How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  If she needed a reminder that he still saw her as an unwelcome guest, a nuisance, this certainly did the trick.

  When she’d first arrived, his obvious dislike had merely annoyed her, much like a splinter beneath her finger. But in these past days, that splinter had shifted positions. It was no longer in her finger, but moving toward her heart, and pinching when she least expected it.

  Seeking a remedy for these twinges, she went up the stairs to see Sybil, volume of Emma in hand. With Rydstrom occupied out of doors, she didn’t have to worry about the floor creaking beneath her feet.

  The moment she walked into the cozy room, Mrs. Hemple looked up and smiled. “Oh, Miss Bourne, you are a sight for sore eyes, to be sure. I’ve been stitching these pennants all afternoon and if I don’t look up every whipstitch or so everything starts to blur together. Likely, you saved me from turning my own frock into a pennant.”

  Jacinda grinned back. At least one person in Rydstrom Hall appreciated her. And when Sybil hopped up from her desk to snake her willowy arms around Jacinda’s waist, the number increased to two.

  “I’m glad to be of assistance, especially in saving your dress from being mounted from the turrets of Rydstrom Hall.”

  Mrs. Hemple snickered, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “I’m not certain His Grace expects any adornments at all. But I suppose we’ve all got ourselves caught up in the thrill of having the festival here again.”

  “It was nice of Rydstrom to change his mind. He’d seemed quite opposed to the festival when I’d spoken to him about it,” Jacinda said absently, peering over Sybil’s shoulder to the densely filled page.

  Intent on her work, she dipped her quill in the inkpot to resume writing almost before she sat down.

  “I’d say someone changed His Grace’s mind.”

  Seeing Mrs. Hemple’s sly grin, Jacinda shook her head. “It certainly wasn’t me. In fact, Rydstrom has made sure that I’m not even part of the festivities. Each time I try to lend a hand, I’m shooed away like a pesky fly.”

  Mrs. Hemple blinked, clearly confused. “I was instructed by His Grace as well, but only to keep you rested. Sir wants you to have the strength to enjoy the festival to the fullest.”

  That did not sound like the Rydstrom Jacinda knew. “It seems more likely that he would rather lock me in my chamber so that he could enjoy the day.”

  Sybil interjected herself into the conversation with a shake of her head and a knowing grin. Then, lifting one of the drawings from her desk, she handed it to her.

  But Jacinda wasn’t prepared for what she saw—a pair of figures sketched in the foreground, her and Rydstrom, faces tilted toward each other, and while standing in front of the Whitcrest chapel.

  Pretending to misunderstand the inference seemed like the best option. “Very nice, Sybil. Excellent work on the church steeple. Why, there are even gulls flying near the sky.”

  When Jacinda tried to hand it back, Sybil crossed her arms, refusing to take the page.

  Drat. It was no use. Jacinda would have to be direct. “Your sketch is quite romantic and lovely, but I must tell you that Rydstrom and I are never going to marry.”

  Sybil nodded, but it was in clear disagreement with Jacinda’s statement.

  “You see,” Jacinda began, trying to explain further. “When a man and a woman decide to marry, they hold a certain regard for each other and that is absent between the duke and me.”

  But as the words left her lips, not even she believed them. There was something between them, and it wasn’t the animosity that Rydstrom had claimed. If the feeling were caustic in any way, then she wouldn’t spend most of her day anticipating their next encounter, her stomach fluttering at the mere thought of exchanging a few parries, relishing every second his eyes connected with hers, and replaying every episode in her bed each night.

  Coming back to her senses, she saw clear doubt in the lift of Sybil’s wispy brows, and decided it best to speak even more frankly. “Besides, the Rydstrom title must marry for money and I have no fortune.”

  Sybil turned sharply toward Mrs. Hemple as if to ask for confirmation.

  “I’ve always thought the practice of marrying for the sake of Rydstrom Hall rather lonely,” Mrs. Hemple said easily, whipping several stitches at the edge of the azure blue fabric. “Besides, each one of them have all dropped fortunes into building a grand estate without regard to future generations. But nothing will stop the onslaught of time, and no amount of money will keep this edifice standing forever. I believe that love is a greater legacy to leave behind.”

  Jacinda grew a bit fonder of the persistent Mrs. Hemple, misguided in her assumptions though she may be. “You and Sybil are a pair of true romantics then.”

  “I suppose we are.” The housekeeper laughed. “What about you?”

  Jacinda looked down at the book she’d brought—her book—and thought for a moment, mulling over everything that she’d learned of herself these past days. “I think part of me is, but there is also a skeptical side to my nature. If love were to find me, I’d likely frighten it off by wanting to know all of its secrets.”

  “True love would have no secrets.”

  “Doubtless, you are right.” And Jacinda couldn’t help but think of how her entire life was currently a secret. And the biggest part of the mystery was the Duke of Rydstrom. Looking to change the subject, she began, “But at this moment, I’m far more curious about whether or not Sybil is excited about the festival. Are you going to awaken at dawn to greet the springtime sun, too?”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders and looked to Mrs. Hemple, but the housekeeper was busy at her task.

  Seeing the wariness in her expression, Jacinda asked, “Are you nervous about playing with the other village children?”

  After a moment, Sybil pressed her lips together and nodded, shyly tapping her fingertips against her throat.

  “Hmm . . . I see what you mean,” she said thoughtfully, hiding the fact that her heart was breaking for the girl. “Since I have misplaced my memory, I think that I should stay inside with you, too. We’ll let everyone else have the fun, while we complete our lessons.”

  Sybil vehemently shook her head, pointed to Jacinda and then made a shooing gesture.

  “No, I don’t think I would enjoy myself at all.” She pointed to her own temple.

  Sharp as a tack, Sybil narrowed her eyes, apparently understanding what Jacinda was trying to do.

  “If you are determined to watch the festival from the window, then don’t let anything stop you,” Jacinda said flippantly, but then she leaned forward to squeeze Sybil’s hand. “But if you are determined to attend the festival and enjoy yourself, then don’t let anything stop you. And, either way, I’ll be right by your side.”

  Sybil offered a worried smile, but nodded in consideration.

  “Oh, fiddlesticks, the time!” Mrs. Hemple scrambled to pile several pennants together. In the process, she upset her sewing box and accidentally kicked the pincushion with her toe.

  Jacinda hurried to help, holding back a laugh. Sybil snorted, clutching her middle, her dimples aglow.

  “You may laugh now, Sybil, my pet, just you wait until you’re as old as I am,” Mrs. Hemple chided fondly. Then skirting around the table, she pressed a kiss to the girl’s head. “I tell you now, I won’t have a speck of sympathy for you. Not a one.”

  Then the housekeeper set off down the corridor. But, something she said lingered in the air, distracting Jacinda with how familiar it sounded. The words my pet caused the briefest flash of a girl’s face through her mind.

  Like Sybil, this girl was pretty and blond, but with blue eyes instead of gray and no dimples.

  It must have been a memory. Though, regrettably, like before, it vanished before she could hold on to it.

  Now, feeling a bit empty, all she wanted was to sit in a comfortable chair by the fire and read her book. She tapped her hand on the red leather cover. “What say you, Sybil? Shall we be d
elinquents, skip the French lesson for today and visit Highbury instead?”

  Sybil’s next grin was full of mischief and Jacinda knew she had found a kindred spirit here.

  * * *

  A wealth of pride filled Crispin as the entire household worked feverishly to complete the preparations for the festival. He and a few of the groomsmen constructed tables and booths for wares and games and set them up at each corner of the lower bailey.

  Hearing the news, some of the village men also lent a hand. The women even closed their shops and stitched together garlands of greenery, tying them to the old supports left over from the crumbling outer curtain wall. And at a glance, the grounds resembled something of a large, outdoor ballroom.

  Crispin drew in a satisfied breath. This would be the grandest festival in Whitcrest’s history. He was so pleased with their combined efforts, and preoccupied with anticipation for Jacinda’s reaction, he didn’t see the dark clouds gathering over the sea until they were almost to the cliffs.

  When the first drops hit, he and the others scrambled once again to secure the area beneath large sheets of oil-slicked canvas, and ended with something of a patchwork caravan tent over the entire lower bailey. He wasn’t going to let rain or mud ruin his plans.

  Yet what he thought was a mere shower, transformed into a fierce storm in the distance. Silver veins of lightning lit the horizon over the water’s edge and the low growl of thunder followed. Crispin knew it would be here soon, and a cold chill rushed through him as he thought about Sybil. With Mrs. Hemple busy overseeing the maids, his sister would be alone and frightened.

  So the moment the task was complete and the villagers dispersed, Crispin rushed through the gatehouse and dashed up the stairs. First, he went to the long, narrow nursery because sometimes he found her hiding there with the coverlet pulled tightly over her head. But it was empty. Then he went to the private family solar in the donjon.

  Carefully, he opened the door, not wanting to startle her more than she undoubtedly was. But he stopped cold at the sight before him. Dread washed through him like a plunge into a January sea.

  Jacinda Bourne sat by the fire, and curled beside her in the chair, sound asleep, was his sister.

  By all appearances, this was not an infrequent occurrence. Now he had to wonder how often Jacinda visited his sister, and how much she knew.

  Even though he was well aware that Jacinda had been here before, he’d assumed she’d been too ill to remember. Not once in the past few days had she asked him about this room or Sybil. Then again, he knew from experience that Jacinda didn’t ask questions. When she was curious, she investigated instead.

  He should have been aware of this. But clearly, he’d let down his guard. Not only that, but his own sister and staff had not heeded his warnings.

  Could they not see the potential risk unfolding once Jacinda returned to London? How a few words spoken about his supposed ward—even if only to his aunt—could reveal the truth and sentence Sybil to a life he’d been trying to shield her from all this time?

  A roar of thunder filled the keep, lightning slicing through the sky beyond the window. And suddenly his dread turned to anger. What in the bloody hell was she doing in here, invading this private sanctuary?

  As if reading his expression, Jacinda lifted a slender finger to her lips. “Shh . . . She fell asleep before the storm,” she whispered. “Save your castigations for later.”

  His low growl blended with the sounds rumbling beyond the window. “Why are you here?”

  Jacinda’s lips curved, her eyes tilting at the corners with challenge. “I’m her French tutor.”

  “Have you been sneaking into this room every day?”

  “Nearly,” she whispered, wholly unrepentant. A person like her never thought about the repercussions of her actions, she only thought about herself.

  And yet, that logic did not match the picture before him of Jacinda stroking soothing circles over Sybil’s back in a gesture of warmth and caring. Sybil looked so peaceful, too, her cherubic cheeks pink, her head resting against Jacinda’s shoulder. And without conscious thought, his panic and fury began to recede, drop by drop, like the rain pattering against the windowpane.

  Now the absence of that palpable tension left him sluggish with exhaustion.

  “Why is it that you have never once mentioned her to me?”

  He did not answer, but stepped further into the room, his legs weighted like cliff barriers.

  “I do not suppose she is a secret since the villagers know about her,” Jacinda continued, his lack of response meaning little to one who never had enough information to satisfy her. “But I have to wonder, is she your child?”

  “No, she is not my child,” he said firmly, but saw Sybil’s expression frown in her sleep. He didn’t want to wake her. But he didn’t want to keep her here either. Not like this, peacefully slumbering beside Jacinda. The pure contentment he witnessed added a confusing element to the disorderly emotions roiling through him. “Please, Miss Bourne, ask me no more questions. I have a responsibility to protect her. She has already suffered enough for one lifetime.”

  Jacinda glanced down and pressed her cheek against the fall of curls on Sybil’s drowsing head. “I would not wish to bring her any grief.”

  Crispin must have lost all sense because, in that moment, he believed her.

  Weary, he sank down into the chair opposite her and let his head fall back against the rest.

  “Was she born mute?”

  He wasn’t going to answer at first, believing that the less Jacinda knew the better. Yet, after glimpsing this unexpected, nurturing side of her character, he wondered if telling her just enough might keep her from revealing anything about Sybil when she returned to London.

  “No. She came to Rydstrom Hall shortly after her mother died,” he said, deciding to take the risk, knowing that this was safer than having Jacinda seek out the answers on her own. “On that very day, a violent storm came, surprising everyone, including my parents. They were standing near the cliffs when the rock face suddenly gave way. Sybil saw it happen through the window. She screamed until she could no longer make a sound.”

  “Crispin, I’m—”

  “Do not call me by my given name, Miss Bourne,” he interrupted, a heady jolt lancing through him at the sound, cautioning him to beware of such intimacies. Straightening in the chair, he gripped the armrests, hardening himself against every enticement she represented. “It suggests a sense of familiarity that does not exist between us. I merely shared her story so that you would pry no further.”

  “You also shared a glimpse of your own tragedy with me.” She turned her face toward the smoldering fire.

  When he caught sight of the sheen of tears in her turquoise eyes, the harshness gave way to something softer, and infinitely more complex. He swallowed, and his tone was almost tender as he continued. “Let us not speak of it, not with the storm raging beyond these walls.”

  In the stillness that followed, the anguished regret from that day surfaced, gathering on his tongue. It frightened him how much he wanted to talk to her about it, to tell her the things he kept bottled up inside of him. Yet, somehow, he managed to swallow down the impulse.

  “As you wish,” she said quietly, surprising him with her easy acquiescence. Then she faced him once more, a ready inquiry posed in the lift of her brow. “But is she not able to speak at all? What I mean is, I’ve heard her issue sounds, here and there. Surely she should be able to speak.”

  “She can whisper,” he admitted. “But it’s not a soft sound as you or I would make. It’s more of a rasp, raw and gravelly. Because it frightens her, I do not force her to make the attempt.”

  “Hmm . . .” Jacinda murmured, but did not make any further comment. Though she did study him intently for a few moments, her mind clearly turning with thoughts or opinions she did not share with him.

  He wanted to ask her what they were, to delve inside her mind and learn everything he needed to know. But
as the notion came to him, he wondered if everything would be enough. He feared, he would always want just a bit more with Jacinda.

  “If I may ask one more question, but on another topic?” she asked, breaking the silence.

  Though it took effort, he fixed a warning glower in place.

  As usual, she chose to ignore it. “Why do you separate everything into quadrants?”

  “It is something I’ve done since I was a child,” he said with an absent shrug. “The nursery was arranged in quadrants—bed, wardrobe, washstand, desk. I merely find order and simplicity appealing.”

  Her mouth quirked as if she did not entirely believe him. “I happened to notice that your ledger is the same—Oh, do not start to bluster at me again, Rydstrom. The room is already warm enough without your fiery scolding. After all, it is your own fault for leaving your ledger in plain view. At least, you did the evening I moved your bookend. And, through your own actions, you incited my inquisitive nature by writing my name on several of your pages in the bottom right quadrant.” Unapologetic to the core of her being, she even wagged a finger at him before she resumed stroking Sybil’s back in methodic circles. “Now then, what I cannot decipher is what each section represents.”

  He stared at her, his blood heating, his pulse running riot in his veins. But it wasn’t anger simmering inside of him. Instead, he was nearly awed by her audacity and he had a strange compulsion to laugh.

  Sitting in the room with him was the very same woman who’d stolen into his study in London, and robbed him of peace of mind, of order, of sense, of reason. In the place of all she’d taken, she’d let loose a storm of emotions that had gone numb inside of him long ago, buried under years of guilt and self-torment. She made him feel everything at once—anger, joy, fear, lust—and turned him into a bundle of raw nerves under constant siege.

  She was what kept him awake at night, prowling through the halls when he should have been in his bedchamber. But his chamber was too close to hers. Too tempting.

  So each night he walked to his study, took out his ledger and wrote down her name in the bottom right quadrant. It was supposed to serve as a reminder that it was her fault that he was awake and constantly aware of her. And now she demanded to know why her name was there? Well, he would leave her to surmise that answer on her own.