How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  “I must disagree.”

  Jacinda disagree? He nearly laughed, feeling no ounce of censure, only fondness. “I should expect nothing less from you.”

  Smears of watercolor red tinged her cheeks. “I saw you among the villagers yesterday and it is clear that you look after their best interests. And it was with that thought in mind that I asked the village women to help put the widow Olson’s kitchen and pantry back in order. I even made a list of the most essential things, but . . . I did not separate it into quadrants.”

  He glanced down at the paper and around the Great Hall, only now understanding what the chaos meant, and he was mystified by the fact that Jacinda Bourne had surprised him yet again.

  Though, as much as her gesture pleased him, it did not alter the reality. Jacinda Bourne had overstepped. “I’m sure Mrs. Olson will be grateful to you; however—”

  “Of course, I told everyone that this was your idea and I was merely following your orders.” She smiled at him, her gaze a tender, brushed turquoise. “I’m not a nitwit, Rydstrom. I know what they’d think otherwise—that there was something between us. And you and I know that isn’t true.”

  “Not a single thing between us,” he said in agreement, his breath coming up short, his heart racing. He felt himself listing toward her as if he were pulled by the force of the tides and it took a monumental amount of willpower not to take her in his arms.

  But thoughts like that had gotten him into this situation, and it was best to stay clear of wayward impulses.

  After a glance about the hall to ensure all the villagers had gone, he set the basket down, adopting a more serious expression before he addressed her. “There is another matter which I should like to discuss with you, Miss Bourne. A somewhat delicate topic.”

  “Concerning a certain . . . incident in your study?” She drew in a deep breath that gained his brief, but appreciative, attention to the rounded swells of her breasts.

  He nodded and tried not to think about how her flesh felt against his lips, the flavor of her still lingering on his tongue. And far sweeter than a basket of aniseed biscuits.

  He cleared his throat, regaining his objective. “As you know, I am not one to apologize, nor will I now blame the events that transpired last night on the spirits I consumed. Nevertheless, those very events have made it clear that you should no longer inhabit the bedchamber across from mine.”

  After a moment, her lips curled in an unexpected grin. “I understand.”

  Confused by her reaction, he asked, “Is that all you have to say? You’re just going to stand there and agree with me?”

  “Indeed. Did you expect to hear something else? A mournful lamentation, perhaps? A vow to cry into my pillow every night until I leave?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” And yet, he had expected something of the sort. “I was merely noting how you’ve managed to disagree with everything I’ve said until now. I should think I was speaking to a stranger.”

  She continued to grin, those eyes of hers full of mischief, tilting up at the corners. “How can I disagree with this? After all, you’ve essentially stated that you must have me moved to another chamber because you find me irresistible.”

  She sauntered away, leaving him to watch the tempting sway of her hips in lavender muslin, and he realized that she was absolutely right.

  Damn.

  Chapter 26

  “You are very fond of bending little minds . . .”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  The following morning, Jacinda entered the humid hothouse, summoned once more by Lady Hortense. “You requested to see me, my lady.”

  The summons had come as a surprise to Jacinda. After all, last night at dinner, she’d only received stony silence from Lady Hortense. At least, directly.

  Indirectly, however, she’d had plenty to say. To Crispin. I’m certain the Montague family could have done more for your tenant if not for the unforgivable breach of etiquette that caused pandemonium to overshadow the unfortunate occurrence.

  In fact, the unforgivable breach of etiquette had become a mainstay in most of Lady Hortense’s comments.

  Now, standing at a narrow plank table, Lady Hortense didn’t even look up from the flower arrangement in front of her. “While you are a guest at Rydstrom Hall, Miss Bourne, it is important that you find a proper occupation. After yesterday’s incident, it is clear that you need guidance in this area.”

  Doubtless, anything other than a cordial response would become the topic of this evening’s dinner conversation. Therefore, Jacinda stepped forward without uttering a word. Assuming the proper occupation had something to do with flower arranging, she began to pinch off the dead leaves.

  They worked in a semblance of cooperation for a few moments before Lady Hortense said, “You are very good at noticing details and finding what is hidden, are you not?”

  “I suppose I am.” Even now, Jacinda noticed that Lady Hortense had a particular way of choosing the blossoms that were nearly identical in shape, color and size, situating them at precise distances apart. Perhaps requiring a sense of order and balance was a family trait.

  And it was this small thing that loosened some of the tightly wound annoyance Jacinda felt toward Crispin’s aunt.

  At least, until the odious woman spoke again.

  “Good, for that will aid you in the task I have for you. If you will turn around and pick up the paper waiting on the bench, you’ll find a list of names.”

  “And what am I to do with this list?” Jacinda asked, curiosity compelling her to cross the room and pick it up.

  “Find a wife for my nephew.”

  Jacinda blanched, her hand automatically opening to release the page as if it had spontaneously burst into flames. Subtlety was certainly not Lady Hortense’s strongest trait.

  “Arrange it as you see fit,” Lady Hortense said offhandedly. “If any name sparks your memory or stands out, make a note of it. A brief description accompanies each, listing matters of importance—class, wealth, landholdings, etcetera.”

  She picked up the page once more with numb fingers. Scanning the names, Jacinda saw that the etcetera portion listed all the things that she valued as more important in finding a matrimonial candidate—interests, hobbies, and beliefs.

  And even though Jacinda had not recognized any of these heiresses, she felt a distinct dislike for each of them, their families, fortunes, and property.

  Expelling a tense breath, she straightened her shoulders. “I feel certain that any man thinking of marriage would want to know the character of his potential wife, someone he could respect, and perhaps one who earned the respect of his servants and tenants as well. I cannot know that by looking at this list.”

  “My nephew is not like other men,” Lady Hortense added, not in a prideful way, but as an unalterable truth she had come to endure over time. “In fact, he does not intend to have his wife live here at all. Ah, but this brings up an important point—you must find a debutante with a great deal of property. She can live in her own estate, and those tenants can help support Rydstrom Hall into the future.”

  “Separate residences? How could that make for a happy marriage?”

  “Marrying for the sake of happiness is an infantile notion.” Lady Hortense issued a patronizing, dusty laugh. “Such an undertaking must be met with maturity. Miss Bourne, I am trying to make allowances for your injuries, but explaining the obvious is quite tiresome.”

  Jacinda bristled. “I’m not certain I am up to this task, my lady.”

  “Why not? Surely you have nothing else to occupy your time now that my nephew has been clearer with your actual duties as a guest of this house.”

  Oooh! This woman drove her mad! Jacinda refrained from growling. “Clearly I have little understanding of what a marriage for the sake of duty entails.”

  “Then I shall enlighten you.” Lady Hortense began the systematic demise of several blossoms with each snip of her clippers. “After all, I should like to avoid the unfortunate circu
mstances my very own brother suffered. He was set to marry an heiress from a fine family, but was lured away by my nephew’s mother”—she pursed her lips, then added absently—“rest her poor soul.”

  This sparked Jacinda’s interest. “His Grace’s father married for love instead of money?”

  Her own foolish heart fluttered at the thought. If Crispin’s parents had done so, then perhaps—

  “She had a small fortune of ten thousand pounds, but only two small properties,” Lady Hortense said before Jacinda could finish the thought, and her hope suffered the same fate as the snipped buds, falling like colored hailstones onto the table and rolling to the floor.

  Lady Hortense continued. “Her wealth was only enough to add to a portion of the north wing, in addition to the library. Oh, and I believe they rebuilt the chapel in the village, among other things. But as you must have seen from my most excellent apartments, that my own very profitable marriage contributed much more. My nephew will want to leave his own mark as well.”

  Jacinda had never heard Crispin mention anything other than wanting to repair Rydstrom Hall. As far as she knew, he loved his home as it was and only required a bride’s dowry to maintain it.

  She wondered if Crispin had been so focused on the longevity of Rydstrom Hall, that he never considered his own happiness. Distracted, she stared down at the list. “And that is what you are asking me to do—find your nephew a bride that will help him leave his mark on Rydstrom Hall.”

  Plucking out an overblown rose, Lady Hortense gestured to the page with it, the petals rustling. “Quite so. My nephew and I have little time for these things. It is enough work for me to interview the candidates you choose in order to weed out those who are too weak and feebleminded to understand their duty.”

  Did Crispin know that his aunt was asking for assistance in finding a bride? It didn’t seem likely. In the week that she’d been here, each time she’d mentioned his need for an heiress, he’d gruffly diverted the topic. Therefore, this seemed more like a lesson from Lady Hortense, to ensure that Jacinda knew her place.

  “If you put forth a modicum of effort, Miss Bourne, I’m sure you’ll be able to give yourself over to the process and perhaps even find it enjoyable.” Lady Hortense lifted her face, her mouth creasing on either side with a semblance of a smile. “Sort through the list for the most qualified candidates, and be sure to tell me if a name sparks your memory at all. I’ll expect your findings tomorrow morning. The Rydstrom line must move on into the future, and the sooner the better. Good day.”

  At the abrupt dismissal, Jacinda didn’t hesitate to leave the room. But strolling down the corridors with the list in her hand, she wished that Dr. Graham was here to force her into some mundane task. She would even be willing to attempt the viola again, if only to serve as a distraction.

  She had no intention of doing anything about the list. How could she, after all? There was nothing in the description that told her about the characters of these debutantes. For all she knew, the entire lot belonged to a secret club of kitten pinchers and puppy kickers. For that matter, they might be weak little ninnies who would never challenge Rydstrom when he was being overbearing.

  Or worse, they might be raving beauties who would make Rydstrom forget the woman with amnesia who’d somehow found herself in love with him.

  Jacinda looked down at the list with a desire to accidentally drop it in the nearest hearth.

  “Miss Bourne,” Crispin called out in greeting, surprising her with his sudden appearance in the minstrel’s gallery.

  From the opposite end, he strode toward her with hard, purposeful steps that pulled his gray breeches taut over well-muscled thighs, his toned limbs flexing. Her attention drifted upward from there, to the cut and fullness of his fallfront, and she felt her cheeks grow hot, discovering that there were moments when her curiosity made her blush.

  Then she lifted her gaze higher, beyond the crisp lines of his dark blue waistcoat beneath a charcoal gray coat, over those barely contained shoulders, and finally to the angular features she saw each night when she closed her eyes, and each morning before she opened them. And just as it was when she last dreamed of him, there was a ghost smirk toying with the corner of his mouth.

  “Have I done something to amuse you, Rydstrom?”

  “Not at all,” he said, stopping in front of her, his expression unchanged aside from a warmth emanating from his russet-rimmed gaze. “I was just wondering if you were finished admiring the view . . . of the gallery, or if you intended to continue.”

  Not realizing that her brazen observations had been so obvious, this time her blush spread to her ears. But she did not look away from the challenge in his gaze and the lift of his brow. “It is a grand sight, indeed, and ought to be admired as often as possible.”

  A low, hungry sound rumbled in his throat. He crowded closer, his gaze dropping down to her lips. Her pulse fluttered, her breath coming up short, and she wondered if he was going to kiss her. Yet, as if she’d spoken the question aloud, he shook his head in answer.

  She felt compelled to contradict him with a nod.

  His heated gaze lifted to hers. “No. We cannot repeat what occurred in the study.”

  “Of course not,” she said, boldly stepping closer, laying her hand over his waistcoat. “We are in the minstrel’s gallery.”

  He growled again, took her by the waist, and lowered his mouth.

  But in that same instant, a door closed around the corner with a great booming sound that filled the corridor. They sprang apart.

  Soon after, they heard the quick clatter of servant’s steps, receding down one of the winding corridors. Even though they weren’t about to be discovered, the moment was lost.

  Crispin blew out a breath and looked over his shoulder. After waiting a second or more, he turned back to her and withdrew a pouch from his inner coat pocket. “This was the reason I sought you out. I was in the village this morning, and Mrs. Olson bade me to give this to you, along with her gratitude.”

  “Then I cannot accept,” she said, disappointment turning her tone sullen, “because it should be known that you were the one who arranged to have her kitchen put back in order. And besides, you and the village men did the hard labor.”

  Without arguing, Crispin moved closer once more, reached down to take her hand, and dropped the pouch in her palm before closing her fingers around it. He remained thus, with his large callused hand cupped around hers for a moment, his voice lower when he said, “Even though your intentions were honorable, I believe everyone knows the truth—that you are kind, generous, and selfless. Now, accept this gift.”

  “Very well.” Pleasure swarmed through her in a flurry of warm pulses that she could feel even after he released her. The gift he’d just given her was more precious than anything she could think of, and she wasn’t speaking of the pouch. All the same, she was curious . . . “What is it?”

  “Bluebell seeds.”

  Her breath caught and her head spun as a flash of blue petals floating through the air entered her mind. “Bluebells.”

  Crispin took her elbow and tilted up her chin, his brow drawn together in a frown. “Are you unwell?”

  She shook her head and just as quickly the image vanished. “I think it was a memory, but I’m not certain.”

  “Do you have these spells often?”

  “Not very.” She studied his expression, wishing she knew how his words could express concern while his gaze, intense and seeking, held no tenderness. This time, she was the one to step back, her heart splinter aching again. “I still don’t feel any closer to remembering who I am.”

  “For your sake, I hope that alters soon. I can send for Dr. Graham,” he said with a surprising amount of sincerity, making her wonder if she was hoping for more from him than he could give. After all, there was affection in his sentiment, even if not in his countenance.

  Fondly, she shook her head. “Dr. Graham is needed elsewhere, and I was just heading up to continue Sybil’s
French lessons.”

  “A prepared lesson?” He glanced down to the paper in her other hand, eyebrows arched in teasing disbelief. They both knew her impulsive nature would not permit her to plan too far ahead.

  “No. This is . . .” She stopped, not wanting to cast a dark shadow over their encounter. Tonight, when she closed her eyes, she only wanted to think about what it might have been like to kiss him in the minstrel’s gallery. “. . . nothing important.”

  And then, as they left in opposite directions, she crumpled the list in her hand and felt a satisfied grin tug at her lips.

  * * *

  Crispin’s preoccupied gaze drifted out beyond the window in his aunt’s solar, the wavy glass distorting the view of the park beyond. With his thoughts on his brief encounter with Jacinda a few moments ago, he only listened with half an ear as his aunt droned on about marriage. She was saying something about the importance of finding a woman who would have a firm grasp of her duties and rise above any romantic inclinations.

  Even though, a week ago, he’d wanted the same thing, it now left a sour taste on the back of his tongue. He imagined consummating his marriage with a woman such as that, who simply laid beneath him stoically as she performed her duty as a wife. Likely she would never ogle him hungrily as he walked toward her.

  “. . . and that was why I decided to give Miss Bourne the list,” his aunt said, drawing his attention with the mention of Jacinda’s name.

  “What list?”

  Aunt Hortense stared at him quizzically, likely because she’d been talking to him for an inordinate amount of time and he should have been hanging on every word. “I brought the list of potential matches from Viscount Eggleston with me.”

  Crispin’s temper suddenly ignited. “And you gave it to Miss Bourne? Without even consulting me?”

  “I have already paid her uncle.”

  “Is money all that matters to you? Have you not once thought about her injuries?” Crispin couldn’t help but think about how pale she’d grown when that spell overtook her. He hadn’t seen her face that white since the day he first found her on the beach. A day that seemed to have happened years ago.