And he went still all over again. The mere mention of Jacinda caused a profound ache to roll through him like rip currents threatening to drag him under.
“She has a forthright manner, that one.”
He nodded succinctly. “She does indeed.”
“At first, I thought she was rather impertinent and interfering. I even assumed she was trying to rise above her station by purposely placing herself in your path.” She held up a hand to stay his comment and eyed him shrewdly. “Yet a young woman with that goal in mind would hardly have spurned a duke’s offer of marriage.”
Crispin shifted, but did not answer, refusing to reveal anything that might damage Jacinda’s reputation.
“It shows a surprising amount of good sense—putting another’s interests ahead of one’s own. An admirable quality, to be sure,” she said, turning back to her desk and sitting down on the slender fiddleback chair.
“She has a great number of admirable qualities.”
“Well, of course you say that because you’re in love with her. And that is the true reason why none of the women on the list appeals to you.” She picked up the stack of letters and shook them at him. “Does Miss Bourne share your regard?”
Crispin, you are my entire world. I’ll always find my way to you.
Yes, she does, he wanted to say with absolute certainty, but he could not. The tender words she had spoken while in his arms were different than those she’d said in his study after her memory returned. She had not professed her love, but continuously pushed him away by citing all the reasons they could not be together. And it made him question if she’d felt profound regret and nothing more. “We did not exchange such sentiments.”
“Piffle.” Aunt Hortense scoffed and shook those letters at him. “You know very well that she loves you. Why else would she willingly sacrifice her own happiness in order to give you everything for which you asked?”
As much as he wanted to believe it, the Jacinda Bourne he knew did not shy away from taking what she wanted. And he loved that about her.
“It is possible, now that Sybil’s future is in hand,” his aunt continued without waiting for his answer, “that a man who has four thousand pounds per annum might be able to accomplish great things with such a fortune, and without the need of an heiress. If he were so inclined.”
Crispin shook himself away from his thoughts. “I do not have four thousand pounds per annum. The rents alone barely keep Rydstrom Hall upright. As per our bargain, upon my marriage—to a woman of whom you approve—I shall receive a gift of four thousand pounds.”
“Indeed. However, you are neglecting to factor in the monies from your other properties which will, in fact, bring you four thousand pounds per annum.”
“No. There are no other properties, and you made it quite clear that it was only—”
“You dare correct me? I have had all I can take of your sullen behavior and impudence.” Aunt Hortense straightened, her words sharply edged like a chisel through stone. “I am speaking of your two additional properties to the north. These were part of your inheritance from your mother, but were mistakenly entrusted to me when my brother required the sale of such in order to settle a few of his own accounts. Therefore, I should know very well how much they earn per annum. If you misunderstood our original bargain, then let that be on your own head.” She flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture. “Regardless, I have no use for them since I intend to live here year-round.”
Astonished by this turn of events, Crispin quickly calculated that four thousand pounds per annum would not only afford the repairs on Rydstrom Hall, but keep it well into the future.
“However, when it concerns my wedding gift to you, I am still quite firm in my stipulations,” she said, penning a letter at the same time as if this conversation were a mere triviality instead of a life-altering occurrence. “You must marry a young woman with admirable qualities. No. Strike that, for I am making an amendment just now. I hereby state that your chosen bride must also have a fondness for my niece, have earned the respect of your servants, and make you . . . inordinately happy.”
Chapter 34
“. . . she had always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning’s work for her.”
Jane Austen, Emma
“This just arrived, dear,” Uncle Ernest said to Jacinda as he walked into the room and laid a missive on her desk.
“Thank you, uncle. It’s awfully early for the post.”
It was still too early for her sisters to be at their desks. Lately, she’d taken to using their client’s applications as a means of dealing with her heartbreak and insomnia.
Looking up from the stack, she noticed that Uncle Ernest didn’t quite look awake either. His handsome face possessed that soft, sleepy grin he usually only wore after he’d stayed awake all night writing poetry to the latest in his long list of true loves. More than anyone she knew, he loved the idea of love. It never broke him.
Then, looking at the red seal, she recognized it instantly.
All the blood drained out of her and surely puddled on the floor beneath the chair.
“Hand delivered from St. James’s Square, I believe,” he said with that same smile and then whistled a cheerful melody as he walked out of the room and left her to stare at Crispin’s letter.
Was he back in London, then? And had he returned because she had found him the perfect match at last?
Her hand trembled violently as she touched the seal beneath her fingertips. Did she truly wish to open this letter?
The answer was simple. No, she didn’t. She would sooner cast the thing into the fire. By accident, of course. Yet at the moment, she didn’t have the strength to rise from the chair.
“Come now, Jacinda, where is your determination?” she whispered to herself. It would be better to finish this once and for all so that she needn’t think about him any longer.
And in twenty years, or so, she might actually forget him.
Bother. Drawing in a deep breath for courage, and ignoring the terrible buzzing in her ears, she broke the seal.
Inside was the letter she’d sent to him, extolling all of Miss Throckmeyer’s perfection. In addition, there was a short note penned by him, that read:
Dearest Miss Jacinda Bourne,
Thank you, no.
Yours,
Crispin Montague
“What?” She read the missive again, turning it over to see if she’d missed something on the back. Once she realized that “Thank you, no” was all the response she’d received, her temper started to flare.
Gradually, the blood on the floor seeped back into her veins in a fury. “‘Thank you, no’? That’s it? After all I’ve been through!”
She rose from the chair prepared to storm into Rydstrom’s town house and demand an answer.
“And what have you been through, Miss Bourne?”
Jacinda’s gaze jerked to the door. There, standing beneath the arch of white glazed molding, the shoulders of a green coat nearly touching either side, was Crispin, hat in hand.
All the bluster fueling her suddenly turned her bones to jelly and she wobbled a bit, needing to hold on to the desk for support.
“How could you have rejected Miss Throckmeyer?” Jacinda huffed, ignoring his question. “She was perfect.”
He stepped into the room, his expression impassive. “Did you meet her?”
“I did, and—”
“And she was about as bright as a low-wicked candle.” He stopped at the other side of her desk, which seemed suddenly to have shrunk to half its size.
If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch him. And, of course, she wanted to, that’s why she curled her hand into a fist instead. “You never put intelligence on your list.”
“I mean to amend that presently,” he said with a glance down to her orderly desk, and he frowned. “That is why I am here. Do you still have my application? It looks as though you’ve recently thrown every scrap of paper in the bin.”
>
“I have organized my desk. Why is everyone making such a fuss about it?” she muttered.
She didn’t need to search for his application in the stack, because it had taken up a permanent residence on the top. Placing it before her, she focused on the list, not wanting to look directly at him. Seeing him and standing so close—close enough to touch him, she needlessly reminded herself—made her too short of breath, and that itchy hives sensation was starting to cover her skin. But when he didn’t begin speaking, she gestured with an impatient whisking motion to hurry him along. “Very well, what are your amendments?”
“If you are in a rush, I can return at a more convenient time.”
She expelled a breath that caused an auburn lock to droop over her forehead, but she hastily swept it back in place. “I have no other business to attend at the moment. We do not open our doors for business”—she glanced at the clock—“for an hour and a quarter yet.”
“Ah. Then it is simply that you are uncomfortable in my presence,” he said, his voice gruff. “I feel the same.”
She swallowed. Likely this wasn’t easy for either of them. After all, little more than two weeks ago, they were lying completely naked in each other’s arms. It seemed rather foolish for her to be so tense and cross with him, considering their intimate history, no matter how brief.
She could adopt a professional demeanor and put her hurt feelings aside for a few minutes, couldn’t she?
Of course, she thought. All she had to do was stand up straight and look him directly in the . . . eye. Oh dear. She stared longingly into those early-autumn eyes, her poised quill forgotten. “And your amendments?”
He seemed to lean closer without moving at all, almost as if he meant to kiss her. Which made it all the more difficult to concentrate.
“I want my wife to live in Rydstrom Hall with me. So it is not necessary that she have property.”
Jacinda gave herself a shake. Surely, she hadn’t heard him correctly, she’d been too busy staring at his mouth and remembering how talented it was. “What do you mean? I thought you wanted separate residences.”
He slid his hat to the corner of her desk, disturbing the stack of applications she’d been working on before he came in, turning them at odd angles. “I have changed my mind on that. It was enjoyable to have someone to dine with, to see at random moments in the hall, to exchange meaningful conversation. You helped me discover that.”
“I’m so glad I have been of service,” she groused under her breath. “Is there anything else?”
“I would prefer someone with a sharp wit. Someone who speaks several languages.” He pointed to the list with an expectant nod, as if asking her to jot that down. “After all, I would want only the best qualities passed down to my future heirs.”
The tip of her quill slid off the page. “You’re going to have children with her as well?”
Of course he would. It only made sense that he would have children with the woman who lived beneath the same roof. Yet, hearing him say the words filled her with such agonizing jealousy that it would surely consume her from the inside out.
“I’ve come to believe that when a man finds the right match, the idea of spending his life with her consumes his every thought.” He looked down at her desk again, his hands searching through the pages. Making a mess of things, really. Then, apparently not finding what he was looking for, he withdrew a letter from inside his coat, unfolded the page, and laid it over his application, heedless of the wet ink below it. “If it helps, I do have a name in mind. It is on the list you sent. There. At the bottom of the page.”
Jacinda tried hard not to shake as she put the quill back in the stand. Her heart was cracking open, thudding in painfully draining gushes and leaving her cold. She did not think she could survive past this moment.
He’d chosen a bride. She’d thought it would feel better once it was over, that some measure of relief would take over, but this was worse than anything she could imagine.
Her breath came in tight, raw gulps as she held back her sobs. “Miss Bassett?”
“No. The name below hers.”
With the page shaking in her grasp, she turned and tapped her fingertip against the name. “Hers is at the bottom.”
Crispin covered her hand, eclipsing her flesh in a hot sting that was so pleasurable that it was agonizing. He slid her index finger—the one that still bore his golden thread—down the paper. “This one here, signed With Warmest Regards, Miss Jacinda Bourne.”
She couldn’t catch her breath or slow her heart. He was determined to destroy her, wasn’t he? Why else would he say such a thing when she was so weak and empty without him?
“I should never have let you leave,” he admitted, his low tone tight with restraint. “I should have locked us both in the tower and tossed the key out the window.”
Had anyone ever made imprisonment sound so appealing? Likely not. She found herself listing toward him, tempted to ignore the reason he’d come to the agency in the first place. But she couldn’t.
“We’ve been over this, Crispin—I mean, Rydstrom. You require an heiress. Your home needs repairs, and there’s Sybil’s future to consider, and”—here, she realized that she was starting to ramble, but was unable to stop herself—“your aunt despises everything about me, and—”
In the midst of her torrent, he stepped around the desk, and set his finger over her lips. He smiled tenderly. “Actually, my aunt is rather fond of you. But as for Rydstrom Hall, I told you before that it didn’t matter to me. I wanted to marry you no matter what. And I was determined to send back every name you sent until I wore you down.”
She closed her eyes on a sweet, sharp twinge in her heart. Those words were so beautiful, and yet they would torment her forever. “But it matters to me. I would not have our marriage be burdened with financial strain that would cause any discord between us.”
“Darling, since you and I will always find something to disagree about, that isn’t a valid argument.” He reached up to brush a lock of her hair—not to sweep it away from her forehead, but to draw it down, over her brow. “There. That is better. Everything in its place.”
“Why are you making this so difficult?” Her breath stuttered into her lungs as she tried to hold back her tears.
“But it’s simple. All you have to do is tell me that you’ll marry me. Or in the very least, tell me that you love me.”
“Of course I love you, but that doesn’t—”
He kissed her, hard, then soft and searching, then hard again, pulling her against him. And he was relentless, too, refusing to let her think for a moment about how foolish it was to cling to him and return his kiss, revealing all the love she’d had bottled inside. Because then, he only dragged more out of her, wanting every last drop she could offer. And she would have given it all to him, just to be rid of it for good, but she knew there would always be more, like an endless spring that just wouldn’t let up.
She would love him completely until there was nothing left of her.
He broke away, breath hot against her lips, his hands on her face. “If a man came to the Bourne Matrimonial Agency looking to find a wife, but then fell irrevocably in love with the tenacious, sharp-witted woman taking down his application—and she with him—would she consent to be his wife?”
“Yes,” Jacinda said without hesitation. And oh, how she wished . . .
He smiled and kissed her again, holding her closer. “Then that settles it. We are going to be married. Do you want the ceremony in Whitcrest or here, in London?”
“But what about—”
“Rydstrom Hall is no longer a concern.”
“But you have to think of—”
He shook his head. “Aunt Hortense has settled a fine dowry on Sybil, the money to be hers upon her majority. I would share with you all the details, but I would prefer your unequivocal answer first. Will you marry me?”
“You are a relentless plague on my senses and my poor heart,” she ranted, helpless.
He was impossible to resist. Rising up on her toes, she brushed her lips across his, giving herself over to whatever fate held in store for her. “I want to live inside your quadrants for the rest of my life. After all this, did you think I could let you leave this room without going with you?”
Before he could kiss her again, the sound of clapping greeted them from the doorway. Standing there, crowded together were Uncle Ernest, a rumple-browed Ainsley, a dreamy-eyed Briar, and a wet-cheeked Mrs. Darden.
“That was so romantic,” Briar said. “But I didn’t understand the bit about the quadrants.”
Jacinda laughed and slipped out of Crispin’s embrace, walking over to the door. “It would take too long to explain.”
Uncle Ernest grinned and patted her cheek. “It feels as if your mother is here with us right now. I’m proud of you for listening to your heart.”
Mrs. Darden broke in with a happy, watery sob. “Would you like me to bake some scones for you and your betrothed? The lemon-aniseed ones that were always your favorites?”
“That would be lovely,” Jacinda said before she closed the door. After all, she had a duke to kiss.
But Ainsley wasn’t finished yet. From the other side of the door, she issued a dramatic sigh. “Jacinda, the agency has only one rule—never fall in love with the client.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better,” she said with a grin as she slipped her arms around Crispin’s neck and fit her body blissfully against his, “he isn’t a client any longer. The Duke of Rydstrom is officially off the list.”
Epilogue
“He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through.”
Jane Austen, Emma
Whitcrest
How to Forget a Duke Page 34
