Page 4 of Dukes All Night Long

V erity had no notion of what overcame her.

But the first touch of his lips called to something in her—something wild and reckless, perhaps even wanton.

It was as though a spark had been struck deep within her, igniting an instinct that burned hotter than thought.

She found herself clinging to him, kissing him in return with the same sort of desperate passion that he so clearly felt.

Their mouths met in a clash of need and memory, of longing and unspoken questions.

It might not have brought her memories rushing back, but it did allay any doubt she had.

This man had kissed her before—and likely done a great deal more than that.

Her mind might have forgotten, but her body remembered.

It remembered everything . The warmth of him.

The taste of him. The way her heart thundered in response to his touch.

Anticipation was building inside her like a rising tide—anticipation of what would follow the kiss, of having his hands on her skin, of touching him in return and exploring the hard planes of his body, relearning what she had once known.

It wasn’t simply that she knew to expect those things. It was that she yearned for them.

She’d often heard some of the girls at the school talking longingly of their homes before tragedy had struck, of the friends they’d left behind in the rookeries when they’d come to the Darrow School.

There had been a yearning in their voices then—a yearning for home, for something lost and perhaps irretrievable.

But was it possible that home wasn’t a place at all, but a person?

Abruptly, he released her, stepping back as if the very force of what passed between them had jolted him, too.

“If we continue…” he began, his voice rough with restraint, “We can walk to the church from here. I can show you where we married and the route we walked home afterward, with all our friends and family cheering us on.”

“Do I have family?” she asked, her voice soft, uncertain.

“Not very many,” he admitted. “Your parents have been gone for some time.”

She waited for a wave of grief at that thought, but none came. Only the dull ache of a long-healed wound. A distant sorrow with edges worn smooth by time. “We were very young when they were killed.”

He looked at her, eyes narrowing slightly. “You said when they were killed … not when they died .”

“Oh.” Her brows drew together. “I suppose there is a distinction, isn’t there?

It was a carriage accident,” she said, her voice quiet, somewhat stunned.

“I have no memory of any of that, but I know it. I know it the same way I know right from left and how to lace stays and teach the girls at school to waltz. It’s simply there in my mind. ”

“Then there is more to be discovered,” he said. “What you know is as important as what you remember… Let’s go to the church.”

Slightly more than an hour later, they were heading back to the house from the village church.

The air was crisp, and the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting golden shadows across the lane.

There had been countless stares and whispers when he’d appeared with his once-missing wife on his arm, but he didn’t care.

Those people with their curiosity and gossipy questions were the least of his concerns.

Before they’d left, he had asked the cook to prepare some of the simpler fare that had been served at their wedding breakfast—scones with currants, cold poached salmon, lemon syllabub—things that might once more rouse those feelings of familiarity within her.

“How long will it be before she knows?” Verity asked, her voice quiet but sure.

“Vanessa?”

“Yes. She will know that I’ve returned, and I cannot imagine that she will be pleased…

When I was found on the riverbank, I was wearing a dark-blue wool traveling dress, and in the pocket was a lady’s muff pistol.

Spent.” She reached up then, parting her hair just above her temple and revealing a small scar, barely visible but there all the same.

“I had always assumed that I’d hit my head. But perhaps it was more a question of what struck me.”

“I think it is precisely that question,” he said grimly.

“She was wearing, if memory serves me correctly, just such a costume when they arrived for the wedding breakfast, so they could depart immediately after. She shot you—and then she took your wedding dress, put her clothes on you—the weapon still in the pocket—and dumped you into the river. Whether she believed you dead already or that you would drown—”

He stopped, unable to complete the thought. It was so cold, so calculating. If all of that were true, then she had arrived that day with her plan already in place. But for what reason? What had she hoped to gain?

And then, beside him, Verity stumbled. He reached for her, catching her as she pitched forward, his arms coming around her just in time. He noted that her eyes were glazed, unfocused, her expression frozen in some moment beyond the present. But only for a moment.

Then her eyes widened. She drew in a sharp breath.

“I remember it,” she whispered. Her voice trembled with something far deeper than shock. “I remember everything …”