How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  “An object’s design is not to be consumed but admired. Those are bookends, one at either end. You would not have your ears on one side of your head, crowded together, would you?” He added this, hoping to quiet her.

  This time it did not work.

  “You are rather obsessed with my ears.” From her quadrant, she tilted her head to study him. “See? I do use them to listen. On occasion. You even said they were pretty. Do you really think so, or were you trying to unsettle me?”

  Suddenly his mind was back in the corridor again, hands gripping, bodies flush, sheer panic transforming into a reckless desire.

  He glanced down at the silver pillow. Only now he realized that it matched the hue of the counterpane on his bed. Then, he was helpless to notice the way she gripped it, the tips of her modestly manicured fingernails pressing into the silk.

  An unrepentant surge of arousal tore through him. “Miss Bourne, would you return the pillow to its proper place, take your gloves, and then leave my study?”

  In response, those lips curled again.

  His palms began to itch, craving the delicate abrasion of cream-colored muslin, and the softness of the flesh beneath.

  “You just looked down at my lips again.” She tsked. “A clear indication that you have, in fact, kissed me.”

  “We’ve already discussed this.”

  “And you didn’t deny it.”

  “I am now.”

  She shook her head, adamant. “It’s too late. Your denial is invalid.”

  “Well, I am denying it because that, Miss Bourne, is the truth.”

  She would not let it rest. He had not even concluded a week of his fortnight prison sentence with her and he was ankle deep in a swirling chasm of madness.

  “So you say now . . .” She shrugged. “I do have one more question, however. Do you—”

  “By all that’s holy! I can take no more. You refuse to give me a moment’s peace until your curiosity is satisfied. Then so be it.”

  He crossed the empty path between the rugs—the first step on the hardwood echoing like the twelfth strike of a clock tower, the second muffled by the woven wool.

  “Rydstrom, I—”

  Crispin took her by the shoulders and lowered his mouth.

  But she lifted her face to his at the same time. So, instead of capturing her lips, he met with her impertinent chin.

  He was undeterred. He’d come this far, he’d be damned if he would stop now.

  Determined to prove his point, he stayed with her, gliding his fingers over her shoulders, touching the warm silk of her throat. He took her face in his hands and rasped his mouth across the valley between her pert chin and plump lips as if this slow slide had been his intention all along. And he felt her tremble.

  Her unbidden response unleashed the long-denied hedonist within him. Greedy for every tremor, every taste, he crowded closer, his mouth coasting upward to settle against hers.

  Then, all at once, he was lost in a pliant, pillowy caress. He wasn’t prepared for how right—how utterly sublime—her mouth would feel giving way beneath his, parting on the barest of gasps, shyly welcoming the brush of his tongue into her dewy warmth.

  His hand slid to her nape, the other skimming down to the slope of her waist, gripping the rise of her hip. Soft, lithe, and fragrant, she fit against him in a way that made him forget all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this. What he did remember was that even the doctor said Crispin should allow himself one taste. A man cannot deny every urge, after all.

  With the barest nudge of his mouth against hers, she arched her neck, allowing him to sink deeper. And he was glad to have abstained from pudding this evening because he wanted to gorge himself on her sweet flavor, to savor each decadent sip. So he kissed her in slow, deep strokes that earned him soft, needy whimpers, her hands rising between them, gripping his lapels.

  Desire and warning tunneled through him in lush, heavy pulses, engorging his flesh. She was eradicating his control, but he couldn’t tear himself away. She tasted too good, the inexpert slide of her tongue only enhancing his hunger. And he realized that, if he didn’t gain some distance, this sampling might consume them both.

  By rote, he began by cataloging her lips, focusing on their irregularities. The bottom one was full and soft, the upper a degree smaller, velvety and firmer. He nipped them both for full assurance of his findings. In turn, Jacinda did the same to him, driving him to the brink of madness and making him start all over.

  He separated every part of this kiss into quadrants—first, skimming his tongue along the seam of the upper left portion, the right, and then the lower until he’d sampled every delectable morsel. Fitting his own lips against hers, he discovered that they were not perfectly matched, neither corner to corner, nor top to bottom.

  Even so, this off center, imperfect kiss was now branded into his being. He might never think of his own lips without thinking of hers.

  The unexpected awareness set a hot brand of terror against his soul, and it was the jolt he needed to break free.

  He took one step back, but no more for fear of staggering, and cleared his throat.

  Jacinda still had her head tilted back slightly, her eyes hooded with desire, and her plump bottom lip still glistening from their kiss.

  A wealth of male pride filled him at the sight. Fundamentals be damned, clearly, he was a kissing genius.

  “There. That clumsy effort should be enough to satisfy all your doubts,” he said modestly, his voice hoarse. “There will be no more questions regarding whether or not I kissed you.”

  She pressed her lips together, blotting the dampness and slowly smiled. “Of course not, because now you have kissed me. Though it would be a shame if I forgot this one, too.”

  He wanted to return to her, to make certain she would remember this kiss for all the days of her life. No other would compare.

  Yet he could not afford to give in to the craving again. Proof of that was the need—a ragged sort of lunacy—filling him, challenging him to find a way to continue what he’d foolishly started.

  “No. The point of this demonstration was to prove that there was not one before,” he growled. “This was a necessary evil to put an end to your impertinent questions. Nothing more.”

  She laughed quietly, her eyes impishly bright. “Then I should hate to tell you that, before you set out to prove your point, I was only going to ask if you have reconsidered my trip to the village.”

  He pointed to the door. “Leave me now, Miss Bourne. I can take no more. I’m half tempted to—”

  “To kiss me again?”

  “To ship you off to London, regardless of Dr. Graham’s warnings.”

  “So you say, Rydstrom,” she said on a breath, her gaze slipping to his mouth one last time before she disappeared through the doorway.

  He let her go without an escort, knowing it was better this way. Far less dangerous.

  And it wasn’t until he scrubbed a hand over his jaw, that he realized he was grinning.

  Chapter 16

  “Sorrow came—a gentle sorrow—but not at all in the shape of any disagreeable consciousness.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  In the early morning fog, Jacinda took the winding path down to the village. It was refreshing to stretch her legs. After kissing Rydstrom last night, she felt the need to expel a wealth of energy.

  She hadn’t wanted him to stop. And he, if the way he’d returned to her lips again and again was any indication, hadn’t wanted to either. And during that moment—with her mouth against his, their bodies flush, not even a breath apart—she’d felt as if she’d belonged there and nowhere else.

  It was the closest thing imaginable to what returning home might feel like.

  But Rydstrom had been right all along. Amnesia or not, there wasn’t any way she could have forgotten kissing him. Now she felt rearranged like a thoroughly shuffled deck of cards. Whatever she’d begun to understand about herself was foreign to her once more. And she could n
ot seem to think any thought that did not link directly to him.

  Which was silly, of course. They’d only shared a single kiss, and she wasn’t even entirely certain she liked him. He was arrogant, glowered excessively and, honestly, what gentleman needed shoulders that broad? His wife would surely be called upon to apply a balm to his flesh whenever he bruised them in narrow doorways.

  Such an endless chore, she thought, a sigh slipping past her lips as she imagined helping Rydstrom remove his shirt, rubbing salve over those hard muscles and bare flesh—Drat!

  Looking down, Jacinda saw that she’d just meandered off the path and directly into a cluster of thistles covered in barbs and dew.

  Irritated, she began the prickly process of removing the thistles scattered along her hem. She’d snagged a fawn-colored thread as well. Frankly, she was fortunate she hadn’t been walking near the cliff. Clearly, daydreaming about Rydstrom was far too dangerous an occupation.

  At least, when one was out of doors. Though, perhaps, when she found herself sitting in the library later, amidst a pile of new assignments, she would have to remember to pick up this salacious thought where she’d left off. As a lark, she wound the thread around her finger so that she wouldn’t forget.

  By the time she reached Whitcrest, it was already teeming with activity. Chalk white shop fronts crowded together in a row, decorated with empty green flower boxes beneath white-trimmed windows.

  Doors were left ajar as the village women walked to and fro, carrying their baskets laden with sundries. The mouth-watering fragrance of freshly baked bread wafted from the baker’s, along with the scent of something savory that roused a needy mewl from her stomach.

  She figured out what it was the instant a trio of children skipped out of a shop marked only by a wooden fish swinging over the door. In their hands, they each held a roasted fish on a skewer, their laughter rising above the chatter, the rushing din of the wind and sea, and the rhythmic clink-clink-clink coming from the blacksmith’s hut.

  Recalling what Lucy had said about Jacinda sailing the small skiff, she wondered if she had ever lived in a place like this.

  “Look at you, Miss Bourne,” Miss Beels said from one of the shop fronts along the narrow cobblestone lane. “Up and about and with a fresh rosy glow about your cheeks. We’ve all been wondering—Mrs. Lassater, Mrs. Parish, and I—how you’re faring at Rydstrom Hall under His Grace’s care. Has your memory returned?”

  While speaking, Miss Beels gestured first to a dark-haired woman walking out of Mrs. Lassater’s Laundry & Mending, her hands stained indigo, and then to another woman peering out of the adjacent shop window of Mrs. Parish’s Drapers & Finery, who used her apron to scrub a clean circle on the cloudy glass. The women nodded to her in greeting.

  Jacinda didn’t fault them their bold curiosity. In their shoes, she would have done the same, but without being so obvious about it. She had standards, after all.

  In answer to Miss Beels, Jacinda shook her head. “Alas, there has been no change. But Dr. Graham is doing all he can.”

  “We’d heard you share an acquaintance with His Grace,” Mrs. Lassater said, crossing her arms and scrutinizing Jacinda as if ready to begin bartering over a parcel of goods. And they were. After all, the maids had said that Mrs. Lassater held a treasure trove of rumors.

  “So I am told,” Jacinda answered frugally, unwilling to give up her secrets first.

  “You’re the only visitor to Rydstrom Hall in four years,” Mrs. Parish said as she bustled out of the shop, smoothing hands over her frilled apron.

  Jacinda frowned, skeptical that she was getting solid, genuine information. Curiosity sensors sparking, she looked from Mrs. Parish to Mrs. Lassater and then to Miss Beels. “Not a single guest for four years?”

  “Not a one until you.” Miss Beels smiled fondly. “I dread to tell you that we’d all worried for a time that His Grace would marry some hoity-toity miss with more money than sense.”

  As she spoke, women and children alike began spilling out of shops and merging into a crowd around Jacinda. There was even an older man, bald-headed, wearing a black eye patch and carrying a tray of buns. And each expression was bright and eager with expectation. Because, apparently, they assumed she was going to marry the duke.

  “Actually,” she began, knowing that now was the ideal time to tell them all that Rydstrom had every intention of marrying an heiress—intellect to be determined—but Mrs. Parish spoke over her.

  “But be warned, His Grace was a wild one, to be sure.”

  “Hush now, Polly,” Mrs. Lassater said. “Miss Bourne was about to say something before you interrupted.”

  The village seemed to go quiet all at once as they looked at Jacinda, waiting. She weighed her options with swift, thoughtful precision—speak the truth or hear more about the wild Rydstrom?

  Jacinda waved her hand in a flippant gesture. “Never mind all that. What was it you were saying, Mrs. Parish?”

  “His Grace was quite the rascal for a time.” Her answer was met with nods of agreement.

  “But who doesn’t like that in a man?” the woman beside the eye patch-baker said, tossing her long blond plait over her shoulder. He gave her a grin in return.

  Distracted, Jacinda found herself replaying Rydstrom’s perfectly sublime, not at all clumsy, kiss. “I wouldn’t rightly know . . .”

  “You must forgive Mr. and Mrs. Stokes,” Miss Beels whispered. “I’m sure they didn’t mean to make you blush so, but newlyweds often forget themselves, or so I am told.”

  Wanting to distance herself from talk of newlyweds and heiresses, Jacinda quickly altered the topic. “Did I hear mention of a festival?”

  “A grand time, to be sure,” Miss Beels said excitedly. “The children have races. Some of the women have tables of preserves and puddings. And the men do their best to show off in tests of strength.”

  “Years ago, the late duke and duchess used to host the festival on the top of the hill in the lower bailey.” Mrs. Lassater gave Jacinda a cool, appraising stare that seemed like a challenge. “We would all love to see it return to Rydstrom Hall.”

  “Oh, indeed we would,” Mrs. Parish said directly.

  Jacinda suddenly realized that they were looking at her for a reason. Little did they know that if she asked Rydstrom to host the Spring Festival, he would likely do the opposite and cancel the event altogether. Especially if he discovered that she’d sneaked out of Rydstrom Hall this morning after he’d specifically—though not entirely convincingly, in her opinion—told her not to go.

  Hmm . . . but since they didn’t know, she wondered if she might gain more information if she let them believe what they wanted. “I could mention the festival to Rydstrom, if you like.”

  * * *

  “Good morning, Your Grace,” Fellows said from the open front door of Rydstrom Hall. Bright sunlight glinted off his pate, turning the wispy tufts of white hair into dandelion fluff as he stopped sweeping and hastened to tuck the broom out of sight.

  After all these years, the butler still believed that the sight of cleaning implements was an egregious offense. Never mind the innumerable tasks to repair the keep that Crispin performed himself.

  Even so, Crispin felt a grin tug at his lips as he checked the time on his pocket watch. “And to you, Fellows. Any news to report?”

  Each morning, before he breakfasted with Sybil upstairs, the butler gave him a list of the state of things in the castle. He included a variety of issues, from the latest cracks in the castle’s foundation to the health of the servants.

  In these past days, he also informed Crispin of Miss Bourne’s activities, beginning with her time of waking and whether or not she’d ordered a breakfast tray from the kitchens. Therefore, it was somewhat puzzling that he failed to do so this time.

  “And our guests?” Crispin prodded, closing the polished brass with a snap.

  “I believe Dr. Graham is still abed, sir. I imagine he is not used to walking so many halls.” Fellows stood
up a bit straighter at this. He was Graham’s senior by a dozen years but clearly saw himself as more fit. “Though, I must say, you are looking quite hale of late, as any man in his prime ought.”

  “Thank you, Fellows, as are you,” Crispin answered with a nod. He hadn’t been sleeping these past nights, due to his idiotic decision to keep temptation across the hall. Yet this morning, he felt rather invigorated. Strong and healthy, too. More so than he remembered feeling in a long while.

  His thoughts returned to Jacinda and to the information that Fellows had not supplied. Apparently, he would have to ask directly. “And has Miss Bourne ordered her breakfast tray?”

  “No, sir. She came down a short while ago and permitted me to give her a small tour of the gatehouse, and was thoroughly fascinated by the old murder holes we’ve long since bricked up . . .”

  Crispin frowned as Fellows continued. Was Jacinda hoping to break her fast with him? Considering how she had never done so in the previous days, he wondered if—after last night—she might have gotten the wrong idea, her head now filled with romantic notions.

  Hmm . . . He feared this would happen. Walking to the window, he absently looked over the village and practiced exactly what he would tell her.

  Yes, the kiss was exceptional. Here, he would pause for her to release a sigh in remembrance. Then continuing, he would state that it had been a mistake, and that she was a temporary guest beneath his roof. Nothing more.

  With that settled in his mind, Crispin began to turn away from the window, fully intending to head toward the breakfast room. But suddenly, he spotted a flash of auburn in the distance and went still. No.

  “Then Miss Bourne decided to stroll into the village this morning,” Fellows concluded. Needlessly, as it turned out.

  Jacinda Bourne had gone into the village, and after he’d denied her request. Had yesterday’s mishap in the corridor taught her nothing?

  His blood burned hot and cold in equal measures, brewing the perfect storm within him. “Have Jones ready a gig. I’m going after Miss Bourne.”