The Viscount's Counterfeit Wife (18 page)

When she failed to
notice him after several long moments, he cleared his throat.

She let out a startled
yelp and jumped back, almost tripping over the foot of the large
easel.

“Guilty conscience?”
he teased.

“What are you doing
up here?” she demanded angrily.

She didn’t sound at
all happy to see him, he was disappointed to note. Downright
unfriendly, in fact.

“You can’t come in
here.” She set her brush and palette down. Her tone was accusatory,
as if he had committed a serious offence. “No one is allowed in
here. Ever.”

“Not even me?”

“No, not even you.”

He could almost swear
she’d been about to say, “especially not you!” She glanced
around frantically, looking for something. She reached for a large
paint-stained cloth, while keeping an eagle eye on him.

He edged forward a
little to explain his presence.

“Do – not – move
– any – closer,” she barked.

He halted on the spot.
His quiet little wife could roar like a lion when aroused to it. He
should have been outraged she wanted him gone. He suspected most men
would be. Perverse creature that he was, he found it… stimulating.
To see his little lioness defending her territory excited his senses.
He moved forward again, wanting to help her as she struggled to cover
her work with the unwieldy cloth.

“I said no closer.”
Her tone, now, was shrill with alarm.

He began to feel sorry
for causing her such anxiety, then had to gulp back a laugh when he
heard an Italian curse escape her usually circumspect mouth. No doubt
about it, she was flustered and furious. He backed up a few feet and
folded his arms across his chest.

“What are you
painting?” He hoped to inject a friendlier tone. After all, he
wanted to ask for her help.

“None of your–”
she stopped in mid-sentence, “business,” she mumbled huffily. She
finished covering the canvas then turned her full focus on him.

Oh oh, now he was in
for it. She was seething.

Her eyes narrowed into
slits.

This was much more fun,
and invigorating, than trying to plumb the depths of his mind for
traces of memory.

“You are never to
come here again, you understand?” She advanced on him with a
threatening stride.

If she weren’t so
tiny, he’d have felt inclined to retreat, she looked so fierce.
Instead, he held his ground, as well as his laughter. Now he knew why
he’d married her!

“Why not?” He knew
he was baiting the lion cub, but he sensed this was an innate part of
his nature.

“Because this is
my
private space.” She must have heard her own words echoing back to
her because she relented a little and softened her tone a shade.
“Surely a woman is allowed to have a place where only she can go?”
She blew out a frustrated breath that lifted the hair off her
forehead.

“Not unreasonable, I
suppose.”

She glanced sharply at
him. She thought he was mocking her. She seemed unable to make up her
mind what his intentions were.

He stifled a chuckle.

“What are you doing
up here?” She was calming down now.

“I woke early and
decided to explore. It’s the first morning I’ve felt able to rise
and dress myself.”

“No recovered
memories?” She looked almost fearful of his answer.

“None.” His lovely
spouse was so upset by his invasion of her painting space, he hadn’t
the heart to tell her he had a vague memory that he might also paint.
Besides, she’d know that already. They clearly didn’t share a
studio, if she was this protective of her privacy. Where was his?

Ah… of course, he was
just visiting London, so he wouldn’t have one in this rented house.

Not that he felt like
painting at the moment. His lack of memory was too all-consuming and
left no room for anything else.

Except her.

Besides, he might be
having one of those false memories the doctor warned about. Being
married to a painter might be making him believe he was also one.

“I disturbed your
work. My apologies. If you want to continue, I can go explore
elsewhere.”

“No!” She seemed to
realize she had overreacted and lightened her next words. “I’ll
put my paints away and we can go have breakfast.” She wiped the
excess paint off of her brushes, gave them a quick swish in a
container of dirty gum turp, then plunked them, brush-side down, into
a larger bottle of cleaner turpentine and covered her palette with a
damp cloth.

Seeing how she was only
temporarily storing her painting tools, he guessed she planned on
continuing her painting later today. What was so important about her
pastime that it required such dedication, such secrecy?

She moved towards him
and said, “Shall we? You must be ready for food by now.”

He held out his arm
and, after a momentary hesitation, she took it. He wasn’t that
hungry, but he wasn’t about to deny himself the opportunity to
spend time with her. He wanted to know everything about her, to
connect with her on a deeper level and find out why this woman of his
was so elusive.

Reed was so frustrated
he had to stop himself from slamming the door! He strode to his bed
and lay down on his back, arms crossed over his chest. He was
disgruntled and upset at not being able to remember more about
himself.

And his wife had
disappeared again! Probably back up to her studio to paint.

At least she’d shared
breakfast with him. Although, she’d been even more uncommunicative
than usual. Still annoyed he’d invaded her sanctuary, he’d wager.

Not like when she
touched him last night. He smiled wryly and lay down on his bed. To
think he’d imagined she was coming to have her way with him.

Hell! In the excitement
of leaving his room to explore this morning, he’d forgotten all
about her late night visit. Understandable when he thought about how
blurred it all seemed. Like a wisp of a dream, quickly forgotten.

Uncrossing his arms, he
turned on his side, trying to make himself comfortable.

“Damna–!” He bit
off his curse as pain radiated through his arm and shoulder.

“Blast it!” He sat
up so fast it hurt even more. His sore shoulder! The one she had
bandaged last night. Hurriedly, he removed his shirt and worked the
cloth covering the wound free. Now that he was a little less numb
from the laudanum, he felt some pain at the back of his shoulder.

Leaving the cloth on
the bed, he stood and walked over to the light by the window, though
he took care not to stand directly in front of it. Those dratted men
in that house across the street, prying into others’ business! He
still didn’t know whose house they were watching, but he had no
intention of making it easy for them if it was this one.

He twisted his head to
see what his injury looked like, but it was awkwardly placed at the
back of his shoulder. Seeing it properly was impossible. He reached
over his shoulder to touch it and winced. Hard to believe how sore it
was when until now, he hadn’t felt it at all. That must have been
one hell of a strong dose of opium they were giving him! If Talia
hadn’t come to his room last night, it might have taken another day
or two for him to start feeling it.

He reached for the
hand-held mirror on the dresser and awkwardly placed it behind him to
reflect the wound into the mirror attached to the top of the dresser
in front of him.

Christ!
He almost dropped the mirror.
A
gunshot wound!

Well! Seemed he
remembered what that looked like without any difficulty! He felt a
bit wobbly, so he went back to sit down on the bed.

He’d been shot! Why
hadn’t they told him?

A sudden clear image of
him scaling a wall flitted through his mind.

A
real memory? Or his imagination?

The laudanum they’d
been giving him must have muddled his brain. Why would he be climbing
a wall?

He gripped his head
with both hands. It ached from all his efforts to remember. The only
thing going through his mind was that his wife had lied to him!

Hadn’t
she?

He wasn’t sure how,
but he felt betrayed. She hadn’t told him he’d been shot.

Surely telling him
wouldn’t have been prompting his memory. Had she not wanted to
worry him? Or did she conceal it out of fear?

Fear
of
him or fear
for
him?

What a thought! About
his own wife!

He stood up again. He
couldn’t stay still. He paced to the door.

Had he been in a duel?
Against whom? A cuckolded husband? But that would mean he’d cheated
on Talia. That didn’t feel right to him. He thought himself a more
honorable man than that. He strode back to the window.

For all he knew, if he
had cheated on her, she might have shot him herself! Not that he’d
blame her if she had.

Suddenly he found
himself chuckling aloud at the notion of his quiet, sweet spouse
shooting him. It was hard to imagine. He tugged the curtain back a
little to see if the daytime snoop was watching.

On the other hand,
after witnessing her anger this morning, she might have shot him just
for disturbing her while painting! His chuckles turned to outright
laughter. She certainly had a temper. Had the situation been reversed
and she had cheated on him, he could see himself shooting the other
man, but never shooting her!

Lord, he had a wild
imagination. No contesting that.

A loud gasp warned him
someone had entered the room and was seeing his wound for the first
time. So... not his wife. Turning, he saw Mrs. P., one arm filled
with sheets, her free hand to her mouth, and a shocked look on her
face.

“Not pretty, is it?”
What else could he say in the circumstances?

“But…” Clearly
aghast, words almost failed the housekeeper. “Someone shot you!”

“You recognize the
wound?”

“Me late husband was
a soldier and I followed the drum. I know what a gunshot wound looks
like.” She hesitated, then moving closer — probably angling to
get a better look — she asked, “But who shot you and why?”

“I wish I knew, Mrs.
P.”

At her bewildered look,
he added, “Has no one told you that I remember almost nothing of
who I am?”

“Not really.” He
could see she was recalling what she’d been told. “Foster said
something about you ailing, but...” Her eyes shifted away from him
guiltily.

What had the old
curmudgeon told her? Reed wondered uneasily.

“... he told me
nothing about what your complaint was.”

She was lying. The
butler must have said something pretty damning for her to not want to
repeat it.

She appeared to decide
he wasn’t dangerous and came further into the room. “You have no
idea who did this to you or why, truly?”

“None whatsoever.”
He moved over to the bed and sat down again. “Sounds pathetic,
doesn’t it?”

“Tsk tsk, none of
that self-pity. T’ain’t your fault your mind has gone to let.”
She moved with him and patted his good shoulder.

He laughed. He couldn’t
help it. He knew this wasn’t funny. But that his having no memory
should make this dear woman think he had lost his mind. That amused
him. “My brain works just fine, it’s my memory that’s to let.”

Like
what is my name? My age? Where was I born? Are my parents alive?
Important things like that.

“Of course, dear.”
It was clear she was humoring him. “So what if you think you’re
wed to everyone, what harm can it do?”

“What?” he asked
incredulously.

“Don’t get yourself
in a tizzy, I didn’t mean nothing by it. Just something Mr. Foster
told me, that’s all.”

“About me thinking I
was married to everybody I met?”

She backed away a
little and looked a little uncertain, as if she was rethinking
talking to him so freely.

It suddenly dawned on
Reed that if they hadn’t told her about his amnesia, then maybe
they hadn’t warned her not to tell him anything.

“So perhaps, now that
you’re here, you won’t mind helping me fill in a few blank
spaces? My wife and Foster have been so busy taking care of me, I
haven’t wanted to bother them with questions.”

“Sure enough.” She
perched on the end of the rocking chair, bundle of linen still in
hand. “What do you want to know?”

“When did Miss Talia
and I get married? It’s a terrible thing for a husband not to
remember his own wedding date.”

“You have no idea
when you got married?” She hesitated. Something had occurred to her
and now, she seemed uncertain about answering his questions. “Were
you married to someone before Miss Tally?”

Ah, if she believed he
leapt into fictitious marriages with everyone, she might be
questioning his and Talia’s marriage. Or was she worried she’d be
his next quarry? “I don’t remember anything about my life until a
few days ago. That’s why I’m asking you when we got married.”

“I’d like to help
you, but last time I saw Miss Tally, she weren’t married.”

“And how long ago was
that?”

“About three weeks
ago.”

Damnation!
He’d expected her to say last year at the very least.
They’d
been wed less than three weeks!
And his memory was lost
not quite a week ago.

What
was going on here?
The discordant note he’d felt right
from the start about this whole situation was clamoring for
attention.

He began quizzing Mrs.
P. He knew he’d better get her to reveal as much about his wife as
he could, before they muzzled her. But soon he heard Foster’s heavy
footfalls plodding up the stairs. He winked at the housekeeper and
said, “We’ll keep this little talk to ourselves, won’t we? No
sense in worrying Miss Talia or Foster any more than we must, is
there?”