

  “One would think you’d learned your lesson by now,” she retorted, tripping along as fast as she could in her oversized boots.

  When they reached the street, Nash looked over his shoulder, his expression grim. “Looks like they’re chasing us. Can you run?”

  “Absolutely.” She had no specific memory of being a capable runner, but her leg muscles knew exactly what to do—and she couldn’t wait to stretch them out. “Try to keep up,” she said, winking at him.

  She set off at a brisk jog, which was the best she could do in the ill-fitting boots. Nash stayed right behind her, shielding her from the men in pursuit.

  A potent mixture of fear and excitement kept her legs churning and her arms pumping. But after several blocks, the sole of one boot separated from the foot, and she slowed down.

  “We’ve almost lost them,” he said.

  She turned to him, gasping for air. “My boot broke.”

  Nash frowned and looked down the street at the men still bumbling after them. “We should be able to find a cab on the next block.” He planted his hands on his knees and crouched beside her. “Hop on.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  He jabbed a thumb over his sh
oulder. “Wrap your arms around my neck and jump on my back. I’ll carry you.”

  “You must be mad.”

  Behind them, the men from the tavern began to close the distance. “We don’t like goose chases,” one of them shouted, slurring his words a bit.

  “I won’t drop you,” Nash said solemnly. “I would never let anything happen to you.”

  A warm feeling spread through Caroline’s chest. “Very well.” She flung her arms around his neck, and he lifted her knees as he stood.

  Before she could even adjust to the view from above his shoulders, he was sprinting down the block, and she was bouncing along with him … and laughing.

  Perhaps it was the breeze on her face or the fact that her legs were wantonly wrapped around his waist. Maybe it was her disguise and the thought of how they must appear to anyone who saw them.

  But deep inside, she knew she was laughing because she was with Nash and, for that night at least, they were gloriously free—living an adventure neither of them would forget.

  When he rounded the corner, Caroline spied a hackney cab just a stone’s throw away. “There,” she called out, pointing.

  Nash flagged down the cab, and Caroline dismounted, climbing into the conveyance while he gave instructions to the driver. Seconds later, Nash slid onto the bench beside her and slammed the cab door. “We made it,” he said as the vehicle lurched forward. “Are you all right?”

  She took off her cap and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I’m more than all right.”

  “And your memory?”

  She shook her head. “I had such high hopes, but I’m afraid I didn’t recognize anything or anyone in the tavern.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be.” She nuzzled his neck and brushed her lips across his jaw. “Because while we were fleeing from the tavern, I realized something. When I’m with you—no matter what I’m doing or where I am—I feel like I’m right where I belong.”

  Chapter 13