Page 8 of My Duke, The Stranger
“You remember?” she asked him.
“Barely,” he grimaced. “It is like a dream. What was real, what I imagined…” He exhaled. “But I remember you. Yes…” A smile touched his lips, and again she saw the trust in his eyes. “That was real.”
Isolde stopped breathing. She did not know what to say. The way the duke looked at her was as if they were old friends, as if of all the people he wanted to wake up to, she was the first. Try as she might, she could not bring herself to be angry with this man, to connect him to that same one whom she had spent years hating for how he treated her and her family.
But he is that man. Just because he does not remember does not change what he did.
“What else do you remember?” she asked in a whisper.
He winced again and went to touch his head.
“Don’t.” Gently, she took his hand and laid it back at his side. Then, when she went to pull her hand away, he held onto it, refusing to let go.
“Sorry,” he said when he realized what he was doing. “I… I don’t understand what is happening. Do you and I… do we know one another?”
“Tell me what you remember, exactly.”
“Nothing,” he said, his brow furrowed tight, a flash of anger behind his eyes which quickly transformed into helplessness. “Waking before… seeing you…” Again, that smile. “And you told me that I was… my name is Duke?”
She laughed at that. “Sorry, I should not…”
“So, that was a dream,” he sighed as if upset.
“No, you are almost correct. Your name is Cassian Valecroft…” It felt strange saying the duke’s name, something that Isolde would never ordinarily do or dream of doing. “Duke is your title.”
“My title? What does that mean?”
She frowned. “You really do not know?”
He looked away, and she knew why without having to ask. Even in the darkness, even as she tried so hard not to pity this man,Isolde could not ignore the embarrassment that moved across his face. Shame too, she guessed, as if this was somehow his fault.
“I am sorry,” she said to him. “I did not mean to… you had an accident. You fell from your horse and hit your head.”
“Ah, so that it is,” he said. “It is good to know then, that the pain in my skull is not normal. And hopefully not permanent.” He chuckled and then winced.
Despite herself, Isolde laughed. “I would think not. The headaches will likely last a little longer, but by tomorrow, I hope, you will be able to walk and move without succumbing to agony.”
“A shame,” he said as he shifted. “This bed is remarkably comfortable.”
Again, Isolde laughed. She almost felt guilty for doing so, as if it was wrong to laugh at a joke made by this man. She needed to be stronger, more formal, and keep her distance. His memory would come back soon, and when it did, she doubted that anything said or done at this moment would make a difference to who he truly was.
“You really do not know what it means to be a duke?” she asked.
“Should I?”
“Your memory will return in time,” she said to him. “Although I cannot say when. And when it does, you will understand that duke is a powerful title. These lands… even this home…” She sighed and bowed her head. “It all belongs to you.”
“It does?” he asked with disbelief in his voice. “How can one man own so much?”
She shrugged. “That is simply how it is.”
“Huh.” He looked puzzled by the concept. “And what of you? Are you also a duke?”
“What? No,” she laughed. “Women cannot be dukes.”
“What are you, then?”
Isolde opened her mouth to answer what should have been a simple question. That she was the daughter of the vicar, that she was his tenant, that her life and her wellbeing—and even her future—were at his mercy.
