How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Jacinda blinked open her eyes and tried to focus, though she wasn’t entirely sure if she was awake or dreaming.

  She could hear the crackling of a fireplace and see the faint flicker of shadows over heavy pleats of azure velvet, gathered by a burnished silver medallion in the center of the canopy.

  As far as she knew, she’d never seen this bed before. Then again, as far as she knew, she’d sprung from the sea all too recently as a fully grown woman with no past that she could remember.

  Still, on an oddly bright note, she did remember waking up on a rock, meeting Miss Beels and her dog, along with Dr. Graham, young Henry, and the intractable, mysterious, cinnamon-whiskered Duke of Rydstrom. At least she hadn’t forgotten anything new.

  Well, other than how she managed to fall asleep here—wherever here was.

  Confused, she sat up on a cushiony mattress, a gray coverlet soft as ermine falling to her lap. Looking down at herself, she noticed that she was dressed differently—not in the burgundy wool she’d worn when she’d first come into awareness on the beach, nor in the borrowed servant’s dress—but in a frothy white nightgown.

  She plucked at the ruffled cuffs. Why was she not wearing the dark blue homespun?

  From her recollection, she’d walked through the castle disguised as a servant in order to find answers. A completely sensible thing to do. After that, however, everything became a dreamlike blur.

  She wasn’t entirely sure if the golden-haired little girl she’d met was real. And surely, she must have imagined the duke lifting her in his arms, that flash of concern in his features, and his gruff voice ordering her to rally. Hmm . . .

  Yet without having full access to her faculties, the only true possession she had that linked her to her actual life was a volume of Emma.

  With a start, she realized that if she didn’t know where she was, then she didn’t know where her book was either. “My book!”

  In heart-thudding panic, she flung off the coverlet—or coverlets, rather, since there were two piled on her—threw her legs over the side of the bed, and pushed frantically against the velvet drapes to find the opening.

  That book was all she had. All she knew of herself.

  “There, there, fear not, miss. You’re not in a coffin. I just closed the bed curtains so that you could rest in peace. Dear me! I didn’t mean to say that. You’re not to rest in peace like the dead but peacefully like a mouse in a wardrobe.” The curtains slid apart in a clatter of colliding rings on the upper rail. In the pale golden light slanting in through the recessed, diamond-paned windows, a young woman with sprite-like features, mud brown hair and eyes, and a spattering of freckles on her cheeks stood grinning at her. “I’m ever so happy to clap eyes on you again, Miss Bourne. I don’t think I need to tell you, but when you left in that boat, I feared the worst.”

  The boat? All the urgency writhing inside of Jacinda stilled. “You know me?”

  “To be sure. I’d not likely forget the young woman who rescued me,” she said with a smile, splaying a hand to her heart. “Though I wish I could have done the same for you. But since I have a dreadful fear of the water, I couldn’t climb into that tiny boat with you. I did, however, keep your satchel in perfect condition even if I did weep over it for a time when I thought you were never to return to the inn.”

  “The inn . . .” Jacinda parroted, trying to put the pieces together, to visualize this inn, and get a sense of how she got here. But no images sprang forth from the sludge in her brain. Her recollections went no further back than the beach.

  “The Dappled Cod, miss.” The maid blinked. “Oh, but what am I saying? Mrs. Hemple explained to me that you’d taken a bump to the noggin and lost your—”

  “It isn’t lost,” Jacinda said quickly. Standing up, she smoothed down the layers of white ruffles, but then a rush of dizziness hit her. She sank back down, gripping the side of the mattress to make sure she didn’t tip forward and wind up on the floor. “My memory is fully intact. It’s just . . . temporarily misplaced. And speaking of . . . I need to find my book. Am I still inside Rydstrom Hall?”

  Quite honestly, she wasn’t certain. Other than the smooth, pale ashlar stones along the outer wall, this vast room looked very little like the chamber in the tower. Shimmering blue silk wallpaper lined the inner walls. A broad, elegantly carved wardrobe stood in the corner with ovals of mirror glass set into the doors. A sumptuous gray fur lay beneath her feet, while the rest of the floor was swathed in intricately woven sapphire, ruby, and emerald threaded carpets. The bedposts were tall spirals of an exotic gray-grained wood, polished to a silver tone finish. And the bedside tables, vanity, and hearth were adorned in opulent, blue-veined marble. She couldn’t help but wonder at the sudden change in her accommodations.

  “Indeed, we are,” the young woman said with an elfin grin. “And we’re in the duchess’s chamber.”

  Jacinda watched, speechless as the maid crossed the room and picked up the familiar red leather volume from a table near the door. It took a moment for the words to sink in, but she immediately decided she couldn’t have heard correctly. “The what?”

  The maid repeated herself, her grin expanding as she handed Jacinda the book.

  No. This did not make sense. The duke had not even wanted her in Rydstrom Hall in the first place. He certainly would never have permitted her in this chamber. Oh dear.

  Numb, she reached for her book and wrapped her arms around it. Then slowly, she sank back onto the mattress and stared up at the silver oval in the center of the canopy. “Did I creep in here sometime during the night and fall asleep?”

  For some reason, this did not seem implausible.

  The maid issued a small, lilting laugh. “From what I heard, His Grace put you here himself. Carried you down from the donjon.”

  “He had me in the dungeon?” Jacinda bolted upright. But when another wave of dizziness assailed her, she sank back down again. She could still be angry at that beast of a man from this position.

  “Not dungeon, but donjon,” she said, articulating carefully. “From what I heard, it’s the highest room in a castle. And with the size of Rydstrom Hall, I’d say he carried you a long way. The chambermaids are all talking about how they’d never seen a more romantic sight.”

  Drawing in a breath, Jacinda carefully sat up and took in her sumptuous surroundings again, wondering if this were a dream. Thinking back to the way all the color had drained from the duke’s countenance when she’d first asked if she was to be his wife, she realized that yes, this was a dream. And a silly one at that. “Impossible. I can say with almost certainty that this is the last room the duke would permit me. The man despises me.”

  “Perhaps His Grace had a change of heart, miss.” The maid lifted her slim shoulders in a shrug before bending toward the steaming kettle hanging from an iron bar in the hearth. Removing it from the hook, she carried it to a blue-and-white teapot waiting on a nearby table. “I don’t rightly know the particulars as I only arrived this morning—a full day since we last parted.”

  “Did I sleep through most of yesterday?”

  “To be sure. Though I would have been here sooner if not for the storm and the thick mud it left behind. By then, news of the mermaid lady—you—reached me in the next village. When they spoke of your auburn hair, I knew it had to be you.” Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “But don’t worry, I didn’t say a word about the boat you . . . um . . . borrowed. I know you had every intention of bringing it back. Though, I don’t imagine it’s in any shape to return to the owner now.”

  In a slow trickle, Jacinda absorbed this information. Absently, she watched the maid return the kettle to the fire as the earthy fragrance of steeping tea filled the chamber. She’d slept for a day and, before that, had borrowed a boat? Hmm . . . she wondered what happened to it, not recalling a boat on the beach with her. Yet there were these bits and pieces of . . . “Wait. Was there anyone else with me?”

  She s
queezed her eyes shut. Oh, please tell me that I was alone.

  “You were quite determined to make it on your own.”

  Jacinda’s shoulders sagged as a breath whooshed out of her. Thank heavens.

  Pouring tea into a waiting cup, the maid shook her head, oblivious to the overwhelming relief she gave. “And if I may say, I never took you for someone who would be so handy with the oars, but off you went by yourself, cutting through the water like a spoon through cream. It helped me to fret less once you rowed out of sight and around the bend.”

  Jacinda was glad to know that her character, while reckless, was not wholly irredeemable. It was a start, at least.

  “Then perhaps I grew up in a fishing village,” she mused, trying to conjure a memory of rowing a boat, the water lapping against the hull, her hands gripping the oars, the sun shining down on her face. Hmm . . . still nothing.

  Then that pesky, throbbing headache returned, proving her efforts futile.

  “Perhaps, miss, though I couldn’t rightly say,” the maid said, handing her a cup and saucer.

  Jacinda opened her mouth to thank the maid, but realized with a stab of irritation that she couldn’t remember her name. What an immense surprise, she thought wryly. “There is one additional result of my boating adventure, and that is the fact that I cannot recall your name.”

  “Understandable, considering the circumstances, miss. I’m Lucinda Stowe, but everyone calls me Lucy.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, once again, Lucy,” Jacinda said and received a lighthearted curtsy. “You said I rescued you?”

  Jacinda lifted the cup to take a sip and instantly cringed at the unexpected, overly sweet, milk-laden brew. She could scarcely taste the essence of the leaves, and it became instantly apparent that her palate was not accustomed to such a concoction. Experimentally, she tried another sip and shuddered. One benefit to the disaster in her cup, however, was that she learned something about herself: Jacinda Bourne despised sweet, milky tea.

  Still feeling a trifle dizzy, she set the cup and saucer down on the bedside table and settled back against the bolster pillow.

  “Oh yes, miss.” Lucy, in the process of tying the bed curtains to the posts, dropped the braided silver rope and placed both hands over her heart. “I was in a heap of tears, despairing for my life. I was sure I’d never find another position, not after leaving Lord Comstock without notice. But I had to, even you said so. When a gentleman makes improper advances toward his servants, then there are only two alternatives—to stay and endure or to leave and face the consequences.”

  “That despicable cad!” Jacinda railed, furious. “How dare he take advantage of his position!”

  Lucy went still and stared at her, agape. “Uncanny, Miss Bourne. That’s precisely what you said outside the servant registry in London. Then on that very spot, you offered me a position as your maid and chaperone. Have you now located your misplaced memories?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Jacinda grumbled. Though it was a relief that she seemed to exhibit the same character traits as before. At least she was still herself. Whoever that was. “Though, now that I have you here with me, I should have an accounting of who I am in short order. Tell me, how many years have we been together?”

  “Well, miss,” Lucy began. “You see, we met not three days past.”

  “Three days . . .” The words left Jacinda on a deflated rush of air. Drat. This was as disconcerting as it was confusing. And apparently, she was a young woman of society who wore fine clothes, rowed boats, and did not have her own maid. She tried to wrap her mind around it, but was distracted by something Lucy said before. “Hold on a moment. Did you say London?”

  “Indeed, miss. Not far from St. James’s Street if that helps.”

  A rush of prickles skittered up Jacinda’s spine and tightened her scalp, as if they were setting off nerve endings that only sparked at suspicious happenings—her very own curiosity sensors.

  Both Jacinda and Rydstrom arrived in Whitcrest on the same day?

  Quite the coincidence. Only she didn’t believe it was a coincidence at all. It couldn’t have been.

  “Did I happen to mention why I required a companion on such short notice?”

  Lucy shook her head. “You may have done, but I was in such a state that I was quite overcome with . . . illness.” She looked down to the hem of her simple brown dress and sniffed. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just have out with it and tell you that I either retched or slept for the entire journey. My poor satchel bore the horror of the episode for as long as it could.” She gulped, even now looking a little green around the edges. “I see how helpful it would have been if we’d engaged in conversation, and I hope you forgive me for saying so, but I’m ever so thankful that you have no memory of those topsy-turvy hours.”

  Drat.

  “Think nothing of it,” Jacinda said, holding in a sigh of disappointment. She was surrounded by strangers. All but one.

  There had to have been a reason she traveled here with the duke’s card tucked in her book. Finding the answer was the key to regaining her memory. So, whether Rydstrom wanted to or not, he was going to help her.

  * * *

  “Why did you put me in the duchess’s chamber?”

  At his desk, Crispin jerked his head up in time to see Jacinda sweep into his study as if she had every right. “Miss Bourne, what do you mean by this, barging into a room without bidding admittance or even announcing yourself?”

  “The door was open.” Unaffected by the bluster in his tone, she continued toward him, her lavender skirts shushing against the woven rug. Her hair was pinned back into a braided coil at her crown, the wound at her temple glistening with the honey salve from the kitchens. And at her hairline, one auburn lock threatened to droop over her forehead. Mocking him.

  Color had returned to her skin, her cheeks now tinged with the pink of health. Far different from the alarming ashen white of yesterday morning, or the sallow tone he’d witnessed in the afternoon. Graham had assured him that she’d simply required a recuperative rest and showed no signs of fever. In response to the doctor’s placating tone, Crispin explained that the sole reason for checking on her repeatedly had been to gather information for the letter he would send to her family. Nothing more.

  And this morning, he’d finished that letter with the news that Miss Bourne’s strength had much improved.

  In fact, a few moments ago, Mrs. Hemple had informed him that his guest—she seemed to make a point of stressing that word whenever she could—had eaten a goodly portion of coddled eggs on her breakfast tray and then enjoyed a lengthy soak in the bath. The reason his housekeeper had added the last bit, he did not know, but he advised her that in the future he did not require such a full report.

  Ever since, he’d been plagued with the image of Jacinda Bourne lounging in the slipper tub, her hair cascading down in fiery wet tendrils, the length of her bare arms along the rim with steam rising from her skin, and cresting just above the surface of the water, her breasts, glistening with fragrant oils . . .

  “Nevertheless”—he cleared his throat—“a gentleman’s study is a place where he has the freedom to do as he wishes, to conduct business, to speak frankly, smoke, or drink if he is so inclined, and without fear of offending any delicate sensibilities.”

  “I don’t believe you’re worried about offending anyone, least of all me. After all, you told me you never apologize, and that it was the one thing we have in common,” she said, her ire up for reasons he could not fathom.

  He was about to say as much until, with a glance down, he noticed that he’d spilled two red drops of sealing wax on his desk. Bollocks. Now he would have to let it dry before having his desk tidy once more.

  Crispin preferred to keep this room in segmented order. It was a practice he’d had since childhood. Having things in their proper place gave him a sense of peace.

  At least, usually. Any sense of calm he’d once possessed had left him in rec
ent days.

  Still, he welcomed the familiarity around him. In the upper left quadrant of his study was the door with a burgundy and gold rug resting over the hardwood floor, where Miss Bourne was currently tapping her foot at him, the toe of her cream-colored slipper peeking out from beneath her hem. To the right of that was the second quadrant, where the broad hearth took up much of the far paneled wall, along with a comfortable chintz sofa, flanked by a pair of tables and upholstered bronze armchairs. Beside Crispin, bookshelves lined the third quadrant, the outer wall adorned with heavy brocade curtains over a recessed window seat. And his own quadrant—opposite of Miss Bourne and her glare in his direction—hosted a large burled wood desk, which faced the room, and a towering escritoire behind him.

  “Therefore,” she continued, “I find it quite strange that you should have placed me in the duchess’s chamber. And not at all against your will, for I heard you carried me there yourself.”

  He gave Jacinda a warning glare before returning his attention to the letter. “Refrain from any romantic notions. I put you there out of necessity. The other chambers are in need of repairs.”

  “All of them in this entire castle?”

  Rankled by her dubious tone, he accidentally pressed his signet ring into the pool of wax off center. He cursed under his breath before his gaze snapped back to her. “I’ll have you know that the original keep is more than six hundred years old. With the additions over the life spans of my ancestors, there are ninety-seven rooms in all. It takes a great deal to maintain an estate this vast. Between the onslaught of time, the weather, and the pounding of the wind and sea, there is a constant list of repairs to be done.”

  “Ah. Now I understand.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, causing the ribbon border to pull taut.

  Crispin did his best not to notice the soft delineation of plump, creamy flesh rising above the edge of lavender muslin, or that he was suddenly craving sea buckthorn berries again. “What precisely?”

  “The reason you are searching for a wife. Miss Beels mentioned it on the beach.”