How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  Oh, how wonderful it would be to ask him such questions, to learn his thoughts, to better understand his temperament. To know why he was so different with Jacinda than he was with everyone else.

  The sweet agony of longing caused her breath to stutter out of her. Before she was discovered by Rydstrom, she crept down the stairs.

  * * *

  Shortly after her descent from the donjon, Jacinda found herself in the music room with Dr. Graham. The sight of the instruments did nothing to cheer her. In fact, she cringed and hoped he wasn’t going to ask her to perform again.

  Yet, the instant he told her of their agenda for the next hour or more, she decided she would prefer blistered fingertips and wounded ears, instead.

  “Dancing?” she asked, the disbelief in her voice causing it to rise to a different octave. “Are you certain that is the best use of our time?”

  “I believe that what we need to find are more pleasurable pastimes in order to trigger your memories. While you have surpassed my expectations in your knowledge of languages, and various other studies, I did not detect any passion for them. Our other exercises in embroidery and”—he cleared his throat—“music have made it apparent that your enjoyments lie elsewhere. And since your visit into the village yesterday tells me that you inhabit boundless amounts of energy, I thought you might have a penchant for dancing.”

  She tilted her head to one side and considered his logic with a measure of doubt. If she were so fond of dancing, then wouldn’t she have caught herself swaying or twirling at one point? Then again, what did she have to lose? “Very well.”

  Jacinda expected the doctor to come closer and demonstrate the dance, but instead he sat down at the pianoforte, puzzling her.

  He must have noticed it in her expression because he offered a glance down to his leg, adding, “My skills are better served from here. For the past two dozen years, I have been an excellent audience at assemblies.” Then he nudged his spectacles back in place and rolled his fingers over the stained ivory keys from the deeper notes all the way to the highest pings in a lovely, swelling cascade. He offered a fatherly wink, showing off a bit. “Now, for this dance, you will step forward with your right foot, skip lightly—like a hop—then left foot, then turn.”

  Jacinda followed his directions, speaking them in her mind. “Right foot forward, skip, then—”

  She jerked to a sudden stop, hunched over. Somehow the toe of her slipper landed on the hem of her petticoat with an audible tearing sound.

  Peering down at the four-inch portion of drooping ruffle, she felt like a graceless idiot. “This method isn’t going to work. I cannot picture the dance in my mind the way that I could with the words in different languages, or even when I was reading music, and we both know how that ended.”

  “Never give up, Miss Bourne,” the doctor chided warmly as she knelt down and withdrew a long hatpin tucked into the russet trim border at the hem of her dress. “We have only begun. There are many other steps we could . . . Say, what have you there?”

  “A pin,” she said absently from her crouched position, repairing the fallen ruffle. It wasn’t until she finished weaving the pin through the ruched cotton that she realized what she was doing. She gasped with a start and stood, staring down at the hem of her dress in wonder. Then, she saw the round, silver-beaded head of a second hatpin. “How did I know it was here?”

  The question was more to herself, than to the doctor, but he answered. “Perhaps it is a custom for young women to tuck pins into their hems.”

  “It could very well be, and likely to repair tears such as this when one is away from a mending box,” she mused. It was slightly confusing, however, that this was a rather sturdy and lengthy pin for mending.

  “I assume that you did not place it there yourself this morning,” he said. And when he received a dumbfounded shake of her head, he continued, his tone clearly pleased. “That is something, indeed. I feel we are getting ever closer. Let us continue with this exercise and see what else we might discover.”

  Jacinda smiled, not feeling as reluctant as she had been a moment ago. “Indeed.”

  The doctor stretched his arms before him with his fingers intertwined, folding them backward, and unleashing a series of pops and crackles. “Now then, I have a few more pieces of music in my repertoire. Perhaps, I should play something with more of a slow, flowing cadence. Try closing your eyes for this one, using intuition for the dance without my instruction.”

  Deciding to trust his method and eager to discover something else, she complied and closed her eyes. As the soft notes filled the chamber, she took it a step further and held her arms up like a marionette, shuffling her feet across the hardwood floors of the paneled room. She waited for a sense of certainty to fill her.

  Yet as she turned in a slow circle, she felt something that wasn’t related to the music or any particular memory.

  A prickling sensation ran along the back of her neck, almost as if someone were watching her. Opening her eyes, she saw that she was right.

  A jolt pinned her in place.

  Rydstrom stood in the doorway, arms at his side, hands clenched into fists. His countenance, while not quite glowering, was strained with concentration, as if he were mentally trying to will her into the correct steps.

  Slowly, she lowered her arms, irked that her failure had gained his notice when her achievements had not.

  “Ah, Rydstrom,” Dr. Graham said, stilling his fingers on the keys. “We were making an attempt to see if Miss Bourne remembered dancing. It’s rather serendipitous that you should stop by the music room.”

  The duke flicked him a hard glance. “I was merely on the way to my study when I heard music.”

  “Then we would not wish to keep you any longer,” Jacinda said quickly.

  Rydstrom’s gaze returned to her. His chest expanded on a breath deep enough to furrow the fabric of his cloud gray waistcoat before he let the air out in a strained exhale. “Since I doubt you have ever stood on a ballroom floor alone, your time would be better served with a partner.”

  “Undoubtedly,” she said without a hint of sarcasm.

  He arched a brow.

  Very well, perhaps her tone held a taste of sardonic flavor. “Will you ring for a footman?”

  He took an ominous step toward her, his presence filling the room. “No. I believe I am more than qualified to show you the steps of a country dance.”

  “But Dr. Graham was very insistent that I try to conjure the memory on my own,” she said in a rush.

  “Rydstrom has a point,” Dr. Graham added cheerfully. “Perhaps a partner first, and then we will return to the previous method.”

  Without delay, he began to play the music again, a leisurely melody. The notes were trying to slow her pulse, but it didn’t work. With every purposeful step Rydstrom took in her direction, her heart only beat faster, her breaths quickening, anticipation drawing as tight as a piano wire inside of her.

  He stopped within arm’s reach. “There are various poses that one learns from a dancing master; however, for the sake of this exercise we will forgo those finer points. The primary object of dancing is to create seamless movements between you and your partner. The best way to accomplish this is to imagine that the pair of you is separated by quadrants. In such, your—” He stopped his explanation to deepen his frown. “Is the subject amusing, Miss Bourne?”

  Jacinda pressed her lips together to hide her grin, her high-strung nerves loosening marginally.

  The moment he’d mentioned quadrants, she couldn’t help but think of how he separated his entire life by them. It shouldn’t surprise her that he could do so with a dance, but it did nonetheless. “Not at all. I was merely picturing a ballroom filled with disembodied dancing shoes. Pray, continue.”

  A grumble rose in his throat. “Perhaps it would be better if I demonstrate. Now, if I take a right step forward, you would slide your left foot backward and so forth, in time with the music. Shall we?”

  He
held out his hand, long fingers extended. Deep lines in his broad palm formed a triangle in the center, and her fingertips tingled at the thought of settling there. Surreptitiously, she pressed her hand to her muslin to dry any dampness before she lifted it, darting a wary glance up to his face.

  He was staring down at her hand, watching every movement, waiting, a muscle ticking along the hard line of his jaw.

  She didn’t know why she was so anxious. It was only a dance, after all. Yet without having a memory of any other, this would be her first, and—without knowing what awaited her in London—possibly her last. And a foolishly unguarded part of her was glad that it would be with Rydstrom.

  Expelling a slow pent-up breath in a thin stream, she laid her hand in his. But far more than tingles met her fingertips. A shock of sensation rifled through her nerves, zinging along her arms and then descending like a bolt of lightning straight through her body to the soles of her feet. Peculiarly, her responses to him seemed to intensify with each interaction, instead of weakening as they ought.

  He closed his hand around hers in one quick, reflexive motion. Then he went still as well.

  They remained thus, both staring at their hands as if they’d become ensnared in a complex trap that would require a series of carefully orchestrated movements in order to escape unscathed.

  Yet Rydstrom managed to recover first. He cleared his throat. “Now then, just as I said.”

  And when he stepped forward with his right foot, she stepped backward with her left. It was such a relief to complete this single step successfully that she tried to release him.

  But he held fast.

  “We are not finished, Miss Bourne,” he said, though it was clear by the hoarseness of his tone that he wanted to end this lesson as much as she did. “Now step back in place. Good. And toward me. Excellent. And back to the start.”

  Oddly winded from four simple steps, she breathed in deeply, drawing in the scent of warm cedar through her nostrils and nearly tasting it on her tongue. Still, he did not release her, but prodded her into repeating the same steps with the other foot. And when that was successful, she thought surely that they were finished.

  She was drained of energy, drowsy and yet peculiarly perceptive. Her mind was keen to notice every nuance of this moment—how their breaths accelerated in tandem and out of tempo with the music, how the pressure of his fingertips altered as he guided her steps, the errant caress of his thumb over her flesh, the fit of his clothes over his lean body, the shift of his muscular legs with each step . . .

  “And again, right foot forward,” he said.

  Preoccupied, she moved without thinking. And summarily collided full-bodied into him. What made it worse was that they’d both stepped forward, right footed, and with utter confidence.

  His hand clasped her waist, gripping her, reminding her of the way he’d held her that night in his study. When he’d kissed her.

  His hard, albeit startled, gaze darkened, his pupils eclipsing the green of his eyes and leaving only a rim of soft, russet brown.

  She was pressed breasts-to-knees against a wall of warm, solid duke, and wasn’t sure what to do next. Likely, she should step back, or in the very least, make an attempt. Yet her body did not agree. Instead, she found herself yielding against him, her limbs feeling pliant and malleable like partially melted candle wax, molding around him.

  “You said right foot forward,” she said, glancing down to the hand she had splayed over his waistcoat before returning to his face.

  A breath shuddered out of him. “My right foot. Always presume that I am referring to the dominant partner. I lead and you follow. That is the way of things.” His hand clenched her waist briefly before he put the barest amount of space between them. But not far enough that he released her.

  “Are you suggesting that your quadrants are more important than mine?”

  The corner of his mouth twitched, his gaze flitting over her features. For an instant, she thought he might smile at her. Then he glanced down at her hand and its position over his heart, and he glowered once more.

  Stepping back fully, he released her. “That is all the time I have for your exercises this morning.”

  Then he turned on his heel, and left her to stare after him.

  * * *

  Crispin gripped the thick handle of the axe with both hands and swung it with hard, unerring precision. The wood splintered with a satisfying crack. Two halves fell from the block and onto the ever-growing pile. Then he set them up again, turning the halves into quarters.

  He fell into a rhythm, a series of gestures—legs apart, grip firm, swing, strike. His muscles strained, flexing, tightening. His shirtsleeves clung to each muscle along his shoulders, arms, back, and torso. It felt good to perspire, to breathe so hard his lungs burned.

  He never should have gone to the music room. For that matter, he never should have sought out Jacinda in the first place. But he’d been plagued by an unsettling hunger to see her this morning, as if he’d needed to break his fast—those long, sleepless hours in the chamber across from her—by feasting on the sight of her. Ludicrous!

  He’d ignored the urge at first, going about his morning as usual. But all the while, it was as if he could sense her near, her fragrance in the air whenever he drew a breath, leaving him coiled and tense with expectation.

  Even after Fellows had informed him that she was with Graham, and knowing that she was not in the village or causing mischief anywhere else in the castle, it had not been enough to appease him. He’d been compelled to look upon her with his own eyes.

  But when he’d found her in the music room with her eyes closed and the light from the window falling on her lashes, turning their tips to a burnished bronze, his hunger had not abated. It only intensified.

  He’d never noticed another woman’s eyelashes. Certainly not enough to have been captivated by them, or to wonder what they might feel like against his lips. And it was that last thought, that had disturbed him the most. It was entirely too romantic. Lust was perfectly understandable given the circumstances, but he did not know why desire was coupled with tender sentiment.

  Clearly, the days of having her here, the evenings in her company in the dining room—and, irritatingly not in his study—were starting to wear on him. So, in the doorway to the music room, he’d turned, prepared to leave and end this reprehensible torment. But then her startled turquoise gaze snared him, rooting him in place.

  It annoyed him that he’d been caught watching her. In that moment, he’d felt like the trespasser. He’d wanted to leave, and could have done so if not for Graham’s request to show her the steps of the dance.

  Yet, even now as the wood splintered and sweat spilled off his brow, Crispin knew that wasn’t the truth. He would have danced with her regardless.

  It was the dance that had brought him here to the wooded edge of his estate with the need to expel every last ounce of energy and the incessant desire that hounded him. He frequently chopped wood for the castle—one of the many tiring activities a single man in the prime of health must do in order to keep from going mad.

  However, he could still feel her body against his, legs tangled, hips aligned. She’d felt sublime, so soft and fragrant that he’d forgotten himself. He didn’t even know how long they’d stood locked together. A few breaths and heartbeats too long, for certain.

  Crispin was growing fatigued, but not in the way he required.

  He was tired of resisting her and starving for the taste of her lips once more. And if Graham hadn’t been in the music room, Crispin might have—no, would have—indulged himself. A dangerous realization, indeed.

  What he needed was a larger distraction. Something that would draw his constant attention away from Jacinda. He had other matters to attend, after all. Arrangements needed to be made for the festival, such as carrying up the barrels of ale from the buttery, in addition to checking with his cook about the various foods Rydstrom Hall would provide. The servants did not perform their usu
al household duties on that day, but most assisted with the tables and games.

  Thinking back on years past, even Father and Mother had done their part to ensure the enjoyment of all. And the festival had always been ripping good fun.

  Reminiscing back to those days of his youth, Crispin felt a grin tug at his lips and, for a startling instant, found himself wanting to share those stories with Jacinda.

  He shook himself free of the errant notion. Or, at least, he tried. The idea remained lodged in his mind, resisting his efforts and even compelling him to imagine what it would be like to witness her experiencing the festival for the first time.

  The only time, he corrected, reminding himself that she would be leaving in little more than a week.

  Then for some utterly foolish reason, he wanted to give her a happy memory to take with her. A memory they would always share. And without examining why this was suddenly important to him, Crispin decided to host the Spring Festival at Rydstrom Hall once again.

  Chapter 21

  “Come, my dear Emma, let us be friends and say no more about it.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Jacinda heard the news the following day. The Spring Festival would be here, on the grounds of Rydstrom Hall. And tomorrow, no less.

  The castle was in a kerfuffle with sweet and savory aromas wafting from the kitchens. Scullery maids and chambermaids alike filled the tables of the Great Hall with preserves, biscuit tins, meat pies, and puddings. Footmen were carrying crates down from one of the garrets and taking them out to the lower bailey.

  Jacinda loved the excitement. Everyone rallied together for a day of fun.

  Well, everyone except for her.

  She wanted to be of use, but each time she asked Fellows or one of the maids, they’d stopped their own tasks in order to direct her to a comfortable chair where she could rest and recuperate. And according to Martha, Rydstrom had left strict instructions for Jacinda not to lift a finger. But what he likely meant was that he didn’t want her to touch a thing.