Delilah Marvelle - Forever and a Day

Roderick Gideon Tremayne,

the recently appointed Duke of Wentworth, never expected to find himself in New York City, tracking down a mysterious map important to his late mother. And he certainly never expected to be injured, only to wake up with no memory of who he is. But when he sees the fiery-haired beauty who’s taken it upon herself to rescue him, suddenly his memory is the last thing on his mind.

Georgia Milton,

the young head of New York’s notorious Forty Thieves, feels responsible for the man who was trying to save her bag from a thief. But she’s not prepared for the fierce passion he ignites within her. When his memory begins to return, her whole world is threatened, and Roderick must choose between the life he forgot and the life he never knew existed.…

Dear Reader,

I love New York City. The people are damn serious about the way they live life. They work hard and play hard and needless to say, it got me thinking. Were the people of New York City just as hard-core back in 1830 as they are now? You better believe they were. And those poor bastards didn’t have our modern conveniences, either. Back in 1830, people were trying to pave dirt streets with gold, even though they had nothing but sweat. So what happens when an American-Irish woman named Georgia with only coal clutched in each hand meets a British aristocrat who only ever had gold? You get a story known as the Prince and the Pauperette. But why stop there? After all, there is so much more to a story than poor vs. rich. I wanted to get down and dirty and twisted, digging into the real facets of life back in 1830, while giving you a good laugh and a good cry. As a writer, I get to play god (bwahahaha) and the idea of a person starting over against their will has always fascinated me. So I took away the hero’s memory and made him crawl back to the basics in life. Basics he forgot to appreciate. Basics he never thought he’d be able to return to. And he does it all while touching the life of one very special woman who makes him realize true love is not only real but priceless. I hope you enjoy my historical version of the Prince and the Pauper.

Much love,

Delilah Marvelle

Forever and a Day

Delilah Marvelle

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Acknowledgments

Thank you to my former editor Tracy Martin. I’m going to miss you, Tracy, but hey, there are people out there who need you far more than I do. May all of your dreams come true.

Thank you to the entire Harlequin and HQN team. Marketing: Without you, no one would know about me. Scary. Art Department: Can I marry you for giving me such glorious covers? Keep it coming. Tara Parsons: Girl, you work way too many hours but boy am I ever glad you do. Thank you. Emily Ohanjanians (my new editor!): I’m looking forward to getting my butt kicked in. Bring it.

Thank you to Donald Maass, my agent and writing mentor, who brings clarity into my writing and my career every time.

Thank you to Jessa Slade, author extraordinaire, who not only gives me incredible feedback but calls me out on every demon that shouldn’t be there. Thank you to Maire Creegan, who is about to rip up the historical romance genre Brontë style, and who also knows how to rip up my historical romance Brontë style. London, baby. London.

Thank you to the New York City Library for not giving me weird looks as I tirelessly researched and asked endless, stupid questions both in person and via email. You and all of your amazing resources and archives gave this New York City series depth. Thank you.

To my husband, Marc.

You gave up your dream for mine.

That is why this book is for you.

I love you, Fire Boy. Engine 28 is waiting.

Contents

PART ONE Part One

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

PART TWO

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PART THREE

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

Part One

CHAPTER ONE

To endeavor to forget anyone is a certain

way of thinking of nothing else.

—Jean de La Bruyère, Les Caractères (1688)

6th of July, 1830, early afternoon

New York City

GEORGIA EMILY MILTON rarely cared to notice any of the well-to-do men strutting about Broadway as it was a long-standing rule of hers to never yearn for anything she couldn’t have and/or didn’t need. But as she bustled down the crowded, respectable stretch of Broadway, heading back toward the not-so-respectable trenches of Little Water, an astonishingly tall, well-groomed gentleman strode toward her at a leisurely pace, making her not only slow but inwardly wish she had been born a lady.

Weaving past others to ensure a better view, she caught staggered glimpses of an impressive, muscled frame garbed in a gray morning coat, well-fitted trousers and an embroidered waistcoat with double-row buttons. Gloved hands strategically angled his dove-gray top hat forward and down to better shade his eyes against the bright sun gleaming across the surrounding stretch of shop windows.

His hat alone had to be worth two months of her wages.

As he smoothly rounded several people and strode toward her side of the pavement, his smoldering gray eyes caught and held hers from beneath the rim of his hat. The pulsing intensity of that raw, heated gaze bashed the breath out of her.

Tightening his jaw, he aligned himself directly in her path, the expanse between them lessening with each frantic beat of her heart. That black-leather-booted stride slowed when he finally came upon her. He formally— albeit a bit too gravely—inclined his dark head toward her, publicly acknowledging her in a way his sort never did during the day.

He behaved as if he didn’t see a rag in calico skirts, which had washed itself over from Orange Street, but an elegant young lady strolling alongside her mother with a lace parasol in hand. For making her feel so uncommonly attractive, Georgia considered blowing him a kiss. Fortunately, she knew how to keep herself out of trouble.

Glancing away, she set her chin as any respectable woman would, and sashayed past his towering frame, purposefully letting her own arm brush against his, only to stumble against the dragging skirts of a washerwoman who had rudely darted before her. Of all the—

His large hand jumped out and grabbed hold of her corseted waist, balancing her upright with a swift jerk. Georgia froze as her reticule swung against her wrist, hitting the sleeved coat of his solid forearm that held her in place.

Her heart slid off into oblivion upon realizing her bum now dug against a solid, male thigh. His solid, male thigh.

His head dipped toward her from behind, his muscles tensing as he pressed her backside more possessively against his front side. His arm tightened around her waist. “Are you all right, madam?”

His voice was husky and refined, laced with a regal British accent that made the Irish girl in her inwardly put up both fists.