Chapter 17
“Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them. . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
Jacinda’s head spun as the villagers shared endless accounts of their past memories of the Spring Festival—the games for the children, contests for the men and women, and every morsel of food that had passed their lips.
Each tale sounded more wonderful and delicious than the last. And when her stomach issued an embarrassingly ravenous growl, Mr. Stokes immediately offered to bake her something special to break her fast. He wasn’t to be outdone by the owner of the Swinging Fish, however, for Mr. Trumbledown vowed to roast her a fish so tender and flaky that she would hear angels.
Well, then. It would have been rude to resist.
“Ack, but here we are talking about the festival, and His Grace hasn’t even attended for these past four years,” the widow Olson said, keeping a trained eye on her three rambunctious boys.
There it was again, the mention of the four years. Jacinda’s curiosity sensors sparked again and she looked to Miss Beels.
“Since the deaths of his parents,” she said solemnly. “But His Grace took to his duties right off, if not stoically.”
Mrs. Parish pressed her hands to her heart. “His Grace never once turned his back on us. Even took in that poor relation of Mrs. Hemple’s, giving her a better life than she’d likely have had otherwise.”
They admired Rydstrom greatly, and rightly so, for he was humble and hadn’t even mentioned Sybil to Jacinda or boasted about the way he’d assisted the orphaned girl.
Beneath her hand, Jacinda felt a warm fluttering sensation. Rydstrom was a good man. And she could almost forget about all the things he did that bothered her.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t forget that he was going to marry an heiress.
At the thought, that pleasant quiver in her stomach abruptly twisted into something hot and bitter.
“His Grace even helped our newcomer, Mr. Alcott,” Miss Beels interrupted. “Gave him the wood he needed to shore up old Burkett’s cottage and enough to fix the hole in the abandoned smack.”
The widow Olson sighed, her gaze drifting to the last shop on the row. “He’d make a right fine husband.”
They all turned in unison toward the simply monikered, Net Shoppe.
The chalk white exterior was marred by long, uneven orange stripes of rust, spilling down from iron hooks that hosted a messy conglomeration of wide trawling nets. Anchored by knots along the bottom row, the nets shifted in the cool, briny breeze, one of them falling in a tangled heap to the ground. And there, rounding the corner, was the man in question. Mr. Alcott.
Jacinda barely had time to notice the dark hair and square jaw before she heard the rapid pounding of horse’s hooves in the distance. Curious, she looked over her shoulder, but instead of seeing the source of the thundering sound, she saw Mr. Stokes rush out of the bakery, hoisting a flaming baguette and cursing at the white dog that scurried beneath his feet.
The culprit, Mr. Lemon with the black markings around his mouth to form a grin, darted off toward the Swinging Fish just as Mr. Trumbledown emerged. The former fisherman teetered on his wooden leg, barely missed squashing Mr. Lemon, and then . . . dropped her skewered fish.
Her breakfast.
Suddenly, the dog snatched the skewer and sprinted down the lane, through the rolling hoop, past the net shop, and toward the cliffs.
And before Jacinda knew what came over her, she rushed off to save Mr. Lemon.
* * *
Crispin set the brake on the gig, and watched in horror as his prediction came to fruition—Jacinda at the center of fire and chaos in Whitcrest.
He leapt down, prepared to haul her back to Rydstrom Hall by any means necessary, and before any new disasters occurred.
But it was already too late.
Striding past the baker, who was busy cursing and stamping out the flames of a torched baguette, Crispin saw catastrophe looming even before Jacinda did.
He broke into a run an instant after Jacinda began to chase that fool dog. She was headed straight toward the net shop, where there were always heaps of rope on the ground, camouflaged by stones and tall grasses.
Didn’t she realize how close she was to the cliff’s edge?
Crispin sprinted faster, plowing past the villagers, icy panic clawing through his veins. He was four strides away when he saw her falter. Foot snagged, she lurched to a halt, her arms shooting forward to brace herself for the fall. Only two strides now. He was determined to catch her. And then, just before he reached her, a fisherman caught her by the shoulders, pulling her upright once again.
Relief rushed out of him on a series of hard, panting breaths as he came upon the scene. Recognizing the man as Mr. Alcott, a newcomer to Whitcrest, Crispin opened his mouth to thank him for his assistance.
But when he saw Alcott’s hands still clasping Jacinda’s upper arms, different words came out instead. “Mr. Alcott, I do believe Miss Bourne is no longer in danger of falling.”
Alcott swung his gaze in Crispin’s direction, his broad grin slanting into a confused frown. “Pardon, Your Grace?”
Closing the distance, Crispin discovered that he was seething more than respiring, every sound coming forth in a low, foreign growl. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He wasn’t normally this quick to temper but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Seeing the pair of them, nearly twined together in front of the entire village, set his teeth on edge. “Your hands, Mr. Alcott.”
“Forgive me, sir,” Alcott said, lifting his hands away carefully as if Jacinda were a powder keg and Crispin was holding a torch. “I meant no disrespect. I merely wanted to keep her from falling. These nets can be tricky.”
Jacinda sent a venomous glare to Crispin before she turned to smile to Alcott. “Your concern does you credit. I would have tumbled head over heels if not for your assistance. I am in your debt.”
Coming to her side, Crispin set his hands on her waist and lifted her from the tangled coils, ignoring her outraged gasp. “Are you able to stand?”
“Only if you put me down,” she snapped, and her voice lowered further as she clenched her teeth. “You are causing quite the spectacle.”
He disagreed and focused on the more important matter at hand—freeing her so that he could take her back to Rydstrom Hall and rail at her for the remainder of the day.
Moving her away from the netting, he noticed that she’d lost one slipper. Before she had the chance to balk, he fished through the ropes and retrieved it. When he bent down to slip it over her stocking foot, his sudden shift in position left her no choice but to grip his shoulder for support, and that was fine with him. At least she was no longer holding on to Alcott.
Then standing before her, he kept her secure with a hand at her waist for one more instant. “Is your ankle twisted?”
The daggers she’d been throwing with her glare abruptly transformed. Those uncanny, bright eyes widened, blinking up at him. “It is not.”
Regardless, to be safe, he placed her arm into the crook of his before addressing Alcott. “Since Miss Bourne is a guest in my home, then by all rights the debt for seeing her uninjured is mine to repay. Whenever you require an equal favor, do not hesitate to ask me.”
Then, without another word, he set off with Jacinda, only to slow his steps when he noticed a small crowd of two dozen or so eager-eyed village women, their children, and a few men who’d formed to watch the exchange. Even Miss Beels with her unruly dog.
Walking toward the gig, he received bows and well wishes for his health. He inclined his head and returned the gestures with a short, “And to you as well.”
Crispin admired these people. They were a hard-working lot, who’d experienced their share of tragedies, losing loved ones to the rough seas as well as to the cliffs. They always came together in support of one another, lending charity where it was needed. Good
, solid people. And yet, at times, they were somewhat interfering.
Proof of that was in the whispers he overheard as he passed by.
“Oh, how dashing His Grace looked as he hastened through the village.”
“There’ll be a wedding soon, mark my words.”
“And a babe in Rydstrom Hall by Christmastide.”
For a flash of an instant, he caught a glimpse of that picture. A tiny, pink-cheeked infant, drowsing in the cradle of his arms, and there by his side, his wife, leaning in to kiss their child as a lock of auburn hair fell over her forehead—
His steps faltered, the toe of his boot catching on one of the stones, breaking the rhythm of his even strides. Jacinda clutched his forearm as if to save him from falling.
“She’ll make a fine duchess. Ever so kind and amiable.”
Too late, Crispin realized his mistake. By coming down to fetch her instead of sending one of the footmen, he’d given the wrong impression and plenty of fodder for the village gossipmongers. If word reached London . . .
He cursed beneath his breath.
Now that his momentary panic receded, he realized how easy it might have been for them to misconstrue this episode, making it more than what it was—a duke doing his duty, by ensuring that someone under his care came to no harm. That was all.
Reaching the two-wheeled gig, he lifted Jacinda without a word, his thoughts preoccupied. No matter what the villagers might believe at this moment, he was not going to marry her. He needed an heiress. And in little more than a week, Miss Bourne would be headed back to London, never to return.
Before he climbed up, he experienced a queer sensation right then, a sort of off balance, sinking that made him feel like a net set adrift without a tether to haul it back.
“Rydstrom, are you unwell?” Jacinda asked, apparently having noticed the alteration in him.
Without knowing the cause, he shrugged it off and stepped up, fitting beside her in the snug seat. He was keenly aware of how close she was, with the crush of her skirts between the meeting of his firm hip and the gentle curve of hers.
Reaching forward, he wound the leather reins twice around the hand that was closest to hers. “Never venture near the cliffs again, Miss Bourne.”
“I’m not that foolish, Rydstrom. I would have stop—”
“But you are that foolish,” he interrupted, his tone low with warning as he set off. “You’ve just proven it by traipsing into the village without my permission, without a chaperone, and without any common sense whatsoever. I should have taken you across my knee like I threatened to do in London and maybe then I wouldn’t be ready to lock you up for the remainder of your stay here.”
The fact that she continuously put herself in dangerous situations had to stop, if only for his own peace of mind.
“What a boorish thing to say!” She twisted in the seat, her knee colliding with his, crowding him until his clothes were suddenly too tight. “If we’d only met twice before, how could I have possibly earned such a threat?”
Damn. He’d said too much again. “It’s best that I not answer that question.”
She huffed. “Then explain to me why you behaved like a barbarian just now, threatening the man who gallantly saved me from falling. Did it ever occur to you that I might have wanted to stay in the village? The people there are quite nice, far more than some others of my limited acquaintance. And Whitcrest is a lovely, quaint village. I’m certain your heiress will enjoy it.”
Crispin shot a look to Jacinda. “What did you mean by that?”
“I meant nothing other than your very rich wife will find some redeemable companionship here.” She reached out and grasped his arm. “Mind the path, Rydstrom, or you’ll put us in the thistles.”
Bothersome baggage. She never left him with a moment’s peace.
“Apparently you are under the misconception that you have liberty to speak to me with more censure than I’ve heard in years. You are not.” Looking ahead, he clenched his jaw and pulled back with his right hand to turn the horse around the curve. “Obviously, my actions late last night left you confused. I never intended to offer you any indication that I have, or ever will have, designs on you. I can assure you, that is the furthest thing from the truth. I made a point and that was all there was to it.”
“Fear not, after one clumsy kiss, you are safe from my devious clutches.” She issued a harsh, hollow laugh. “And what a blessing for Mr. Alcott that you saved him from me. After all, the moment I uttered a startled cry, I was certain he would propose marriage. Of course, then I would have had to explain about how I might very well have a husband in London that I’ve completely forgotten. So it would have ended rather awkwardly.”
“You do not have a husband.”
“Oh? No doubt you are thinking that with all my failings, no one would have me,” she said, the volume in her argument diminishing on an indrawn breath.
Glancing over, he saw sadness creep across her countenance. Perhaps, with all that had gone on this morning, and in such a short time, he had overstepped a few boundaries as well. “You are rather tenacious when you want to be, but I wouldn’t consider it an entirely flawed characteristic.”
“Do be careful, Rydstrom. That sentence fairly reeks with the beginnings of a compliment. You wouldn’t want me to form any romantic notions about you.” She looked toward the sea, as they rounded one of many corners, averting her face. “But rest assured, I will never lose my head over you because of that sloppy kiss or anything else I learned about your character this morning.”
Sloppy? He tried not to take offense, but each time she brought up their kiss, his part was sounding worse and worse.
“What did you learn?” he asked, foolishly offering her another opportunity to wound his ego.
She took a moment to torment him with silence before she answered. “In the village, before you arrived and saved me from a libertine net”—she slid him a wry glance—“I heard all the villagers speaking very highly of you.”
Well, that was not the response he expected. Somewhat uncomfortable by the accolade, he shifted in the seat, but only managed to rub up against her.
He snapped the reins to speed up the horses. “Their fondness for me is a recent occurrence. As a young man, I was a veritable terror, racing this very conveyance along every stretch of road, and angry at everyone who chose to live in Whitcrest. For me, this village had once felt like a prison. At the time, I believed that everyone else was living the life that I deserved.”
“And your opinion altered when your parents died?”
He nodded, and decided that there was no harm in answering, in sharing one small aspect of his life. “The villagers offered their support in dozens of small ways, not the least of which was walking the funeral procession with me. It was in those first days following the tragedy that I’d realized they gathered together for everyone. The reason wasn’t because I was their duke—at least not all of it—but that I was one of them. They helped me remember who I was.”
She was quiet for a moment, her gaze searching his, her expression full of tenderness. “While I am sad for the event that led up to it, I am glad you found something of a family to be with you during that time.”
He didn’t know why this exchange made the stiffness in his shoulders wane, or why he eased back into the seat beside her and no longer cared that their limbs were crowded together. He actually welcomed the close comfort.
Perhaps this wasn’t such a small thing he’d shared with her, after all.
“Ever since you mentioned that I live with my uncle, I’ve presumed that my parents have died as well. Do we have that in common?” she asked, then shook her head. “But no, I suppose you will not answer that.”
“Would you want me to, though? I think it would only bring more questions and not ease your mind.”
She seemed to consider this and gradually shook her head. “Perhaps, but it bothers me that I do not remember my mother, in particular, or even know if I resemble her
. Did I inherit my curiosity from her? Was she stern and always scolding me for my tenacity? Or was she affectionate and patient?”
Even though Jacinda lifted her shoulder in a hapless shrug, Crispin heard the slight break in her voice.
“I sincerely wish I knew the answer, for your sake.” And it was true. He saw the toll that her amnesia was taking and, consequently, he was struck by an inexplicable need to cheer her, to release the reins and wrap his arm around her.
“Ugh, do not listen to me. I’m just . . . hungry and frustrated, I suppose. And I cannot stand to have this mystery locked inside my own head.”
“If it’s any consolation, given the fact that you are still quite tenacious and curious, your mother likely indulged you. I imagine that the best of mothers love their children for precisely who they are.”
He must have startled her because she turned her head toward his, so suddenly that he caught the sheen of tears in her eyes before she blinked them away, her lashes clumping into glistening spikes. “That was surprisingly kind of you.”
Her complete astonishment was somewhat insulting.
“I have my moments.”
“Mmm . . .” she murmured, tilting her head to study him, clearly doubtful. “And did you have the best of mothers as well?”
“Aye.” He nodded immediately, and even felt a slight tug on his lips as a memory caught him off guard. “Often, she would play a game with me called the four battlements of the Great Hall, where enemy invaders were poised at either ends of the two tables. Then we would race together through the halls to find Father, and coax him into playing a game, too.”
He slowed the horse as they crested the hill and looked at the façade of Rydstrom Hall. In the past four years, he’d only been able to recall the times when Mother had been sad, Father absent. This was the first time, in a long while, that he recalled how happy his childhood had been here.
He glanced down at Jacinda and saw her smiling up at him, her eyes bright, her cheeks glowing from the wind and from her reckless morning jaunt. Several locks of her hair had come undone from her coiffure, and he wasn’t sure that he’d ever seen a more beautiful woman in his life.
How to Forget a Duke Page 19
