A Duke to Restore her Memory (Preview)

Chapter One

Draycott Manor, Cornwall, 1812

“Christina.” Viscount Draycott’s voice was unusually tense as he addressed his daughter. “We must talk. Can you join me in the parlour after you have led your horse to its stable?”

Lady Christina Whitford nodded her head uncertainly as she gazed at her father. She had just returned from a ride along the rugged coastline of Cornwall, near Exmouth, and her heart was still pounding with exhilaration from the wild ride. Christina loved to ride with abandon, taking in the beauty of this corner of England, her eyes feasting on the wild cliffs, the vast sea, and the tall ships sailing in the distance. There was nothing like it in the world.

“Of course, Papa,” she replied, trying to ignore the stab of misgiving in her chest at her father’s tone. “I will be along presently.”

The viscount nodded tersely, turning and striding back to the grand house. Christina frowned as she led her beloved black horse, Romulus, to the stable. What was going on?

Her sense of unease increased when she finally walked into the parlour. Her father was leaning against the mantelpiece with an abstracted, faraway expression. He turned at her footsteps, visibly starting, gesturing for her to sit down.

What is going on? Papa is usually so genial and easygoing. I cannot recall the last time I saw him looking so distracted and tense.

Christina sank into the plush velvet settee, her riding habit rustling as she smoothed her skirts. The parlour, usually a warm and inviting sanctuary, suddenly felt oppressive. Heavy drapes blocked much of the afternoon sunlight, casting long shadows across the Persian rug. The ticking of the ornate grandfather clock in the corner seemed unnaturally loud in the tense silence.

Her father cleared his throat, his fingers drumming an erratic rhythm on the mantelpiece. “My dear,” he began, his voice rough with emotion, “I am afraid I have some rather distressing news to impart.”

Christina’s heart began to race. She had never seen her father so discomposed. “What is it, Papa? Please, you are frightening me.”

“There is no easy way to say this, Christina,” he replied. She noticed a small vein twitching in his right temple. “Our family is experiencing severe financial difficulty. We are, to put it bluntly, in debt. We are in great debt.”

Christina gasped, her eyes widening in shock. “But … how? How could this have happened? We are one of the first families in Exmouth! I believed our fortune was rock solid …?”

The viscount sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging as if under an immense weight. He sat beside Christina, taking her trembling hands in his own.

“My dear girl, I have failed you, failed our family,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “It began innocently enough with investments in shipping ventures, but the lure of quick profits blinded me to the risks. I was so certain of success, so eager to increase our fortune …”

He paused, swallowing hard. Christina could see the sheen of unshed tears in his eyes.

“At first, the investments paid handsomely,” he continued. “I was intoxicated by the success, convinced of my financial acumen. I began to invest more heavily, borrowing against our estates to finance ever-grander schemes.”

The viscount’s gaze drifted to the heavily cloaked window. “Then came ruin.” His voice choked. “There is hardly anything left in the coffers anymore.” He hesitated, slowly turning back to look at her. “And I am afraid that I must ask you to solve this situation now … even though it pains me to do it.”

“Me?” Christina’s voice faltered. “How can I solve it?”

A deathly silence fell for a moment, and Christina could barely breathe.

“I am afraid that I must ask you to make a great sacrifice, my dear,” the viscount continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “To save our family from complete ruin, I have … I have arranged a marriage for you.”

Christina felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs. “A marriage?” she repeated faintly, her mind reeling. “To whom?”

Her father’s eyes dropped, unable to meet her gaze. “To Lord Bertram Powell, the Earl of Cheltenham.”

The name hit Christina like a physical blow. Lord Powell? The very thought made her skin crawl. She had encountered the gentleman at various society functions, and each encounter had left her with an overwhelming desire to scrub herself clean. His eyes were cold and predatory, his smile cruel and mocking. Worse still were the whispered rumours circulating about his treatment of his servants. Christina had heard that the earl beat them – they were always running away.

Christina took a deep breath, trying to fight the panic within her, which felt like a tiny, wild bird trying to escape her chest. The earl owned many copper mines along the Cornish coast, and she had heard rumours that he was an unscrupulous businessman, in addition to his rough and coarse way with his inferiors. And apart from all that, the gentleman was twenty years her senior. Her very soul shrivelled at the mere thought of marrying him. She had always dreamt of a love match. Now, that dream was slipping through her fingers faster than sand.

Christina leapt to her feet, her heart pounding. “No!” she cried, her voice ringing through the parlour. “I cannot marry Lord Powell, Papa. I will not!”

The viscount’s face darkened, his jaw clenching. “You have no choice, Christina. The arrangements have already been made.” He paused. “Lord Powell will be arriving at Draycott Manor next week, and the betrothal will be officially announced then.”

“No choice?” Christina’s eyes flashed with defiance. “I am not a piece of property to be bartered away! I am your daughter – your flesh and blood!”

She paced the room, her riding habit swishing wildly around her ankles. The afternoon light, now golden and fading, cast long shadows across the floor through the curtains, mirroring the darkness creeping into her heart.

“Lord Powell is a brute, Papa! A cruel, heartless man who cares nothing for anyone but himself. How can you even consider such a match for me?”

Her father snorted with derision. “You exaggerate, Christina! Lord Powell is a fine man, an earl, an exemplary figure in our community.” He shook his head angrily. “Would you see us cast out onto the streets? Our ancestral home sold to pay our debts?”

Christina whirled to face him, her green eyes flashing. “And what of my happiness? I did not create any of this! Would you see your only daughter consigned to misery forever?”

Her father’s face tightened. “You will do your duty by your family, daughter. You will be a countess, one of the finest figures in this district. What more do you want?”

“I want love!” cried Christina, her hands balling into fists at her side, her eyes fiery. “I want respect! And I want to respect my life partner. I cannot respect nor ever admire such a man …”

“You will do it,” growled her father. “You have no choice. It is my final word, Christina.”

Christina glared at him amid a tense impasse, where they stared at each other, neither willing to back down. Christina felt a wave of pure anger but also intense sorrow. She and her father were so rarely at loggerheads that this dreadful scene – to witness his transformation from a loving, doting father to this cold, implacable stranger ordering her to marry the Earl of Cheltenham – was truly shocking.

She knew, with sudden, crystal clarity, that he would not capitulate. She would be wasting breath entirely if she kept trying to convince him.

“I feel unwell,” she said in a choked voice. “I am going to my chambers.”

“Christina …”

But she was already sweeping out of the room, running as fast as she could. The thought briefly crossed her mind to appeal to her mother, who would be resting in her chambers with her embroidery patch as was her usual habit at this hour, but she knew that was useless. Mama would always side with her husband, and besides, Mama would not see anything wrong with her marrying the earl. The viscountess wanted her daughter to find a good match, and in Mama’s eyes, an earl was one of the finest matches there was – even if this particular earl was an utter brute.

She ran up the staircase to her chambers, bursting into the room and falling across the bed. She could no longer contain the tears – they burst like a torrent. She grabbed a pillow, sobbing hard. She was so distraught she didn’t even hear the door opening and someone entering the room until she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder. She stopped, mid sob, staring up at the kind, warm face of Harriet, her lady’s maid, who was also her friend and confidante.

“My Lady,” soothed Harriet, her brows knitting together in concern. “Whatever is the matter? Why are you so distressed?”

“Oh, Harriet,” cried Christina, her voice thick with tears. “My life is over! It is over!”

“But why? What has happened?”

“My father is forcing me to marry Lord Powell,” she replied, her face contorting with grief and anger again. “He is a brute, Harriet.” She shuddered. “You know, more than anyone, how much I longed for a love match. And now, that hope is lying in ashes around me.”

“I am so very sorry, milady,” said Harriet solemnly, shaking her head. “It surprises me that Lord Draycott would do such a thing. He dotes upon you. He has only ever wanted your happiness.”

“Yes, well, things have changed,” said Christina, unable to keep the thread of bitterness out of her voice. “He invested heavily in a shipping scheme that went wrong, and our fortune is greatly diminished … and now, he wants me to marry the earl to save our family.”

“That is a heavy burden to carry,” said Harriet, shaking her head ruefully. “But I suppose you have no choice now, milady. You are compelled to do your duty by your family–”

“No!” cried Christina, pushing her hair from her face as she jumped to her feet and started pacing the floor. “There must be a way …”

She stopped suddenly, staring at her reflection in the mirror. A pale face gazed back at her, streaked with tears. Through the shimmering mist they created, her green eyes looked brighter, almost catlike. Her hair had dislodged from its neat chignon and had fallen, soft golden curls framing her face, tumbling down her back.

I am only twenty years old. My whole life was ahead of me. And now, I feel as if I am about to be enshrouded in a tomb. As if I am about to be buried alive.

“Papa may change his mind with time,” she said faintly, her heart beating erratically. “If he loses me for a short while, he might realize how much my happiness means to him and that I will never compromise it.”

Harriet stared at her. “What do you mean, milady?”

Christina took a deep breath. A plan was starting to formulate in her mind. A plan so daring, so wild, that she was shocking herself even as it was crystallizing.

“My dear friend Lady Penelope Duvall lives in Edinburgh,” she said breathlessly. “I know that ships leave for Edinburgh from Plymouth … if I can get to Plymouth and get on a ship that sails to Edinburgh, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that Penelope’s family will give me sanctuary …”

“Oh, no,” Harriet said, shaking her head vigorously. “You are contemplating running away? It is so dangerous, milady! Thieves could beset you, highwaymen, cutthroats – you might never even make the ship, or if you do, be ravished upon it!”

“No one will notice me,” interrupted Christina breathlessly, staring at her maid. “Not if I look like you, Harriet … and not myself at all.” She hesitated. “If I journey as a maid, not a lady, no one will look twice at me. It will be the perfect disguise to aid my passage.”

Harriet’s face blanched. She looked shocked.

“You must help me, my friend,” continued Christina faintly. “You must give me one of your gowns to wear.” She turned, gazing out the window at the wild blue sea beyond. “There is no time to tarry. From this moment, Lady Christina Whitford no longer exists … at least, not for a while.”

Chapter Two

“Just a little while longer, Romulus,” said Christina wearily, leaning to whisper into the horse’s ear. “Not too much further, boy.”

The horse whinnied, his ears flicking at the sound of her voice. Christina could feel the tremble in the horse’s limbs and the sweat permeating his body. They had been riding for over two hours, hugging the cliffs along the coastline, galloping like the wind. She had headed out at first light, clutching a small bag, trying to get to the stables before the stable hands roused for the day and set off the alarm.

Her heart gave an almighty throb. She was really doing this. She was heading towards Plymouth to set sail on one of the tall ships heading north to Scotland. She was running away from home and marriage to the Earl of Cheltenham.

It is just as well that I acted before contemplating further. I may have lost the courage entirely to do this.

She had watched the sun rise slowly over the sea, casting burnt orange and yellow flames on the water. If she hadn’t been riding for her liberty, she might have stopped to admire its breathtaking beauty. Now, grey mist had descended over the sea, giving the landscape an otherworldly, ethereal quality. But it also made it difficult to see anything and the path more perilous.

She didn’t have time to acknowledge what was around her, anyway. Draycott Manor would be aware by now – or very soon – that she was missing, and she didn’t have time to spare, even though Harriet had promised to delay the inevitable as long as she could, telling her parents and the other servants that she was feeling sick and would be lying in her bed longer than normal.

Christina sighed heavily, pulling in the reins and stopping the horse abruptly. Romulus needed a short break, and so did she – she knew she was getting closer to Plymouth and her destination. Her mouth was dry from thirst. Quickly, she dismounted, talking soothingly to the horse for a moment, before wandering towards the cliff edge, gazing out over the sea. A slight breeze lifted the ribbons of the old bonnet she was wearing, courtesy of Harriet, as she opened the water canteen, drinking thirstily.

She glanced down at the faded gown she was wearing. It was pale grey and coarse, rubbing and scratching against her skin. She had no idea what she looked like – she hadn’t even bothered to glance at herself in the mirror before she fled Draycott Manor.

But she knew she didn’t look like herself. If any of her acquaintances happened to be out riding this morning, they wouldn’t recognize Lady Christina Whitford, the only daughter of Viscount Draycott. They would assume she was a maid or another kind of servant in this plain garb.

She sighed again, her heart contorting wildly, as the enormity of what she was doing hit her with the force of a brick in the face. Uncertainty swept over her. Was she acting prematurely? Should she return home and keep trying to convince Papa to change his mind? Would it work?

You know it will not work. At least not now. Papa is adamant. The only way he might be persuaded to change his mind is if he faces losing me. And if he never changes his mind, then I must forge my own path, estranged from my family forever.

She took two little steps towards the cliff’s edge, lost in her thoughts. What if Penelope’s family refused her sanctuary? She knew her dear friend would advocate for her to be allowed to stay, but what if her family resisted the entreaty? What would she do then? She didn’t have much money in her purse. She would be forced to try to find work to support herself – something she had never contemplated in her life and was ill-equipped to do. She had been born and raised a noble lady. She couldn’t be anything else …

Suddenly, she heard a faint squawk emanating from below. She peered down, leaning over the edge of the cliff, spellbound. There was a bird’s nest perched on some craggy rock – she could clearly see it, with three shiny large eggs nestled in the twigs and branches and a large bird hovering over it, staring at her suspiciously with black beady eyes.

“Oh, you are magnificent!” she cried, the wind catching her voice. “Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm …”

Suddenly, the bird took flight, sweeping towards her. Christina stepped back hastily, flailing, realizing too late that she was too close to the edge and the ground was slipping and crumbling beneath her feet.

She put her arms up to ward off the bird, feeling it brush against her head. The ground gave way beneath her, and she fell down the cliff, bumping and colliding violently with the rocks into an old, abandoned mining shaft. She hadn’t even realized it was there. She hadn’t even seen it.

She screamed, her hands desperately trying to break her fall. With a rush of sickening certainty, she knew it was too late. She felt the sharp, jagged bump of her head colliding with a rock, the agonizing pain, white-hot and overwhelming, before everything faded to black.

Sebastian Cavendish, the Duke of Newquay, took the reins of his horse, leading it along the shore, and frowned. The mist had grown thicker, and it was difficult to see. For the umpteenth time, he wondered why he had felt compelled to head out for a ride so early this morning. He had lived in this area of Cornwall his entire life and knew that the early morning mists made visibility almost impossible.

I will head back to Newquay Hall soon. I will meander for just a little longer.

Sebastian felt the sea breeze lifting the curls on the nape of his neck before it grew harsher, threatening to take his hat off his head and send it into the sky. He put a hand on his head to stop it taking flight, squinting his eyes and trying to see through the mist. The lone cry of a seabird sounded into the silence as he picked his way carefully over the rocks.

Suddenly, the mist lifted like a veil, and he realized he was almost upon an abandoned mining shaft. His heart shifted – the shaft belonged to him, one of the many abandoned shafts that dotted this coastline. He frowned. The wooden boards nailed across the entrance were broken and scattered haphazardly along the ground, which was dangerous. How had it happened?

Abruptly, he stiffened. A black horse was wandering along the clifftop, peering down. A saddled horse without a rider. At that moment, the beast let out a whinny of distress.

Sebastian’s heart skipped a beat. A strange feeling stole over him. Slowly, he stepped towards the opening of the shaft, peering down into the inky darkness. It was as black and silent as the grave.

“Is anyone there?” he called, hearing his voice echo and bounce off the walls.

There was no response.

Sebastian’s frown deepened. There was no reason to think that anything was amiss in the shaft … except for the fact that there was a riderless, distressed horse wandering just above, and the boards were broken. He hesitated for a moment before dropping the reins of his horse and climbing down the old ladder into the darkness.

He swore beneath his breath. He couldn’t see a thing … but he knew he had some matches in the jacket pocket if he needed them. He called out again, but there was no response. He hesitated. Was he being foolish? Was this strange instinct that something was amiss in the shaft entirely baseless?

He swore again as his boot missed a rung, righting himself. He heard crumbling dirt falling to the bottom.

His heart seized. A low moan from below. Had he imagined it?

He quickened his pace, reaching the bottom. With trembling hands, he found the matches, lighting one with difficulty. He looked around, finding an old lantern, lighting it, and holding it high. A pool of light illuminated the space, and he gasped.

A woman was lying there, not moving, dirty and dishevelled. His eyes raked over her, taking in the distressing scene. She was wearing a faded, plain grey gown, the type that women servants wore, and a battered old bonnet lay next to her head, with her hair spread around her like a river of gold.

He rushed to her side, putting his arms around her and turning her around. She was as limp as a ragdoll, and her eyes were firmly closed. He could see she was deathly pale and there was a large, bloody gash on her forehead.

“Madam?” His voice was filled with trepidation. “Madam!”

There was no response. His heart filled with trepidation again. Was she dead?

But no. At that moment, he saw the rise and fall of her chest – almost imperceptible, but definite. She was alive. She had survived a fall down the shaft. She was injured and unconscious, but she was still breathing.

Thank you, Lord.

“Can you hear me?” he said loudly, shaking her a little. “Can you open your eyes?”

His eyes flickered over her face for any sign that she could hear him. He realized, quite suddenly, that she was beautiful. Her skin was as flawless and pale as milk. Her cheekbones were high and sweeping, her lips parted slightly, full and luscious below a button nose, with a tiny smattering of freckles across the bridge. She had long, dark golden eyelashes. He guessed she was in her late teens or early twenties.

Suddenly, her eyes opened, quite dramatically, staring straight into his face. He gasped again. Her eyes were dark green, the colour of moss, with golden flecks within them. Quite beautiful. But they were clouded with confusion and pain.

“Where … where am I?” she gasped in a low, ragged voice.

“You fell into a mine shaft,” he whispered, unable to take his eyes off her face. “You are injured.”

“Oh,” she whispered, her lips starting to tremble. She screwed up her face as if she were about to burst into tears. “I … I cannot remember anything …”

“Ahoy down there! Is there anything amiss?”

Sebastian jumped at the rough male voice, squinting up. He could just make out a dark figure peering over the edge, gazing down at them, but he couldn’t see who it was.

“I am the Duke of Newquay,” he called. “And there is an injured woman here. She fell down the shaft.”

The figure swore loudly. “Your Grace! It’s Abraham Barstow, one of your tenants. I saw your horse and thought that something was not right …”

“I know who you are now, Barstow,” said Sebastian, his heart lurching with gratitude. “We need to get this woman to safety immediately. Can you assist?”

“Aye,” called the man. “I will get some more men. We will find something to gather her and pull her up. And I will send for the physician …”

“Thank you, Barstow,” called Sebastian, almost slumping with relief. “Go now. There is no time to waste.”

“Aye, Your Grace,” said the man tersely. Then he was gone.

Sebastian turned back to the woman in his arms. Her eyes had closed again. Her brief moment of consciousness was gone. A sliver of fear pierced his heart. Would Barstow find help in time? Or was this beautiful woman on the verge of death … and about to slip over the threshold entirely?

Chapter Three

Christina’s eyes fluttered open. She was lying on the ground outside, and faces were peering intently at her. She narrowed her eyes, squinting, trying to make out who they were and where she was. The blue of the sky was behind the figures and the sun was shining brightly – so brightly that she couldn’t see properly.

She gasped loudly as she felt a searing pain in her head. Her mind was whirring. She reared up as a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm her.

“Whoa,” said a deep voice, clutching her tightly. “Try not to move. The physician will be along presently. You have suffered a head injury from a fall.”

She tried to focus on the voice, her eyes fixing on the man’s face.

“Who are you?” he whispered. “How did you fall into the shaft?”

Christina bit her lip in confusion. Her mind was spinning.

“I was … I was …” Her voice was fading in and out. “I … I cannot remember …”

A stab of pure terror gripped her. For she realized, as she stammered, that she really couldn’t remember a thing. Not how she came to be lying here with this handsome man attending her, but who she even was, or what her life was. It was all a great, gaping blank in her mind.

The man’s dark eyes flickered over her face. “Do not push yourself,” he whispered in a kind, gentle voice. “You are injured and have had a great shock.” Suddenly, he looked up, his face crumpling with relief. “Here is the physician now.”

Gently, he placed her down on the ground, taking his arms away from her. She felt the removal of them was a loss. Another man was there now, peering into her face. An older man with steel grey hair and jowls. He was wearing gold-rimmed spectacles.

“My name is Dr Watson,” said the man in an assured, comforting voice. “And you have hurt yourself, young woman, quite badly.” He put his hands on her head, peering at her forehead. “That is a nasty gash. I will clean it up, and then we will get to the bottom of this.”

As the physician cleaned her wound, she winced, gritting her teeth. It hurt. And not only that, but her head was also throbbing mightily. Covertly, she glanced to the side. The handsome man who had rescued her was there, observing, a look of concern on his face.

She noted the fineness of his features, and her eyes widened. He was handsome, with dark brown eyes, a strong jawline, and a straight, commanding nose. He had black, curling hair, which was tousled. He frowned as he gazed at her.

He had a very commanding presence and was well-dressed in tan britches and long black boots. An ermine-lined black cape wrapped around him, moving slightly in the wind. She realized, quite suddenly, that she was lying on sand and that the vast blue behind the handsome, kind man was the sea.

She was on the beach. How on earth had she got here? What had happened?

And who was she?

Another wave of terror swept over her as the physician dressed her head wound. No matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t remember. She didn’t even know her own name. It was all a complete blank, as if her mind was a slate, and had been wiped clean entirely.

After the physician had attended her, checking for other injuries and finding that she was in generally good condition despite the head injury, with no broken bones or the like, he stepped back, gazing at her thoughtfully.

“And who are you, young woman?” he asked slowly. “Can you tell me where you live?”

“I do not know,” cried Christina, her voice filled with anguish. “I cannot remember a single thing. I do not know why I am here or how I fell down the shaft … and nor can I even remember my name or any details of who I am and my life.” She gazed at him, her eyes stricken. “What is wrong with me?”

The physician sighed heavily, shaking his head in sorrow. “I was afraid this might happen,” he said tersely. “You hit your head quite badly, and sometimes, memory loss accompanies such an injury.”

“She cannot remember who she is?” The handsome man’s voice was filled with incredulity. “How is that possible, Dr Watson?”

The physician sighed again. “We do not know how or why it happens,” he replied slowly. “But it does. If the blow to the head is sufficient, then memory loss can occur, ranging from minor details being lost … to full-blown loss of memory of the person’s entire life leading up to the accident. It appears that this is what has happened to this young woman.”

“I will never know who I am?” Christina’s mouth went dry from terror. “I will never recover details of my life or know my own name?”

The physician gave a bark of laughter. “You must be a local, young woman, and so someone will be bound to recognize you around here,” he replied dryly. “But in any case, the memory loss usually does not last forever. It may take some time, but you have an excellent chance of full recovery.”

“But what are we to do with her?” asked the handsome man, kneeling beside her, his brow furrowed. “Not one of the men who assisted in pulling her from the shaft knows who she is. None of them have ever seen her before.”

“That is a concern,” admitted the physician, frowning. “She must be looked after. She has suffered a major injury to her head and cannot even recall her own name. She cannot be simply allowed to walk away.”

Christina blinked, her mind whirring again at the enormity of what the physician was saying. She had no home to go to … because she couldn’t remember her own home. She was utterly adrift in the world, like a ship without an anchor. It was a truly terrifying feeling.

Who am I? Where do I live? What is my name?

“I will take responsibility for her,” said the handsome man abruptly. “I will care for her at Newquay Hall. She can stay with me until she recovers her memory or someone recognizes her and takes her to her home.” He hesitated, his face contorting. “I feel responsible. I own that abandoned mine shaft, and somehow, it was unsafe. It should have been boarded up properly. The accident would never have happened if proper procedures were in place.”

Christina gaped at him. “Thank you,” she stammered, feeling overwhelmed with gratitude. The gentleman was kind as well as staggeringly handsome and commanding. “May I ask … who are you?”

The physician snorted with laughter. “You are addressing his grace, the Duke of Newquay, young woman,” he said in a dry voice. “You are on his land. His grace owns over one hundred acres of this coastline.”

Christina’s eyes widened in shock. “Oh,” she said slowly. She knew a duke was a noble figure, almost as high as a prince. “I am very sorry, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect …”

“I am not offended,” said the duke with a slight smile. “There is no need to apologize at all. You are injured, and this is no place to think about correct protocol.” His smile widened. “You are willing to accept sanctuary at my home, then?”

“Of course,” said Christina, overcome. “I accept with gratitude.”

“I wish I knew your name at least,” said the duke, gazing at her steadily. “What can I call you?”

“How about we call her Georgina for now,” suggested the physician, shrugging his shoulders, “for the sake of King George. Would that be acceptable?”

“Perfectly,” said the duke, looking amused. “As long as it is acceptable to the young woman. Do you like the name?”

“I suppose,” said Christina, having no particular opinion on the name. “It is as good as any name … until I remember my own.”

A wave of sorrow swept over her. It felt enormous. The loss was so great that her mind reeled again. She couldn’t even remember her own name. It was the most basic thing anchoring her to her life and who she was. Without it, it was as if she were nobody. It was as if she had as much importance as a shell lying on this beach.

Now, I am someone called Georgina. I have become a new person. It is as if I have been born again.

“Can you stand?” asked the duke, stepping towards her. “If you are agreeable, I will tie your horse to my own, and you can journey with me. It will be much safer.”

The physician and the duke helped her to her feet. She staggered a little before correcting herself. “Yes, I can stand.” She blinked rapidly, gazing around. “Did you say I have a horse? I can ride?”

“Apparently, you can,” replied the duke, his mouth twitching with amusement. “At least, I assume the beast belongs to you. It was wandering along the top of the cliff, looking quite distressed. It seemed to be concerned for you … and no one else has claimed it.”

Christina shook her head incredulously. She knew how to ride. When had she learned such a skill? Who had taught her how to do it?

But her mind drew a complete blank. She simply could not remember a single thing about her past life. It was so disconcerting. She could be anyone … but at the moment, she was no one. She was a woman called Georgina who had no past. She was a blank slate entirely.

The duke helped her mount his horse, then got on himself after tying a large, sleek black horse to his own. She stared at the beast. It was beautiful and spirited, stomping its hooves, tossing its mane. She wondered what its name was. She wondered if she indeed did own it, or whether she had borrowed it from someone to journey here. She wondered why she was here at all.

“We found a small bag, as well,” said the duke, putting his arms around her to take the reins. “I took the liberty of going through it, to try to discover your identity, but there is nothing within it to indicate who you are. Just some items of clothing, a small amount of coins in a purse … and an apple.”

Christina drew a deep, ragged breath. “Well, I know that I like apples, at least.”

The duke laughed mirthlessly. “Indeed. Are you ready? Shall we go?”

“As ready as I will ever be,” replied Christina grimly.

The duke shook the reins, spurring the horse onward. Suddenly, they were flying like the wind across the top of the cliffs. Christina closed her eyes in pure terror for a moment, frightened that she would fall off the beast. Her head throbbed with pain.

But then, she felt the wind upon her face, as soft and cooling as a caress. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open. She leaned back against the duke, gazing around, taking it all in.

She gasped. It was stunningly beautiful. The high cliffs dropped dramatically, standing guardian over the sea, which was so intensely vast and blue that it almost hurt her eyes to take it in. The sky vaulted over it, almost the exact same colour. The sun was a golden orb in the distance.

This is my home. These cliffs, this sea, this sky. And yet, I cannot remember it. It is as if I am seeing it for the very first time.

She gasped again. She was going to the home of a stranger. A very handsome and seemingly kind stranger who happened to be a duke. But still, she didn’t know him. A pang of fear shot through her. Was she safe? What was going to happen to her?