“You remember,” Monty repeated, his tone awed, as if Torrie had just revealed a miracle to him.
And perhaps he had.
Because as he stood in Montrose’s study, staring at the hideous, ridiculous flying machine, he realized that hedidremember. He remembered Monty regaling him with the story one night at their club. He remembered laughing uproariously at Monty’s tale of a gust of wind catching the wings he’d fashioned, sending the flying machine crashing to the ground before he’d been able to test his efforts at Castle Clare. And thank Christ for that. Monty likely would have broken his fool neck in the fall.
Everything inside Torrie froze.
Heremembered.
“I do,” he said, rubbing at his jaw, searching the murk in his mind for more. “You told me about it, and I laughed until I cried. You’re the only man I know who would have the ballocks to attempt to fly off a castle turret.”
“Do you remember anything else?” Monty asked, sounding hopeful.
He sifted through the memories, those he had since the accident, and the few which had come before. Hattie’s fat cat old cat, Miss Pudding. Laughing with Monty. Drinking with Monty. Racing Monty in their phaetons.
“I remember racing you,” he managed. “In our phaetons. It was dark and raining, and you told me you’d give me an early start because your phaeton outmatched mine.”
Monty went pale. “That was what happened the night of the accident. I don’t recall it in great detail because I was sotted, but it was raining that night, and I remember giving you the lead. What else do you recall?”
Torrie shook his head as if it would dislodge more pieces of his old life and all would be revealed to him. But there was only a great, blank wall of nothingness where once there had been more.
“Nothing,” he admitted, disappointment and frustration rising. “Not a goddamn thing.”
And today had been going so well, too. He had begun it by waking in bed with his wife after making love to her for the first time last night. He had kissed her softly and then used his mouth to soothe all the places where she ached until she’d been writhing against him and coming on his tongue once more.
Those memories were worth at least a hundred thousand others, so he would rejoice in them.
“Beelzebub’s earbobs,” Monty muttered. “I was hoping there would have been more. I miss you. Notyou. You’re here, quite obviously, but the Torrie you were. Old Torrie enjoyed my oaths. New Torrie sneers at them.”
He blinked. “I find it difficult to believe I enjoyed your cursing in any state, old or new.”
Monty shook his head with a heavy sigh. “You see? Old Torrie bloody well loved my curses.”
“Perhaps Old Torrie was humoring you.”
His friend raised a brow. “Don’t you think New Torrie might then as well?”
His lips twitched. The Duke of Montrose was entertaining, Torrie would grant him that.
“New Torrie might perhaps do so,” he relented, unable to suppress his grin. “But only if he’s in an extraordinarily good mood.”
“How considerate of him,” Monty said, grinning back at him. “Now, about my flying machine. What do you think of it?”
“I think that my sister will tie you to the nearest piece of furniture if you express any intent of taking it off a roof,” he drawled. “Hattie won’t stand for it, particularly not now that you have Titus.”
“And another son or daughter on the way,” Monty added.
“Another?” Once again, Torrie was shaking his head, but this time, it had nothing to do with his lost memory and everything to do with surprise. “Hattie didn’t mention it to me. Does my mother know?”
“We haven’t told anyone else yet,” Monty said, shoulders going back and chest puffing up like the proud, doting father he was. “I wanted to tell you first, Torrie.”
“Me?”
“Of course you. Who else? I’ve told you often enough that you’re like a brother to me.”
There were only so many occasions when Torrie remembered those words. Half a dozen, mayhap more. He found himself frowning as other memories seemed to filter into his mind, like dust motes in sunlight. Dancing about, almost impossible to discern.
Monty clapping him on the shoulder.
