How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  Suppressing a growl, he watched their progress.

  Alcott smiled a great deal. Too much, in fact. He seemed to think himself a court jester, too, for how often he made Jacinda laugh. And Crispin didn’t like hearing the decidedly mischievous timbre—a laugh that was hers and hers alone—from such a distance away. If she was going to laugh, she should be standing beside him, not Alcott.

  And when the pair nearly reached him, Crispin fought the urge to step forward, take her hand and put her by his side. After all, she was his guest, his responsibility, his . . .

  His what? he wondered dimly, not certain what else she was, but only that she was more. More than a meddlesome bit of baggage. More than a young woman with amnesia living beneath his roof. More than . . . anything he could name at the moment because his thoughts were in disorder, his head spinning, his heart pounding hard and fast. And suddenly it seemed simpler just to say that she was his.

  His. A breath shuddered out of him as the wayward thought closed around him, filled him, tried to take root. But he could not let it. He had a duty to uphold.

  “By the looks o’ that snarly vein on His Grace’s forehead, I ken sir don’t agree a’tall,” Tom Garner said with a hearty chuckle.

  It wasn’t until Crispin noticed that Jacinda’s wispy brows were drawn together in what appeared to be concern that he realized he’d missed part of the conversation. He was clenching his jaw and fists, too, his shoulders tight.

  Dragging his gaze from Jacinda, he looked to Tom Garner with an inquiring lift of his brow.

  “The lad here,” Tom said, motioning with a jerk of his head in Alcott’s direction, “says he can best anyone in Whitcrest in the wood choppin’ contest. What do ye say to that, Yer Grace?”

  Just over Crispin’s shoulder two massive oak logs waited for the final event of the day. He sized up Alcott. The man was younger by about four years, not as tall, but with a broad, stocky build designed for speed and strength. Crispin knew this was true, because he’d seen him work. The man was tireless.

  “Is that so, Alcott?” Crispin asked.

  “That’s right, Your Grace.”

  And when Alcott flashed a cocky grin, Crispin decided that he might try his luck among the men after all.

  He shrugged out of his coat. “Then let’s see, shall we?”

  * * *

  Jacinda could hardly breathe. Rydstrom was undressing in front of her. Oh, very well, he was undressing in front of the entire village, but his gaze was on her.

  “Miss Bourne, if you would be so kind,” he said, folding his coat in half lengthwise and offering it to her.

  She wanted to come back with a ready retort about him making presumptions that she was even going to stay long enough to watch the competition. But who was she kidding? She wouldn’t miss this for the world.

  Accepting the bundle, a sound of acquiescence hummed in her throat, her gaze admiring the cut of his camel waistcoat and how it accentuated the breadth of his shoulders, the expanse of his chest, and leanness of his hips.

  Suddenly, all she could think about was the memory of being pressed against his unyielding, solid length, his hand on her hip, his irises darkening from hazel to a rich russet. A rush of heat rolled over her, settling inside her stomach, making it feel heavy and tight.

  And the next thing she knew, he was rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, revealing a dusting of dark wheat-colored hair along his thick, corded forearms.

  Of course, other things were happening while she was preoccupied. The villagers were crowding closer, chattering and cheering about the event. Some were making wagers on the outcome. Off to the side, Mr. Alcott removed his coat, too, and handed it over to the widow Olson, whose boys, for the first time, were not rambunctious but staring with eager eyes toward the log stands.

  Then as Rydstrom walked away, Lucy wedged her petite but determined frame between a pair of fishermen and stood beside her. “How thrilling, Miss Bourne! I don’t think anyone anticipated His Grace competing in any event today, let alone this one. Betsy and I were just at the cliffs with our wishing stones when Martha came and told us and—Oh my, I think you’ve spilled your seeds.”

  Preoccupied, Jacinda glanced down to see a little pile of seeds near the hem of her redingote. She’d completely forgotten she had it in her hand. Turning the pouch right again, she felt the hardness of the pebble still inside and pinched it between her thumb and forefinger. “I didn’t lose the pebble.”

  Then she unfastened the top three buttons of her redingote and tucked the pouch into her bodice. She wasn’t even certain if she was the type of person who believed in wishes, but decided that it couldn’t hurt to hold on to it for a while. Just in case.

  “Are you going to use it to make a wish for His Grace to win?” Lucy asked, letting loose a romantic sigh.

  Jacinda stared, wide-eyed at those logs. They were as big around as three men put together. Yet Rydstrom didn’t seem to notice. There was no hesitation in his stride, or even when he took his position, resting the long handle of the axe against his shoulder. And when his gaze connected with hers, he looked so fierce and purposeful, that she knew he was going to win. “The duke isn’t going to need it.”

  Chapter 23

  “. . . but I confess that I have seldom seen a face or figure more pleasing to me than hers.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Dinner that night was a small affair of cold meats, cheeses and tarts leftover from the festival. Dr. Graham had exhausted his knee, and Jacinda had decided on her own to retire after their small meal. Everyone was tired from the full day’s events and had turned in straightaway.

  But Crispin was too high-strung to sleep and it would not serve him to go up to his chamber when he knew Jacinda was just across the hall.

  For the first time in a long while, he dared to pour himself a few fingers of dark amber brandy and sat in his study watching the fire. He expelled a satisfied breath as the heat of the liquor spread like warm fingers down his torso.

  Today, he was the victor, beating Mr. Alcott handily, strike for strike. Likely, it wasn’t noble of him to set out to prove he was the better axeman, but he had nonetheless. And what made the triumph all the sweeter was the way that Jacinda had cheered for him, laughing and clapping, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

  He closed his eyes now, savoring the memory, glad that no one would know that he’d done it for her.

  “The festival was sublime. Was it not, Rydstrom?” Jacinda asked, her voice weaving seamlessly with his pleasant thoughts and the honeyed brandy on his tongue.

  He didn’t stir, but kept his eyes closed, content in this moment. “Shouldn’t you be in your chamber?”

  Ignoring him—of course—she stepped into the room, the hem of her skirts whispering over the rug. “It was exhilarating to watch you compete. You wield an axe with great skill, as if you’ve done it before.”

  “Flattering your host will not make it any more proper to have you in this room without a chaperone.”

  She sank down onto the cushion beside his in a hush of fabric, and a waft of decadent, bath-oil scented air. “So fussy. You were not so keen on propriety when you bought me that hat. Nevertheless, I’ve left the door open in full view of the servants.”

  Yet, he knew that the servants had all gone to bed by now.

  Worn out from the events, he’d dismissed them for the remainder of the day. Perhaps he should tell her, warn her that she was completely alone with a man whose thoughts and impulses were not as controlled and orderly as they ought to be. It had been an impulse to buy that hat, knowing that tongues would wag, but he hadn’t cared.

  Even now, he couldn’t explain the reason it had been important to him. He’d simply wanted her to have it.

  “Besides, I haven’t recounted my memories of the day,” she continued, adding a small sigh at the end as she finished fidgeting and arranging her skirts, then finally settled into her seat. “As you know, Dr. Graham said that I should do this each day in order t
o establish a routine.”

  He took another sip, swallowing down a wry laugh. “A routine that you only choose to establish when it is convenient for you? I hope you realize that is not how to keep a proper schedule.”

  “Are you scolding me, Rydstrom?” she asked, her voice lower and curling around the edges the way it did when she smiled.

  Crispin could almost taste the sound, sliding down the whorls of his ears, tickling the back of his tongue. “Deservedly so. A thorough punishment for abandoning your daily exercises is in order, beginning with banishment from my study.”

  “Oh, but I cannot leave now. You are on one side of this sofa and you need me to balance out the other. Without my presence, the room might fall into that disorganized chaos you despise so much, and then where would you be?”

  He felt a grin tug at his mouth, but he did not give in to it. “Alone and enjoying my brandy.”

  When she said nothing in response, he slid a glance to her and found her resting against the back of the sofa and staring at the fire, her cream-colored shawl draped carelessly from one shoulder. He turned his head slightly to watch the flicker of flames reflected in her eyes, and the way the golden light kissed the tips of her burnished eyelashes, nose, and lips. And for a moment, he wanted to be that light, brushing over her features, making her glow.

  He turned back to his brandy and took a long swallow. There was only an imaginary line between them that could easily be traversed. Yet, it did feel better to have her here, balancing out the sofa. And as long as she kept to her side, he could handle the temptation.

  It was only when she rolled her head against the curved back of the sofa and gave him a sleepy smile that he realized he was watching her again.

  She glanced down to his glass. “I’ve never seen you drink spirits before.”

  “I’m allowing myself one after a long day.” He’d actually been hoping to forget about having been jealous, watching her with Alcott. Even now, he wanted to shoo it aside in favor of a more controllable emotion, but he wasn’t fool enough to lie to himself.

  “You are quite strict with yourself, aren’t you? Everything in its place. No peas straying”—a teasing glint lit her eyes and her grin made them tilt upward at each corner—“no lines crossed. Is there anyone you ever allow into your space?”

  Wordless, he offered the glass to her by holding it over the cushion-line between them. “I do believe I know of one impertinent young woman who is always crossing boundaries.”

  Always tempting him.

  “You like me for my impertinence.” She reached for the glass, her fingers sliding along his in an accidental caress, stilling briefly as her lips parted, her gaze fixed to where their hands joined. Never one to shy away, she lingered, but too briefly, and took hold of the glass.

  Reluctantly, he released it and faced the fire once more. “Never for that.”

  “But you are beginning to like me, nonetheless. Admit it.”

  He looked at her again—he couldn’t seem to help himself. She was far more interesting than the flames. “If I do, will you go to bed and leave me in peace?”

  “Hmm . . . perhaps.” Lifting the glass, she took a sip of brandy, made a face and then swallowed quickly. She gasped as if she’d just broken through the surface of the sea, her head tilted back, hand touching her bare neck. “It feels like fire sliding down inside of me.”

  Crispin was unaccountably aroused by her words and the image they evoked. He could not stop a lingering glance down the column of her throat where the firelight bathed her, and to the swells of her breasts cresting above her bodice as she slowly drew her hand away.

  When she handed back the drink, he took it and downed the liquor, finding it cooler than the fire burning inside him. Then, closing his eyes again, he willed himself to forget the temptation within arm’s reach.

  It was one of the most difficult tasks he’d ever assigned himself. He was fully attuned to her, every movement and every sound she made, from the soft sigh of her breath to the silken slide of her skirts over the sofa. And he knew the precise moment she slid closer.

  He opened his eyes to see her perched on the edge of the cushion, poised to leave. It was for the best, and yet he wished she would linger. Apparently, he hadn’t had enough torment for the day.

  But wishes were dangerous things, especially when answered.

  In the next instant, she leaned toward him, her hand curling over the back of the sofa. “Thank you for today,” she whispered against his cheek an instant before she pressed her lips there.

  Once more, impulse took over. He turned his head to feel her lips on his.

  Their gazes locked, hers widening in surprise, his impenitent. And true to Jacinda’s nature, she did not withdraw, demure, or ask him questions.

  Instead, her lids lowered, her head tilted, and her lips pressed more fully to his. Right this moment, Crispin truly liked her unapologetic curiosity.

  His hand found her waist and he drew her closer, blindly placing the crystal glass down on the table. This left him free to curve his other hand around her nape, to angle her lips perfectly off center against his. This was where he wanted her. This was where he’d needed her all day.

  As if in agreement, she issued a small sigh, her lips parting sweetly.

  Just a taste, he promised himself, remembering what Graham had said about surrendering to small desires to keep from being consumed by larger ones. So, in a sense, Crispin was doing this for his own good. A perfectly rational thought.

  And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, a warning bell rang.

  “I shouldn’t,” he said, more to himself than to her, angling her head and nudging her lips apart to taste that tantalizing vanilla-tinged flavor he’d sampled before. And there it was, waiting for him just behind the irresistible cushion of her lips, lounging on the flesh of her tongue.

  She nodded, sliding her hands beneath his coat, over his chest and up to his shoulders, her body soft and pliant, the pillows of her breasts molding against him. Breathless, she said, “You should. Most definitely. After all, you must amend that first clumsy effort.”

  He drew back marginally. “Was it so terrible, then?”

  She grinned, mischief glinting in her hooded blue gaze. “Quite honestly, it was the best kiss I ever remember having. But this one shows promise, too.”

  Damn, but he adored this maddening creature in his arms. Who else could challenge and taunt him in such a way that he was gladder for it?

  Having something to prove, he pulled her closer, settling her across his lap, releasing the hold on his control by small degrees. He kissed her again in long, deep, endless pulls like the shore drawing in the sea, again and again, wave after wave until she gasped and sagged against him. He liked her this way, too, breathless and yielding.

  Allowing her to catch her breath, he forged a path of heated kisses down her throat, reveling in every tremor, every shiver that swept over her when he found the places to nip and the notches to lave. Her skin tasted like confections, so delicate he imagined her dissolving on his tongue.

  When his open mouth sampled the tender flesh at the curve of her throat, she arched her neck, spilling desperate, passion-laden whimpers of “yes . . . there . . . please” from her lips.

  She shifted in his lap, restless, the curve of her hip grinding against the hardened length of him. And the pleasure she gave him caused that warning bell to clang again. He’d had his taste and now it was time to stop.

  Yet his deeply ingrained need for order couldn’t allow it. He’d only kissed one side of her throat, after all. And it would be wrong not to kiss the other, to leave both her and him unbalanced. So he drew her closer, angling her so that she straddled him. And it wasn’t improper, he told himself, because the fabric of her dress and petticoat was bunched between them, acting as a chaperone, of sorts.

  But while his mouth took hers with slow, burning sips, his hands slipped beneath the hems, edging it higher, his fingertips skating over the ribbon garte
rs of her stockings. It wasn’t until he grazed the petal-soft flesh above her knee that he realized he should have heeded the warnings. Because with every touch, every taste, he wanted more and forgot the reasons he shouldn’t strip her bare and indulge himself for hours, caressing and pleasuring every inch of her.

  He’d never been tempted like this. Consumed like this. Not until he’d met Jacinda. Which was all the more reason to stop now.

  “Slide over,” she murmured, the vibration tingling against his lips, her sweet breath entering his mouth like a siren’s call. “My knee is caught on the cushion.”

  He moved without conscious thought, without heeding his own advice, and slid over, her dress rising beneath his hands.

  A pitiable chaperone, indeed. And suddenly, gloriously, she was fully on top of him. The soft yielding cradle of her thighs sent a hot surge of blood to his engorged shaft.

  A groan escaped him. He was beyond thought now, deaf to the warning bell. All he could do was revel in the supple weight of her body, the bow of her spine that pressed her stomach and breasts against him. And through the layers of their clothing, he felt the decadent firmness of her nipples, those sea buckthorn berries that he craved.

  Just one taste, he thought, his hands coasting over muslin, unerringly finding those four buttons. He made quick work of them and tugged, dragging down her dress and chemise to the gusseted cups of her stays and then further to free her breasts.

  With his mouth still fastened to hers, he explored the silken swells with his hands, his thumbs grazing over velvety peaks. She jolted in his arms. Her gasp filled his mouth, even as she arched into his touch and gave him a wanton mewl of acquiescence.

  Without hesitation, he dipped his head and discovered perfection in that sweetly distended tip, and in the unabashed woman in his arms who glided her hands to the back of his neck. Fingers twining in his hair, she held him tightly against her. And he suckled her, flicking his tongue over that ripe berry, drawing out more of her soft, broken pleas to “never stop,” her hips tilting forward against his.