How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  “In that ledger, the sections are the four parts of the day, beginning with the top left—morning, afternoon, evening and”—he paused—“night.”

  “Mine was the only name written in that one bottom quadrant, and yet you have dinner each evening with . . . with both Dr. Graham and . . .” Her words stumbled to a halt. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  He was fairly certain she might, if she thought about it long enough, and he felt a grin tug on the corner of his mouth to see the bright color staining her cheeks in the glow of the firelight.

  Relaxing again into the chair, he closed his eyes. “I am weary of conversation. Perhaps you could read instead from the book on your lap and allow me a moment’s peace.”

  As the storm grew quieter outside, Jacinda began to read about Miss Emma Woodhouse and her luckless efforts at matchmaking. He felt a measure of empathy for what Mr. Knightley must have endured.

  Chapter 22

  “My dear, I wish you would not make matches and foretell things, for whatever you say always comes to pass. Pray do not make any more matches.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  The day of the festival arrived.

  The early spring breeze was cool and crisp and brimming with excitement. The storm had been swift and left nothing behind other than a heavily beaded dew on the grasses and shrubs that glistened like sea glass in the bright morning light.

  The courtyard was draped in garlands and colorful pennants, while white linen table covers fluttered like crisp sails. And there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

  “’Tis a grand day for the festival,” Martha said, as she, Betsy, Clara, and Lucy came up to Jacinda. “And it is all because of you, Miss Bourne.”

  The servants were at their leisure now, but a short time ago they’d been scurrying in and out of doors to set up tables for food, wares, and drink. Next to the ale barrels stood a tower of pewter goblets unearthed in the garret, from days long past. And village children ogled the frosted cakes decorated with ribbons and sugared flowers, prizes for those who won the competitions of skill.

  “I have done the least of anyone to prepare Rydstrom Hall for this day, and I cannot take credit for the weather either,” Jacinda said with a laugh, stopping short as the Olson boys dropped onto the ground in front of her and started wiggling into burlap sacks for the race. She set her hand on Dr. Graham’s arm to navigate around them.

  Betsy shook her head vehemently. “But you’re the reason His Grace is hosting it. Everyone is talking about sir’s sudden change of heart.”

  “And the festival has never been this grand before, not even when the late duke and duchess held it here on the grounds. Why, you can even ask the good doctor,” Clara added with a knowing grin.

  Jacinda couldn’t allow the maids to make such far-fetched assumptions. If Rydstrom heard of this . . . well, he might send her back to her uncle sooner than planned. And Jacinda wasn’t ready to leave.

  She did not look to Dr. Graham for an answer, but put on her sternest expression and looked at each of the maids in turn. “You mustn’t repeat those rumors. They simply aren’t true.”

  The four maids exchanged grins with each other, pausing briefly when Lucy stepped forward and held out a small burlap sack. “Here are your seeds, Miss Bourne.”

  Jacinda accepted the palm-sized pouch with a measure of confusion. “Seeds?”

  “For the sowing ceremony,” Betsy said. “It’s part of the festival. The old custom declares that all the village women, no matter their age, must spread the seeds in order to bring life, beauty, and prosperity to Whitcrest.”

  Jacinda nodded, only now recalling that they’d mentioned it before.

  “And plenty of healthy, squalling babes during the winter solstice, too,” Mr. Trumbledown said from near the ale barrels, lifting one of the pewter goblets in something of a toast.

  Believing him to be in his cups, and first thing in the morning, Jacinda paid little mind to his teasing. Even so, her gaze alighted on Crispin.

  He stood listening attentively to a group of fishermen, some of them gesturing with arms spread wide as they likely told their harrowing tales. There was plenty of laughter and jesting remarks of disbelief. Then, without warning, Rydstrom’s gaze shifted.

  He scanned the crowd at a glance but stopped, unerringly, on her. The suddenness caused her breath to catch.

  Peculiarly, he no longer wore his glower. It had been absent ever since they’d spent the remainder of yesterday afternoon together, with Sybil asleep at her side and Jacinda reading from Emma.

  This new expression was not too altered from the glower, however. It was certainly no smile, and held a wary intensity that she did not understand.

  But she blushed all the same and tore her gaze away. “Then I will do my part.”

  “There’s a wee pebble in each sack, too,” Clara added, “but be sure not to let it fall to the ground with the seeds. That’s bad luck.”

  Jacinda weighed the pouch quizzically. “Why is there a stone mixed with the seeds?”

  “It’s a wishing stone, o’ course.” Betsy beamed.

  Clara nudged Betsy playfully with her elbow. “How would Miss Bourne know that? Anyway, it’s for the fishermen. Cast a wishing stone into the sea to please the merfolk, and in return, they’ll put more fish into the nets.”

  “Most of the maidens wish for husbands,” Martha said, surveying the men in attendance. “But I don’t suppose you’ll be needing yours for that.”

  The maids all looked over at the duke. Collectively, they giggled, curtsied, and then left to go gossip with the village women. Jacinda was thankful that Rydstrom was too far away to hear.

  “I do not know how to convince them of the truth,” she said to Dr. Graham as they began to stroll toward the booths on the far side.

  “I find that most people tend to believe whatever they choose to see,” Graham said in response, his cane sinking into the soft earth. “Never fear, time often reveals the truth to us all.”

  She sighed. “And time is slipping by quickly. Is it strange that I should feel trepidation whenever I think of returning to my uncle and to my life?” It was almost as if she didn’t want to leave at all. But that was a foolish notion. Of course she wanted to return to her family.

  “Whitcrest and Rydstrom Hall are currently the sum of your world. It’s perfectly natural to fear parting from it.”

  Her world . . . This place and these people were all she knew, and soon she would leave them, return to London, and lose everything she knew once more.

  At the thought, she felt dimmer, the cold breeze slipping through the layers of the same redingote and dress she’d worn when she’d first awoken on the rock below the cliffs. A shiver trampled through her, leaving a path of emptiness in its wake.

  “Miss Bourne!” Mrs. Parish called from nearby.

  Jacinda turned and waved at Mrs. Parish, who was standing behind the first booth, adorned with ribbons, lace, and bonnets.

  In the same moment, Henry Valentine rushed up to Dr. Graham, his eyes bright with excitement, his mouth a blur of movement as he told everything there was to know about the velocipede race. “. . . then straight down the hill to the bottom, and the fastest one wins a cake. A whole cake! You’ll come watch, won’t you, sir?”

  Dr. Graham turned to her, concern etched in lines of his brow. “Miss Bourne, would you forgive my absence for a moment or two? I’m not entirely certain I like the sound of this velocipede contraption.”

  She patted his arm. “Yes, for the race sounds far more thrilling than your watching me stare at ribbons over the next half hour.” And with that, the doctor inclined his head and Jacinda stepped over to the booth. “Mrs. Parish, what a fine display you have.”

  “Thank you, Miss Bourne.” She bent down quickly, rummaging through an open trunk, then stood, grinning as she presented a straw bonnet with a thick gathering of burgundy ribbon. “I happened to notice you are not wearing a bonnet today. Might I interest you in this one?�
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  Jacinda held it long enough to admire the wide brim that would be perfect to shield her eyes on such a sunny day. Reluctantly, she placed the hat down. “It is lovely, but I have no money for such a fine bonnet.”

  Mrs. Parish gently pushed the hat in Jacinda’s direction. “I’m sure His Grace wouldn’t mind, considering . . .”

  Jacinda frowned, realizing it wasn’t only the maids who were making assumptions. It was one thing to engage in idle gossip, but another for them to presume that Rydstrom would pay her debts, as if they had an understanding. “I’ll be returning to London and my uncle next week.”

  “Many things can happen in a week, like a betr—” Mrs. Parish stopped suddenly when Jacinda narrowed her eyes, and quickly amended, “Like a change in the weather. And for that, you’ll need a bonnet.”

  “Good day to you, Miss Bourne. And to you, Mrs. Parish,” Rydstrom said as he strode up to the booth.

  Jacinda’s heart stuttered, and she hoped he hadn’t overheard the topic of conversation. “Good morning, Rydstrom. I—I thought you were across the way, listening to fish tales.”

  He eyed her skeptically as if he sensed she was up to mischief, even though that was the furthest thing from the truth. At least this time. “I was. Though I thought it prudent to visit all the villagers.”

  “What an honor it is for me, Your Grace,” Mrs. Parish said, dipping into a curtsy. “And fortunate that Miss Bourne should be here as well. Why, just now we were discussing bonnets. This one, in particular.”

  “It is a fine hat, especially for a day as bright as this.” Picking it up, he turned it around with his long, adept fingers, and then held it out to her. “Here, Miss Bourne. So you will not have to shield your eyes with your hand any longer.”

  The knowledge that he’d been watching her and cared enough about her sun-besieged eyes to make this gesture, caused a sudden lift of her stomach, one that made her think of what it must be like to race down the hill in a velocipede. Wondrously exhilarating.

  She smiled, ready to thank him . . . until she caught sight of Mrs. Lassater joining Mrs. Parish behind the stand, the pair of them whispering.

  Abruptly, Jacinda took a step back and shook her head. “It is not acceptable for a young woman to receive an article of clothing from a gentleman.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “How is it that you know this bit of trivial information, possess an enviable array of scholarly subjects, including mythology from seven different cultures and four languages—”

  “Five actually,” she interrupted with a grin, solely for the sake of being contradictory. Thus far, she’d only discovered four that she could read and speak fluently.

  “Oh yes, five. I forgot to include Sanskrit.” He took a step forward, still offering the hat. “And yet, you continuously forget the most essential rule of all—whatever a duke says is always right. And this duke, Miss Bourne, says that you are accepting this hat.”

  Standing perfectly still, she had no idea why she was suddenly out of breath. She felt as if her flesh and bones were made of air, and that she might start to float any second. If she did, she hoped he would take her hand, hold her down to the earth, and keep her at his side for as long as he could.

  The sensation of bubbles rising up her rib cage filled her again. And she was beginning to suspect the cause had something to do with . . . with falling in . . .

  She swallowed, her throat dry. She couldn’t finish her thoughts. And thankfully she didn’t, because when Rydstrom next spoke, she was completely cured.

  Well, nearly. Perhaps.

  “After all, I cannot allow you to return to your uncle with a brown, freckled complexion. He’ll think I let you wander atop the turrets.”

  “When everyone in the castle knows that I only wander the turrets when you aren’t looking,” she said in an attempt at levity. Which proved impossible now that the bubbles inside of her evaporated and her feet were firmly on the ground. Yet when his glower threatened to return, she quickly amended with, “A mere jest, Rydstrom. I have never ventured that high. Yet. As for the hat . . . Mrs. Parish already offered to lend it to me until I return to London. My uncle will send payment for the purchase.”

  She gave Mrs. Parish a pointed look and received a slow nod in return. But not without her exchanging a nudge with Mrs. Lassater. It appeared as though the damage had been done and there would be little to convince them otherwise. At least, until Rydstrom married his heiress. Then who would have the last laugh?

  Well, it wouldn’t be Jacinda. All the same, she fixed the bonnet to her head and tied the ribbon beneath her chin.

  Rydstrom nodded. “That should do nicely, Miss Bourne. Now you will be able to enjoy the festival without a headache, blemish, or”—he leaned toward her ever so slightly, his voice dipping lower—“chilled ears.”

  As if the mention of her ears were part of an ongoing flirtation between them—even though she knew it was only his way of goading her—his gaze raked over them until she felt them grow quite hot.

  He hummed a sound of smug approval and turned to leave. But before he went, he withdrew a coin from his pocket and laid it on the booth.

  Arrogant, prideful man, Jacinda thought, fighting a grin as she stared at the breadth of his shoulders and the superb fit of his dark green coat.

  “Ah, Miss Bourne. It’s a pleasure to see you looking so vibrant today,” Mrs. Hemple said, skirting around the row of children hopping with all their might, brown sacks gripped tightly. And beside her, with blue ribbons in her hair and eyes as round as Mrs. Limpin’s plum cream tarts, stood Sybil.

  Releasing Mrs. Hemple, she rushed over to Jacinda and took her hand, gripping tightly. A palpable shudder coursed through her coltish frame.

  “A marvelous day for the festival, is it not?” Jacinda asked, pretending as if this were an everyday occurrence. Intuitively, she felt that making a grand ordeal of this monumental feat of bravery would only make Sybil more uncomfortable. “Of course, I’m simply exhausted from all the work I’ve done, baking dozens of pies, rolling barrels up the stairs from the buttery, taking a broom to remove every single cloud from the sky . . .”

  Sybil tugged on her hand and rolled her eyes heavenward as if she knew what Jacinda was attempting. But then that dimple made an appearance and her grip loosened marginally.

  * * *

  Crispin kept a watchful eye on Sybil throughout the morning and afternoon, prepared to intervene if a single look of distress crossed her features. He supposed that, sometimes, he still saw her as that six-year-old girl who’d witnessed his parents’ deaths, and he wished he could travel back in time to save her from it.

  Yet seeing her face light up with Jacinda by her side, and brave enough to join a game or two, those fears subsided.

  This was certainly not a development he could have anticipated. Then again, since Jacinda had entered his life there was little he could. She was the embodiment of chaos, a swirling storm bent on upending his life and scattering pieces of it hither and yon. And each time he attempted to put everything back to the way it had been, it proved impossible. He was too altered now. Was it any wonder that everyone she encountered would change as well?

  “So yer plannin’ to marry, are ya, Yer Grace?” Tom Garner asked, his weathered face spread in a wide grin to reveal gaps where his front teeth used to be.

  Crispin knew where this question was leading. All day he’d heard inferences, both of the subtle and blatant varieties, that he was going to marry Jacinda. So, just as he had done the other times, he said succinctly, “Once my guest recuperates and returns to London, I’ll begin searching for my bride.”

  Usually that was all he needed to say. It seemed, however, that it wasn’t enough for Tom Garner.

  He narrowed one dark eye and looked out across the bailey. “That Miss Barne sure is a pretty thing. Some men might be wantin’ to test their mettle to show off a bit. Will ye be testin’ yers today?”

  Since Tom was one of the older men in the
village, who’d been around when Crispin had been a lad, Crispin didn’t take offense at his sly insinuation. After all, he remembered being on the cusp of manhood and wanting to prove his worth alongside roughened seamen, with torsos the size of ale barrels and arms the size of oar heads. Older now, Crispin noticed they weren’t as colossal as he’d once thought. And there was a part of him that wondered how he’d match up against them in competition.

  Yet, as the resident duke, he couldn’t very well play their games. He was here to observe and oversee, like his father before him.

  “I’ve seen too many of you pick up barrels full of fish as if they were filled with feathers instead. No, I would hate to humiliate myself in front of all of you.”

  That earned a laugh and some ribbing from the men who were in their cups. Today, he was merely one of them. Not a duke in need of an heiress to maintain Rydstrom Hall and Whitcrest for years to come. Just a man enjoying the first crisp day of spring.

  His gaze flitted to where Jacinda stood near a table of Mrs. Limpin’s golden, buttery pond puddings. Mrs. Hemple and Sybil took one of the crocks of the dense confection before crossing the bailey toward the main door. Before they rounded the final corner, Sybil looked back over her shoulder, spotted him, and gave a merry wave.

  Then his gaze traversed the courtyard and met Jacinda’s.

  She was smiling at him, her cheeks pink from the cold, the breeze catching the ribbons of her bonnet so that the tips fluttered in his direction. And if he were closer to her, he might be inclined to grasp those ends, pull her to him, and warm her lips.

  He allowed himself to indulge in the impossible idea until something, or someone rather, blocked his view. Alcott.

  Crispin stiffened, watching as Alcott bowed to her and gestured with a sweep of his hand before offering his arm. And Jacinda took it, placing her ivory hand on the sleeve of Alcott’s black coat as they walked toward the ale table, where Crispin was standing.