How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  She was out of breath after a dozen steps. “How kind of you . . . to trust my . . . motility when it is most convenient . . . for you.”

  He did not spare her a backward glance, and his footfalls never halted. “Now that we are no longer at risk of being struck by lightning, I merely imagine you are eager to prove yourself. You seemed quite determined to do so earlier.”

  “No more determined than you were . . . to find a reason to keep all of us from Rydstrom Hall. I saw the . . . calculated look you gave to the path leading to, I presume, the village.”

  He did not answer. In fact, he gave no indication that he was listening to her.

  Since the timetable of her entire life was so small, she couldn’t help but focus on every bit of it, weighing each word, smile and rebuff with the same gravity. “Then again . . . I also recall how your countenance darkened when I asked if I was to be . . . your wife. So, perhaps that is at the crux of your irritability.”

  Still he said nothing, but his measured footfall faltered slightly, skidding on one of the stairs.

  Hmm.

  “If you are so worried that I have marital designs on you, then I am surprised you are escorting me yourself, instead of asking a servant,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every panted syllable. “After all, who knows what types of ideas I’m likely to entertain when I’m alone with you.”

  After climbing another dozen steps, or more, he finally stopped. “A gentleman need only be concerned if he is either tempted or caught in a compromising position. Rest assured, in this circumstance, neither is the case.”

  Jacinda winced. The feminine ego, which she didn’t even know she possessed until this instant, took a direct blow. Not only did he find her character repellant, but he clearly found her unattractive as well.

  It was silly to feel hurt by this, especially since she knew she was a frightful mess with wet clothes, soggy boots, tangled red hair, and a wound on her head. In fact, she didn’t even know what she looked like. For all she knew she had crossed eyes, a hooked nose, and . . . Dear heavens! She didn’t have an unsightly mole, too, did she?

  She felt her shoulders slump forward as she trudged up the last few steps to where he waited on a small landing. Now she didn’t even want to look in his direction. But with the torch burning brightly beside him, she couldn’t help stealing a glance. Thankfully, he wasn’t paying attention to her—and why should he if she was a troll—but was unlocking a slender wooden door with a large iron key. Then he slipped the key into the pocket of his green coat.

  Alarm quickly overrode concern for her vanity. “Are you truly putting me in a dungeon?”

  His pitiless gaze fell on her, the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. Was he going to smirk at her? But no, he did not. Instead, there was just the ghost of one lingering. “As much as I would like to, no. The iron bars on the window and the beam across the door were removed decades ago.”

  Annoyed, her spine went rigid. “Were you teasing me earlier or trying to frighten me?”

  His only answer was the subtle lift of his brow, as if stating he would leave that for her to decide.

  She turned her head with a snap, ready to rail at him for putting her in a cell. Though, much to her surprise, a snug rounded room greeted her.

  There was little space for any furniture aside from a spindled washstand and a narrow bed swathed in a ringed canopy of tea-stained lace, but a welcoming fire crackled in the small fieldstone hearth. It was nestled into the wall with a base wide enough to serve as a bench. The recessed window slit revealed little other than a darkened sky. Torchlight illuminated the sprite-like dust motes sifting through the air. And while she doubted that this was where the welcome and important guests slept, the chamber was quite cozy.

  “This room is only temporary. Once the storm recedes, Fellows will find you a place at the inn where you will be more comfortable. In the meantime, I’ll send a maid to assist you,” he said, keeping to his side of the door.

  Assuming they were both eager to be out of each other’s company, she faced away from him. “Then take your coat, if you please.”

  She waited for one moment—two—until she heard the soles of his boots shifting over the brown-and-gold woven rug. Another hesitation followed, a stillness that almost compelled her to look over her shoulder to ensure he was still there.

  But she didn’t need to turn around to be aware of where he stood. She could feel him there. His tall frame blocked the heat from escaping the room, incinerating the air around her, blanketing her.

  He let out a staggered breath, his lungs like a blast furnace. The hot rush of air warmed her in places that a single breath shouldn’t have been able to penetrate. And when another brushed the side of her neck, she closed her eyes on a head-to-toe waterfall of fiery tingles.

  Was this type of response common between enemies? She knew too little about herself to surmise the truth. All she could do was study the nuances of his responses to her, primarily in the alterations in his breathing. When he’d first spotted her on the beach, he’d held his breath. When he scowled and clenched his teeth, it came out through flared nostrils. And whenever they were close, it came out in a warm, heady rush.

  Perhaps he didn’t find her repellent after all. At least, not entirely.

  Now, when his hands curled over her shoulders, his breath fractured. Hot and firm, his long fingers stretched out over the flaps.

  He was inches above the high swells of her breasts, but somehow her flesh felt heavier, ripe, drawing tighter, as if his hands cupped her.

  She was warm all over now, restless and tingly with a strange sort of electricity arcing through the deepest parts of her body. Her blood lumbered through her veins as if unsure of where to find her heart, and then gave up the search, settling with a heavy, unsatisfied throb in the pit of her stomach instead.

  An impatient, strangled mewl rose in her throat. She wished he would hurry. “Please take the coat.”

  Take . . . whatever you want. Surely, she wouldn’t have such a reaction to a mere stranger. There had to be something more between them.

  The duke seemed to be struggling with the simple request, emitting waves of heat and restraint as if halted by some unseen barrier.

  Gradually, his hands curled into fists, his fingertips dragging the heavy gray coat, parting it open like a curtain, exposing her clinging dress to the flicker of firelight.

  Then suddenly and without a word, he left, taking the coat with him.

  Jacinda turned in time to see him duck his head and angle his shoulders through the doorway. He left the scent of cedar in his wake and she drew in a deep breath as she moved to the door.

  “There is something familiar about you, Rydstrom,” she said, stopping him on the landing. When he glanced over his shoulder, she caught sight of a brief flash of unease. “I’m not going to rest until I discover what it is.”

  Chapter 8

  “Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Crispin left the gull chamber and strode through the dark, narrow passages leading to the keep, his fist tight around the iron key. He’d been tempted, beyond all reason, to lock Jacinda Bourne inside that room.

  The terrifying part was, he wasn’t sure which side of the door he would have been on. Outside, and secure in knowing exactly where she was? Or inside, and succumbing to a desire that surprised him with its potency?

  If he’d have known a greatcoat could cause so much trouble, he never would have lent it to her.

  Then again, he’d had to. The instant she’d removed her redingote in the gatehouse, he’d known she was cold—a fact evident by the perfect delineation of her taut nipples. In his own defense, he hadn’t meant for his gaze to rake over her, or to linger on the supple curves displayed beneath wet, clinging wool. Hadn’t wanted to notice that her breasts would fit nicely into the cups of his palms, and that their centers were the size and shape of tart sea buckthorn berries, small and ever so s
lightly oval.

  It was more of an accidental awareness.

  So when Crispin had first draped his coat over her, he’d thought covering her would help him forget. Or, in the very least, not imagine peeling off every damp layer. And until a moment ago, he thought he’d succeeded.

  Then she’d asked him to remove the coat.

  Instinctively, he’d known this was perilous territory. Because, hell, he’d practically lost his mind from having her body wrapped around him, her face nuzzling his neck, her hair meshing with his whiskers. Until today, he never thought that last bit was an eroticism. But the fact that he wanted to feel the tug and tangle of her thick, damp strands again gave him cause for warning.

  That was the reason he’d hesitated to remove the coat. He’d needed to make certain that when he touched her, he would be able to stop.

  Yet when she’d repeated her request, her voice a breathless, sultry rasp, arousal had waylaid him. It had coursed through him in a swift, inescapable, and painful surge, the heated length of his flesh pressing hard against the confines of his trousers.

  He’d done his best to assuage his lust by focusing on other things. First, he’d separated the room into quadrants—door, hearth, washstand, bed. But that hadn’t worked as planned, because then he calculated the steps to the too-tiny bed—one and a half—counted the buttons on the back of her dress—four—imagined kissing her everywhere, laying her on the bed, covering her wanton naked body with his, but absently realized that the frame would have collapsed beneath their combined weight.

  And it was this bit of rational thinking that saved him from losing control. In the end, he’d managed to walk away.

  Even so, resisting the impulse to touch and caress her was akin to offering a leg of lamb, roasted to perfection and dripping with juices, to a man who’d vowed to exist on nothing more than bread and water. Pure torture.

  But he had resisted, and that was all that mattered. Besides, she was injured, weak, in need of protection, even if only from her own foolhardy escapades. And this, for reasons he could not surmise, made it all the harder to walk away.

  Striding through the Great Hall at a fine clip, temptation hot on his heels, he tried to understand his reaction to Jacinda Bourne. What had begun in London as nothing more than an irritating impulse to kiss her—an errant ember, easily dowsed—had ignited into something far more dangerous.

  It made no sense. His rational mind had no place, no compartment for this unforeseen occurrence. Jacinda Bourne did not even belong here. How dare she bring her chaos into his life of order!

  Clutching the key tighter, he needed to put the volatile urge where it belonged—far away from him. With each step through the vast, towering hall, he told himself that he was not attracted to her. He couldn’t be. His unsolicited response stemmed from something else, surely. His accelerated pulse, for example, was likely the result of having carried her up the hill. The same could be said for the tightening of his muscles and tendons. And naturally, his blood would have run hotter through his veins afterward.

  Yes, he thought. That made perfect sense.

  And yet, when he looked down at his other hand—the one that gripped his greatcoat in a stranglehold—he knew he was only fooling himself.

  For in that same instant, he recalled with perfect clarity precisely how Jacinda Bourne had looked in that delectably wet dress. Then without warning, his mouth watered and he became unaccountably and unbearably aroused again. There was no mistaking the thickening of his pulse. No other reason for his blood to pool in a hot frenzy at the base of his cock, imploring him to pivot on his heel and do something about that key in his hand. Like lock them both inside the tower room, for hours, days . . .

  Damn.

  Furious at himself, and her—for so many reasons he could never list them all—he growled and continued storming through the vast room.

  The rich gold-and-burgundy tapestries lining the walls rustled in his wake, woven battle scenes undulating to life. And when he passed the ancient pair of long, black dining tables that flanked either side of the hearth, he tossed the coat onto the scarred and rutted surface and kept walking. He wanted to be rid of the reminder for good.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t that simple. Because now he knew how it felt to have her in his arms, to have her scent fill his nostrils. She even made the odor of the sea appealing. Soaking wet, she was covered in that sharp brininess, but underneath was her own essence, a warm, sweet fragrance that reminded him of a dish of vanilla custard.

  Stepping through the adjacent door to the buttery, he relished the cooler temperature of this small anteroom. He paused long enough to draw in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the bold essence of fermented hops and barley rising up the narrow spiral staircase from the ale barrels in the cellars below. All the better to rid himself of her scent.

  Yet with every footfall up the pitted mortar and stone stairs, it clung to him. And damn it all, he despised her for it.

  Winding his way through castle corridors and up a series of staircases, his temper smoldered like embers beneath a curfew, ready to ignite. And he was glad of it because he would rather be angry at her than feel any other way. It was an easy task, too. Her presence put everyone he’d sought to protect at risk.

  She was too meddling, too inquisitive, and far too reckless. A woman like her did not think of the consequences of her actions beforehand. Hell, she’d even put her own life in jeopardy for a foolish scheme. And seeing that raw gash on her head, her pale skin, and the way she winced when she moved had made him angriest of all. Even now, the urge to shake her, to rail at her for nearly drowning was equally as strong as his other wayward impulses.

  Did she not realize that there were seamen—good village men—who’d navigated those waters their whole lives, and yet, some of them never returned home? No! Likely Jacinda Bourne only thought about her ridiculous investigation and not what it would have done to him to find her lifeless body on the rocks instead.

  A fierce shudder washed through him as if a deluge of ice water sluiced over his skin and inside his veins. It set him off balance. Pausing on the stair, he propped a hand against the wall as a wave of strength-sapping nausea rolled through him.

  “Your Grace, I didn’t think to find you back so soon.”

  At the sudden appearance of his housekeeper at the top of the stairwell leading to the donjon, he lowered his arm and continued with measured steps up the final treads as if nothing were amiss. “Good day, Mrs. Hemple.”

  She backed away from the door, beaming at him, her broad smile lifting her plump, ruddy cheeks. As was her habit, she absently wiped her hands in the center of her apron, where a perpetual yellowing stain was embedded in the pale cotton. “Mightily glad, we are, to have you return and already with your bride. I just knew that London would be brimming with heiresses.”

  Crispin gritted his teeth. “I have not found an heiress, Mrs. Hemple.”

  She clasped her hands to her bosom, and emitted an elated sigh. “Bless us, it’s as I hoped! You’ve made a love match. And quick work on your part I must say, sir. It must have been the pin I found the day you left. I knew it would bring about luck.”

  He ignored the way her graying, mouse brown eyebrows waggled beneath a serviceable, ruffled cap. As he’d explained before, many times, dukes did not marry for love but for money and property. Neither his butler nor his housekeeper seemed to have heard him. Though, since the pair had been with him since infancy, he allowed for some leniency. Some. “The situation is not what you think. That woman will not be staying for long. As soon as the storm subsides, I’ll send her to the inn.”

  “No reason to be shy, sir. Rydstrom Hall is surely large enough for a pair of lovebirds. Oh, and look”—she pointed to his chest and sighed again—“she’s already made you lose a button and wrinkled your cravat.”

  Distracted, he looked down at his waistcoat and noticed a pair of dark, frayed threads where there should have been a button. It seemed everything in h
is life was starting to unravel.

  “You have a very tousled look about you,” the housekeeper continued, crooning, “and I think it makes you all the handsomer. I say, a man ought to have a few well-placed wrinkles in his clothing. I always wanted you to find a duchess with a contented and affectionate”—another eyebrow waggle—“nature. For then there will surely be lots of children scampering about.”

  “Mrs. Hemple,” he said sharply. “I came up here to speak to you about Sybil.”

  “Pah. No need to worry about her, sir. Sybil will be thrilled by the match.”

  “Actually, I would prefer it if Sybil knew nothing of—” He broke off as the unmistakable clatter of stiff-soled shoes on the wood floor made it evident that the object of their discussion was upon them.

  “I’m afraid, it’s too late for that, sir.” Mrs. Hemple laughed as a slim form in a white pinafore skipped into view.

  Sybil was a gangly colt, all knobby elbows and knees, along with a mop of blond curls that likely resembled her late mother’s. In addition, she had a perfect cherub’s face that was grinning at him from ear to ear . . . Until a crack of thunder suddenly rent the air.

  She paled instantly, her gray eyes shuttering closed, vague and distant. For a girl of ten, she’d seen far too many terrors.

  “I’ve heard reports of a certain young miss who keeps a vigil by the window,” Crispin said in a tone of mock disapproval. “And yet you cannot even spare me a smile? Come now, where is my welcome?”

  Locking eyes with him, Sybil slowly stepped forward and slipped her small, cold hand into his. She cast a brief, fearful glance to the roiling sky beyond the oriel window behind her.

  They shared an inherent dislike of storms. It began on the auspicious day they’d met four years ago—the same day his own mother, and their father argued by the bluff.

  Before then, Crispin had not known he had a half sister. Father had been good about keeping his affair a secret. No one knew about his mistress, the house he’d kept for her, and especially not the child they’d had together. But all of it was discovered the day Sybil arrived, mourning the death of her mother from fever.