How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  Startled by his own thoughts, he cleared his throat quickly and cemented a frown to his brow. He couldn’t for one moment allow himself to forget the risks of having her here. Because then he might become careless, even more so than he already had been. “In the future, you will not venture into the village.”

  “I have no intention to . . . other than to attend the Spring Festival,” she said with an absent flick of her wrist that drew his attention to the pale flaxen thread wrapped around her slender index finger.

  “No. I forbid it. As I’ve said before, I promised to deliver you back to your uncle in one piece. And I cannot always be there to rescue you from a foolish inclination.”

  “Then host it here. The villagers said it used to be a grand occasion at Rydstrom Hall.”

  He shook his head. “That was long ago. And the answer, in case you are unclear, is still no.”

  “Then you’ll have to lock me in my chamber because I will attend,” she challenged, her brows lifted, an unrepentant smirk on her plump lips.

  His blood heated, though not entirely in irritation. The desire to kiss her, hard, to prove that he was her protector and that he would decide what she did or did not do nearly overwhelmed him.

  “Miss Bourne, do not tempt me.” Jaw clenched he glared down at her, watching as she swiftly, angrily, began to unwind the thread. “What is that on your finger?”

  “Nothing but a string,” she said crisply.

  He shifted the reins into one hand and reached for hers to still her motions, but he was the one who went still instead. The simple touch—his hand engulfing hers, his thumb skating over the loosened thread—seemed to anchor him and banish that drifting sensation that had come over him a short while ago.

  Abruptly, he released her and gripped the lead once more, his knuckles white with strain. “Were you injured by the nets?”

  “No. It is a remembrance string,” she said casting it over the side. Turning away, she watched as it drifted sinuously on a breeze. And then a long, arduous sigh escaped her. “Why do you do that—act with almost tender concern for me one moment and then keep me at arm’s length the next?”

  Because he kept forgetting how foolish it would be to care for her. Apparently, they were both suffering from a form of amnesia. Though, he would make sure his was temporary.

  Instead of telling her this unwelcome truth, he offered a more ambiguous answer. “You know the reason.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her nod.

  “Because of your heiress,” she said, startling him. Because it was only then that he realized he’d completely forgotten about his necessary bride. Absently, Jacinda rubbed the mark the string left behind. “I wish you would start remembering her sooner.”

  So do I, Crispin thought and wondered if he should tie a string around his finger, too.

  Chapter 18

  “These days of confinement would have been, but for her private perplexities, remarkably comfortable . . .”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  After this morning, Crispin could not fathom anything more complicated than having Jacinda Bourne beneath his roof. But then her sister came to call and he was proven wrong.

  Fellows paced the floor, peering worriedly at the doorway to the juniper parlor, where Miss Ainsley Bourne was with Dr. Graham, discussing the possibility of removing Jacinda from Rydstrom Hall. “Miss Bourne cannot be taken from us yet, Your Grace. She and I have yet to finish her tour of the castle, and she was ever so eager to hear the history of the minstrel’s gallery.”

  “And the cook is preparing a special recipe for turtle soup for our Miss Bourne,” Mrs. Hemple added, worrying her hands in the center of her apron again.

  He realized now that it had been a mistake to send out his daily letters to Eggleston, explaining the injuries to Jacinda and her progress. He’d only hoped to ease the worry that her family would likely endure by not hearing from her, while also assuring them that she was under the care of a competent doctor.

  Unfortunately, Miss Ainsley Bourne must have confused his letters with an open invitation. She’d arrived in the same coach as his valet, Bartram, whom Crispin had finally sent for after realizing his stay would be extended.

  He’d also written to Aunt Hortense so that she did not hear the news from the Bourne family patroness, the Duchess of Holliford. It was a relief that his aunt didn’t arrive unexpectedly as well. Because then she would want her apartments aired and left open so that anyone might stroll within the rooms and see what he’d kept hidden for years.

  But he wouldn’t need to worry about Jacinda making the discovery, if Ainsley Bourne took her sister away.

  Thinking of that possibility, a peculiar knot of tension gathered at the base of his skull. Though why the notion would give him anything other than elation, he did not know. He wanted to be rid of her, he reminded himself.

  “She is not our Miss Bourne,” Crispin said, rolling his shoulders to dispel the confounding, tight sensation. He glanced over to Mrs. Hemple. “Is she still in her chamber, resting?”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” she said quickly, but swallowed and glanced down at her fingernails.

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion. With Jacinda left very much alone, she could be up to anything. “Are you certain?”

  Perhaps he should check on her, ensure she wasn’t up to mischief. Even the thought of seeing her with his own eyes caused his pulse to accelerate, his blood warming in his veins.

  “Quite, sir,” Mrs. Hemple said with a quick nod. “She had an eventful morning, and then ate no more than a bird’s share. She should be quite tired and likely not even able to travel . . .”

  Crispin expelled a breath. “We will wait to hear what her family has to say before we send for her.”

  Yet, even as the words left him, he found that he could not stand still, his boots shifting on one of the four rectangular rugs on the floor. He was impatient for Ainsley Bourne to leave the parlor and tell him her decision.

  Then suddenly the door opened. Both Dr. Graham and Miss Bourne walked out, but when Crispin took a step forward, so did Fellows and Mrs. Hemple.

  He paused long enough to address them. “Forgive me for pointing out that there may be work to be done in Rydstrom Hall.”

  Fellows put a hand over his heart, his brow wrinkled. “But, sir, how can you expect us to—”

  Crispin held up a hand. “Whatever decision has been made then I—the master of this castle, in case you have forgotten—will hear it first.”

  He strode away from them, wondering how Jacinda’s amnesia could have infected everyone in Rydstrom Hall. No one even knew their places anymore. And he looked forward to returning to a semblance of order, with everything back to the way it ought to have been.

  So then why did each heavy footfall that brought him closer to Ainsley Bourne only make Crispin feel muddled inside?

  It was not a question he wanted to answer.

  Directly ahead, Graham bowed to Miss Bourne and took his leave, offering a nod to Crispin as he passed by, and revealing nothing definitive in his countenance. Ainsley Bourne, on the other hand, appeared quite troubled.

  In such a circumstance—if this might have been Sybil instead—Crispin didn’t know what he would do either. He felt a sense of empathy for her, even as his unease grew.

  “I should not wish to intrude or tarry any longer, Your Grace,” she said the instant he neared, her tone matter-of-fact.

  “Of course. I’ll send for your sister.” He nodded, his lungs tight.

  “I’m afraid I’ll be leaving without her.”

  Turning on his heel, Crispin stopped. “Pardon me?”

  “As much as I had every intention of taking Jacinda home with me, Dr. Graham has warned me of the irreversible damage that action could inflict. He also mentioned that there were no guarantees she will recover fully, either way.” She paused, a breath stuttering out of her lungs. “Yet, how could I rightly put my own needs ahead of hers? After all, it is my duty to watch over m
y family and to protect them to the best of my ability.”

  Her last statement made him feel as if she were a kindred spirit. He knew this decision could not have been easy, and because of that he admired the sensible, stalwart Miss Ainsley Bourne.

  She was pretty, too, in a reserved, quiet way. And he didn’t feel that terrible knotted sensation with her, or any stirring of attraction that would ultimately lead to a distraction he could not afford. Precisely what he was hoping for in a bride. It was a pity she was not an heiress, otherwise he might think of marrying her and save himself all sorts of trouble.

  Not that he intended to fall into trouble with her sister . . . it was just that he didn’t like where his mind and body were always taking him when Jacinda was near. He didn’t like that she’d awakened part of him that he’d had under firm control for years.

  “I understand,” he said, offering his handkerchief when her eyes misted over. “As I said before, she is welcome here—you both are.”

  Again, she shook her head. “When I asked to see her, Dr. Graham warned me of confusing her. There is, of course, the chance that she might remember me. But then, there is also the chance that someone would have to introduce us, and from there the complications would begin. It is a risk I am not willing to take.”

  “I will make sure that everything is done to aid her.” The two sisters could not be more different—one was all about risk and the other all about protection. If only the eldest had first handled his application, then none of them would have been in this situation.

  “Thank you,” she said, her lips curving in a soft smile that was wholly absent of impishness. “You are kinder than we deserve, I’m sure. After all, you must know that she is not here by accident. While I do not know her reason, I do know she traveled this way to finish her investigation before assigning your list of potential matrimonial candidates.” She blushed, embarrassed. “My sister tends to have a streak of tenacity that borders on excess.”

  Borders on? He stifled a wry laugh. Jacinda Bourne was completely irredeemable.

  “Our agency strives to ensure proper matches. Though, given the circumstances, our methods may be somewhat flawed,” Ainsley continued, humbly. “It is clear to me that you are a fine and noble gentleman and I apologize for all the inconveniences you have suffered. If you will permit me, I will see that you have a list of viable candidates sent to you shortly after I return.”

  “I should like that very much.” Once more, he marveled at how different the two sisters were. “Please know that my carriage is at your disposal, and should you require lodgings, I will send my driver with coin. It is the very least I can do.”

  She hesitated, but then accepted with a nod. Then at the door, she paused and looked up at him. “May I ask a question, Your Grace?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did my sister have a book with her?”

  He nodded. “A volume of Emma, I believe. She kept it wrapped in cerecloth to keep it dry.”

  She sighed with relief. “Good. I know that when—if—she regains her memory, she never would have forgiven herself if anything happened to it.”

  He wondered how the entire family seemed so attached to these books.

  “And might you do me one more favor?” She lifted the worn satchel she’d been carrying all this time. “I’ve packed a few of her things, along with our mother’s music box in the hopes of sparking . . . something. Would you give this to her and ensure it is kept safe?”

  As much as he did not want to spark Jacinda’s memory, he agreed. Then, bidding Ainsley Bourne adieu, he left her to the care of Fellows and the driver who would take her to the inn.

  But when he turned back, he looked down the length of the gatehouse and saw Jacinda.

  She was standing at the far end near an archway, her brow knitted, her mouth tilted down in a frown, and she looked almost pained.

  He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d seen her sister, recognized her, and now recalled everything.

  Chapter 19

  “And I am not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little intention of ever marrying at all.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Forgoing a much-needed rest, Jacinda spent the remainder of her morning with Sybil. They were having a picnic on the floor of the duchess’s chamber, with little sandwiches filled with thinly sliced salmon, buttery scones, and rich dark tea—though Sybil preferred hers with sugar and milk.

  Reclining on the pillows strewn about, Jacinda read from Emma, requiring a bit of comfort after the way her outing had concluded with Rydstrom. She didn’t want to think about him or his heiress any longer. So she dove headlong into the story once again, pausing every now and then to brush a few crumbs from her skirts.

  While listening, Sybil lay on her stomach with her knees bent and her stocking feet stirring the air as she sketched pictures of what she thought the characters would look like.

  At first, Jacinda only remarked on the effortless quality of each drawing. Then all at once she saw something quite familiar. “This looks just like Mr. Fellows, and you have him dressed like Emma’s father in a robe, slippers, and stocking cap.”

  Sybil grinned, scrambling up to her knees to sort through her stack and handed her another.

  “Why, that’s Miss Beels and with Mr. Lemon by her feet. And this looks very much like Mr. Trumbledown. Then again, I don’t know another man with a wooden leg. And there is Mrs. Lassater, and the Olson boys . . .” She shuffled through them all, amazed again by this girl. “Oh, and here is one of Mr. Alcott, and a handsome likeness, too. It’s a pity my visit to the village was cut so short. I never had the chance to find out more about him.”

  Sybil snatched the picture away and turned it facedown on the floor. Then, frowning, she whipped through the other drawings until she handed one, in particular, to Jacinda.

  It was Rydstrom, the sketch complete with chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, and something Jacinda had never seen on his countenance—a smile.

  Unable to stop the urge, she traced those lines with her fingertip, wondering if this was what he would look like if he ever smiled at her. But she tucked that thought away for now and focused instead on the reason Sybil had put this in her hand.

  Jacinda believed she knew. The girl was a romantic, after all. Likely, she had decided from the first moment she’d drawn the image of Rydstrom carrying Jacinda toward the castle that there was something between them.

  And there was, of course—amnesia, discord, secrets, and an heiress, just to name a few.

  “This sketch is a handsome likeness, too. However, I believe that Betsy and Martha would prefer the other one. You see, they have heard about the newcomer to Whitcrest and are curious about him. I volunteered to speak to Mr. Alcott in order to find out if he was a worthy prospect.”

  A bright grin replaced the disgruntled pucker and Sybil lifted the sketch of Mr. Alcott off the floor, returning it to the stack. Apparently, he was no longer in danger of being cast out of the paper village.

  “I wish I’d been at liberty to exchange more than a few words with him. I don’t know how many more opportunities I shall have before I . . .”

  Her words trailed off as she saw a ghost of worry cross Sybil’s face, dimming the light in her perceptive gray eyes to the color of smoke. Jacinda shifted uncomfortably, knowing that she needed to make it clear that she would be leaving Rydstrom Hall.

  But when her hand brushed the edge of the open book, she thought of something else instead. “Then again, Miss Emma Woodhouse would not be deterred by a minor setback, not when a potential match was at stake. Perhaps, while I am here, you and I could work together. As an artist, you have an amazing eye for detail, and that is precisely what any good matchmaker requires.”

  Jacinda felt her pulse race suddenly. Her heart squeezed tightly against her lungs and rose up along her rib cage like bubbles inside an untended glass of water. That peculiar sense of rightness, of purpose, that she’d first experienced in the libr
ary yesterday, filled her again. Only stronger this time.

  Sybil leaned forward and laid her hand over Jacinda’s on the book and nodded eagerly, her curls bouncing. Then, as if she, too, had been similarly struck with an exhilarating sensation, she bounded to her feet. She didn’t even give Jacinda the chance to question her before Sybil took her by the hand and pulled her toward the door.

  Caught up in the girl’s excitement, Jacinda went along and soon found herself skirting around corridors and up stairwells until they were, at last, in the cozy room at the top of the castle.

  As soon as they entered, Sybil went to her desk in front of the oriel window, picked up a brass cylinder and gave it a twist until it extended.

  “A telescope? But what does this have to do with matchmaking?”

  Sybil gestured to the window, a mischievous grin on her lips.

  Still a trifle puzzled, Jacinda put the glass to her eye and peered through the window. And that’s when she saw a clear bird’s-eye view of the village. “I can see everything from here. What a clever girl, you are.” Then, because it needed to be said, she added a halfhearted, “But we both know that spying is wrong, of course.”

  Sybil pressed her lips together, lowered her chin, and offered the barest of nods, but there was no disguising the twinkle in those rounded eyes.

  Jacinda bit back a grin. “Unless . . . it is done for a very good reason. And I believe that matchmaking would be at the top of that list, don’t you?”

  Beaming brightly, Sybil nodded. Then, in a flurry, she snatched a page of her school lessons, turned it over and wrote, “The Matchmakers of Rydstrom Hall.”

  “A list—what a splendid idea! Though, with a title like that, it nearly sounds like a book, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Sybil’s lips parted on a soundless gasp and instantly took up a fresh sheet of paper, scrawling Once upon a time with great flourish.