How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  Alarmed, he stared at her, counting the beats of the pulse beneath his cinched cravat, and wondering how to word his response. He didn’t want to trigger her memory. “The matter does not concern you.”

  Her turquoise eyes sharpened, a gleam lit from within as if he’d confessed all she needed to know. “If that is the case, then I must not possess the wealth you require.”

  She was like a never-ending storm that just kept battering against the rocks. If he wasn’t so worried about the damage such a person could bring to Sybil, he might actually be impressed by her acuity and sheer determination.

  At the inane thought, a hollow, circumspect laugh escaped him. “There are many other reasons we are not suited.”

  “Having only met you yesterday, I already agree with you on that account. Wholeheartedly,” she replied, her crisp enunciation cutting through the air like that first crack of thunder before a spring storm. “But what I do not understand is why both of us left London on the same day, only to end up in Whitcrest. More puzzling is that if you are searching for a wealthy bride, then surely London would be the best place to find one.”

  He kept his expression bland as if her statement garnered nothing more than idle curiosity. “Do you remember London?”

  “Nothing more than a basic knowledge that it is a large city, an epicenter of culture and society, and up until very recently, my home. Though, at the moment, I only have an academic understanding of these things, as if I’ve read the information in a traveler’s guide. I can conjure no images, sounds, or fragrances from thinking of it.” She flitted her fingers in an unsettled, absent gesture, unaware of the relief she gave him. “And now are you going to acknowledge my question?”

  She did not give him a chance to answer before she moved forward, stepping out of her quadrant and into his.

  The scents of lavender, bergamot, rose water, and a hint of vanilla crowded closer. That faint, intoxicatingly feminine breeze threatened to smother him. Then a pair of perturbed blue irises raked over him—seemingly in a gesture to put him in his place and dismiss him—but it had the opposite effect.

  It was her fault, entirely, for her gaze hesitated—not once, not twice, but thrice—on his jaw, his shoulders, and his hands. Then she committed the worst sin of all. She wet her lips.

  His nostrils flared as he inhaled, his blood heating. Even after a day had passed, he could still feel her body against him so distinctly that he imagined, if he looked down, he would see the outline of her head, her arms, and her breasts pressed into his clothes.

  His errant gaze skimmed over her before settling on her hands where the tip of her finger was near the edge of the wax droplet.

  On an otherwise tidy surface, the red droplet and her pale, elegant hands were glaringly out of place. Especially when he could think of a dozen ways to keep the latter better occupied.

  The carnal images that flashed through his head surprised him, and he was ashamed at the lack of control he had of his own thoughts. “Mind your hands, Miss Bourne. You are perilously close to smearing spilled wax.”

  Narrowing her eyes, she purposely pushed her fingertip into the wax. It wasn’t entirely soft at this point, but the pressure caused a divot, and likely discolored the wood beneath it. Then she lifted her chin and crossed her arms once more, framing her plump breasts.

  He gripped the edge of his desk and rose, more in an effort to keep his gaze level with hers. “I will not keep you here against your will, Miss Bourne. You may ignore the doctor’s recommendations, if you so desire.”

  He prayed she would take him up on the offer, if only for a respite on his overrun senses.

  “Though, according to the doctor, to my own detriment.”

  “Possibly,” he answered, saying nothing else. Her color was high now, her cheeks suffused in crimson smudges—far different from yesterday’s startling pallor. Comparing the two, he preferred her irritated rather than frail.

  No, he reminded himself, he preferred her gone instead. He’d just gotten rid of Miss Beels and her dog a short time ago. Henry had left at first light, wanting to brave as much mud as possible. And now Crispin was all too aware that he was virtually alone with Jacinda Bourne, her chaperone nowhere in sight.

  She exhaled a puff of air, dislodging that fat red tendril. It fell in a soft burnished swish, curling against the arch of her left brow. His fingers twitched, eliciting a series of pulses up the length of his arm. Clenching his jaw, he fought an unhealthy urge to reach out, haul her across the desk, pull her onto his lap, and—

  “Ah. There you are Miss Bourne and Rydstrom,” Dr. Graham said, stepping into the study. “I’m glad to find you both here where I can speak to you about my plans for Miss Bourne’s recuperation.”

  “Perhaps it would serve me better to return to London for answers,” Jacinda replied, narrowing her eyes at Crispin. “Besides, I might have people depending on me.”

  Crispin subdued a snort. Oh yes, for who else would be willing to pilfer gentlemen’s town houses for the sake of matchmaking?

  As if reading his thoughts, her agitated gaze flashed bright blue before she turned to Dr. Graham.

  “As I explained, Miss Bourne,” Graham said with his usual manner of patience, “such an act could be harmful to your recovery. In your current state, you can hardly be of service to anyone. Therefore, it is in your best interest to remain here for a time.”

  She huffed. “How much time?”

  Graham came closer, peering through his spectacles at the wound on the side of her head. The swelling of it had gone down a great deal, but it was still raw. “Since many of your injuries are not too severe, I imagine we will see much improvement within a fortnight. From what I learned from Miss Stowe a moment ago, you discovered your preference for strong black tea. Why, by tomorrow you may have true memories.”

  This statement did not sit well with Crispin, and the warmth in his veins abruptly cooled. He did not want her memory to return until she was far away from here and less likely to wreak any more havoc than she already had.

  “And to hasten the process for one as determined as you are, I’ve planned an afternoon of memory exercises. We could begin with the commonplace tasks that occupy most debutantes each day, like sewing and playing the pianoforte. If you feel up to it, that is.”

  Crispin didn’t want to puncture Graham’s hope-filled bubble by pointing out that his plan would work better if he chose a commonplace debutante. Miss Bourne was far from that. In fact, Crispin doubted she did anything that a typical debutante would. He could no more picture her sitting demurely in a parlor and sipping tea than he could imagine her taking flight.

  “And each evening,” the doctor continued, “we will gather here in this study and recount your recollections of the day.”

  Crispin frowned, not appreciating an open invitation into his sanctuary.

  Jacinda pointed an accusatory finger at Crispin. “There are already true memories here in this room, if Rydstrom would supply what he knows of me.”

  “But those would be his accounts, not yours,” Graham said.

  “If both he and I share them, I see no difference.” Miss Bourne tucked her finger away as Graham led her toward the upper right quadrant of the room.

  Crispin resumed his seat and drew in a breath to steady himself. Yet the enticing permeation of her fragrance still filled the air, and he wondered, abjectly, if he would ever be free of it.

  “Yes, however, each person has individual experiences,” Graham said. “Even the simplest things can illicit different reactions, colors, fragrances, and the like. Take the hearth for example. What do you see when you look at it?”

  “What anyone would,” she grumbled, but studied at it all the same, turning in such a way that the firelight bathed her cheek and the column of her throat in a golden glow. “A warm fire burning over the logs on the grate.”

  “And, Your Grace”—Graham turned to look over his shoulder—“if I may pose the same question?”

  Inwardl
y, Crispin jolted, feeling like a boy being caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. He chastised himself for his wayward gaze, and gave the hearth a cursory glance. “I see that there are only two logs on the grate, an empty woodbox, and a pile of ash that needs to be collected.”

  Miss Bourne huffed, holding her arms stiffly at her sides. “But do you concede that there is, in fact, a warm fire?”

  He shrugged, taking perverse pleasure in goading her, in having those charged irises alight on him. “It could be warmer. This is a large room, after all, and this half hosts a drafty window.”

  “No doubt the primary drop in temperature originates from your corner.”

  “And thus, you understand that my interpretation was the correct one,” he said with a scholarly nod, pretending he did not catch her insult.

  She moved closer again, her steps taking her to the invisible border that divided the room. And when she drew in a purposeful breath, he felt a crushing sensation in his own lungs as if she’d taken it directly from him. “The air is quite stuffy over there as well.”

  He jerked his chin in the direction of the fireplace. “Then by all means, return to where you are most comfortable.”

  “I would,” she said, taking not one but two steps toward him before propping her hands on his desk as she leaned in, “if you would direct me home to my uncle.”

  “If that is your wish, I’ll ring for a carriage this instant.”

  “I realize this is asking quite a bit under the circumstances,” Dr. Graham interjected from the sofa. “However, I have great hopes that in a short amount of time your memory will be restored.”

  She wrinkled her nose at Crispin, while she replied to Graham. “A fortnight seems like a great deal of time, if you ask me.”

  “Perhaps it will be less,” Graham mused. “We could start our exercises now, if you like. Tell me what you recall from yesterday.”

  Crispin eased back in his chair and lifted his brows, gesturing with a casual wave of his hand for her to proceed. In return, Jacinda issued a frustrated growl and turned her back on him.

  “What purpose would it serve, since we all experienced the same events?” she asked.

  “Here again would be an example of how our perspectives alter memory,” Graham said. “I am only interested in what you remember and how you are shaping new memories. Perhaps with that knowledge it will help to unlock the ones that are trapped inside your head.”

  “Very well.” She drew in a breath of obvious impatience. “Sometime yesterday, I awoke on a rock and greeted Miss Beels and her dog, Mr. Lemon. Then you came along, and were kind enough to offer your handkerchief, embroidered with a G for Graham to help me remember. And then came Henry in his new boots and—”

  “Why would you say that his boots were new?”

  She lifted her shoulders in an indolent shrug. “Because the leather wasn’t creased and he had the legs of his trousers tucked inside as if to show them off.”

  “Remarkable.” Graham tilted his head slightly, studying her. “You have quite the gift for noticing details. Pray, what did you notice about our host?”

  Crispin went still while the hidden pulse beneath his cravat hammered as her attention returned to him.

  She set her hands on her hips, her chin tilting up at an angle that unsettled the lock over her forehead. “Rydstrom seemed in a great hurry, and yet stopped cold when he saw me, almost as if I were Medusa rising out of the sea, ready to turn him to stone.”

  A chuckle escaped Graham, but he was quick to cough in order to conceal it. “Ah, very good. You know your myths. This is one thing we may look into further tomorrow.” His mustachios twitched as he slid a wry glance to Crispin. “Is that all you noticed?”

  “He glowers at me, and far more than he ought toward someone he scarcely knows.”

  “Not this again,” Crispin muttered under his breath.

  “In addition, he looked as if he’d slept in his clothes, he was unshaven but smelled like cedar, and up close his whiskers resembled—” She broke off unexpectedly. Then a slow saturation of watercolor red spread across her cheeks.

  This sudden alteration caught Crispin’s interest. Was she blushing? He never would have guessed that the unapologetic, scheming, audacious Miss Bourne had a bashful bone in her delightful body.

  “Anything you notice is important, Miss Bourne,” Graham said, his tone uncharacteristically bright and helpful. “There is no judgment here. What did Rydstrom’s whiskers resemble?”

  “Yes. I should like to know as well,” Crispin added, his voice low as if the matter was just between the two of them.

  Ever brave under scrutiny, she straightened her shoulders and locked eyes with him, never backing down. “Though it matters little in regaining my memory, your whiskers resembled dusted cinnamon. Now, Dr. Graham, perhaps we can start immediately on those exercises.”

  And then, without another word—head high and cheeks awash in color—she strode out of the room.

  But before she could get away, Crispin called out, “One more thing, Miss Bourne.”

  She stopped at the threshold, half in the study, half in the corridor. Her hand gripped the edge of the doorframe, the tips of her fingers white with strain, very like the tight, impatient smile on her lips. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “As I mentioned before, many places in Rydstrom Hall are in disrepair. Therefore, for your own safety, you should never venture anywhere without either Dr. Graham’s escort or mine.”

  She hissed in a breath, eyes narrowed, lips parted, her countenance captivating in its fury. “So, in a manner of speaking, I am to be locked in the dungeon, after all.”

  “For your own safety,” he said without arguing the points on limited freedom versus none at all. He glanced briefly to Graham and received a half nod that was more token of acceptance than support of his decision.

  Clearly, Graham still couldn’t fathom the full scope of Jacinda’s ability to steal her way into forbidden places. Crispin wouldn’t be surprised if, without a constant guard, she found her way to the locked door of his aunt’s apartments by the end of the hour. Though, out of precaution, he kept the key on his person.

  “Or perhaps you could arrange a tour and simply indicate the dangers,” she replied a bit too sweetly.

  “Certainly. As soon as your health improves and faculties return—assuming my schedule allows for the distraction—I should be delighted to be your guide.”

  Both disbelief and challenge met him in the upward arc of her brows. “No doubt, with all that is demanded of you, your schedule will be quite full.”

  “Quite.” Again, he had the ludicrous urge to grin as if they were engaging in some sort of flirtation. But this was far from it, he reminded himself. This was a matter of dire importance. His expression remained severe. “Nevertheless, the main purpose for your stay here is to recuperate, not to traipse around crumbling corridors, putting yourself in danger. Now, if we have concluded our impromptu meeting, I should like to return to the lengthy list of tasks required of me.”

  “And I should not wish to keep you. Dr. Graham, if I may have an escort far away from His Grace’s domain?” She stormed out without another backward glance.

  Graham chuckled, rising from the sofa. “I suppose I’ve been summoned, haven’t I? A shame, really. The exchange was . . . enlightening.”

  Crispin frowned, not liking the knowing gleam behind Graham’s spectacles as he crossed the room and disappeared through the doorway.

  “What you witnessed was nothing more than a clash of wills,” he said, but his declaration fell flat, without anyone other than himself to hear it.

  Distractedly, he scratched his freshly shaven jaw, caught by a fleeting curiosity about the admission that had colored Jacinda’s cheeks. He wondered what else she had noticed about him. But that would be like opening Pandora’s box. He’d do well to tamp down this urge and tuck it away like he had all the others.

  He certainly didn’t want to repeat yesterday’s lapse with t
he errant lock.

  Chapter 12

  “. . . till she saw her in the way of cure, there could be no true peace for herself.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Yesterday’s exercises left Jacinda weary. She was no closer to remembering who she was, or why she was here, than she had been that first day on the rock.

  Aside from her table manners and handwriting, she appeared to have no true accomplishments as a debutante. Her clumsy work on the pianoforte proved that, while she understood how to read music, she had no skill in placing her fingers on the correct keys. Her attempts at the harp and viola were painful to anyone with ears as well as to her own fingertips.

  “Music is not necessarily for everyone,” Dr. Graham had said with a patient smile, and only a hint of cringing.

  After a few hours of failure, Jacinda had retired to the duchess’s chamber and spent the remainder of the day reading Emma.

  Ingrained in her, she knew each scene and each character as if she’d once lived inside the book. Yet there was an unsurpassable wall between herself and the memory of reading it before, or how it came to be so familiar to her.

  She was eager to read on to the second volume in the hopes of finding the link. Yet while browsing the otherwise impressive collection in Rydstrom’s library this morning, she could not find it.

  She’d been in this room for the past three hours with Dr. Graham, furthering her exercises. They’d pored over mythology books, one after another, hoping to spark her memory.

  Jacinda was familiar with most of the stories, but it was as if the knowledge came to her by rote instead of by memory. A completely different part of her brain understood what she liked to eat and drink, how to read and write, how to scrub her face and brush her hair. And all the basic essentials. But her memories were still swimming in a pool of seawater, too far beneath the surface to call them forth.

  It still seemed that her only hope to uncovering the mystery of her own identity resided with Rydstrom. And yet, by all accounts, he made it a priority to encounter her as little as possible. A fact quite evident given that she’d only seen his countenance twice yesterday—his morning glower in his study and his evening scowl at dinner. Did he even know how to grin?