How to Forget a Duke

by Vivienne Lorret

  A small grin—but surprising, nonetheless—flitted over Lady Hortense’s lips and she gestured to the empty chair across from her. Apparently, Jacinda had earned some shred of approval, or at least piqued her interest. With a subtle tilt of her head, she looked to the maid. “You may pour for Miss Bourne, Gillian.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The chamber maid bobbed a hasty curtsy and then scurried into the next room. The soft click of the outer door closing made it clear that there was not a second cup in the room, and that the extension of this visit was mere happenstance.

  “It is interesting that you found yourself here, of all places. Wouldn’t you agree?” Lady Hortense took a sip from the teacup waiting on the vanity, scrutinizing Jacinda over the rim.

  “Indeed. I have wondered that from the very moment I found myself on the beach. At first, when I found your nephew’s card in my book, I suspected that I was here to marry him.”

  Lady Hortense calmly lowered her cup and issued a low, condescending laugh. “You, marry my nephew?”

  “Of course, since then, I have come to a far different conclusion,” Jacinda said through her teeth, perturbed by the unfounded amusement. Was the notion that Crispin might want to marry someone who was not an heiress that far-fetched? “Correct me if I’m wrong, your ladyship, but are we not both women of society?”

  “We are of a certain society.” She subdued her merriment with another sip of tea, her lips pursing over the rim. “That is not to say, however, that we are equals. Why, you could no more marry my nephew than I could have wed a country doctor in my day. Oh, don’t get your feathers in a tangle, Miss Bourne. I see you gathering barbs upon your tongue and your eyes glaring icily. And if you continue to fist your hands over your skirt, the pleats will never lie the same. All I am saying is that our family line marries for money. It has always been thus and it will never change. In fact, these rooms in this entire wing are from my husband’s fortune.”

  The possessiveness in her tone when she said my husband made it seem as if he’d been something she had acquired in a shop, instead of a man that she had married to satisfy her heart’s desire.

  “And I do not come from money,” Jacinda said pointlessly, almost wishing to be contradicted.

  Lady Hortense offered a delicate shrug. “Nothing to speak of, from what I understand.”

  It seemed rather unjust that the only information people who knew her—or of her—would confirm was the fact that she had no fortune.

  “Regardless,” Lady Hortense continued, “while you are at Rydstrom Hall, you must put aside whatever romantic notions you might have for my nephew.”

  Jacinda swallowed. “I hold no romantic notions, inclinations, or even general fondness for your nephew.”

  “Good. It is best to leave that foolishness to those who can afford it.” Lady Hortense’s gaze flitted to the door. “Never mind the tea, Gillian. Miss Bourne was just leaving.”

  Jacinda stood, wondering if she should take the teacup and saucer with her as she walked out, or better yet, drink the steaming liquid in front of Lady Hortense. But after consideration, she did neither. Instead, she held her head up high and walked away.

  Chapter 25

  “If I know myself, Harriet, mine is an active, busy mind, with a great many independent resources . . .”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Restless, Jacinda left Lady Hortense’s apartments and made her way toward the breakfast room in the hopes of seeing Crispin. Not that anything would come of it, of course. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe that he would declare his love for her over a bowl of porridge simply because they’d kissed last night.

  While the stolen moment was exceptional for her, it had not made her any richer.

  Instead of finding Crispin, however, Dr. Graham was the only one seated at the oval table in the cozy room with the view of the grassy lawn and conical junipers of the upper garden.

  “Good morning, Miss Bourne,” he said after wiping his mouth with a napkin and laying it beside his now empty plate. “I’m glad I have a chance to see you before I depart.”

  “You are leaving?”

  “I plan to pay a call on one of the village women, who is in her confinement, and with Lady Hortense’s arrival”—he paused long enough to shake his head—“you no longer require my chaperonage.”

  In a terrible flash, Jacinda envisioned long, stuffy dinners sitting across from the imperious Lady Hortense, and the only topic of conversation would be the impending nuptials of Rydstrom and his heiress. “I understand, but I should hate to see you go. After all, if you are not here, who will prod me into my memory exercises?”

  Dr. Graham smiled fondly. “I have a sense that someone with your amount of determination might do her own prodding. In addition, having Lady Hortense here will provide a certain type of society of which, I believe, you are more familiar, and perhaps that will boost more accidental memories for you.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed quickly, trying not to think about how much this felt like a farewell. Everything seemed to be coming to an end, and right at the exact time she felt like it was just beginning. Even her appetite had abandoned her.

  “Though I do wish I had a chance to speak with Rydstrom before I left. However, he was called away a short while ago.” The doctor removed his spectacles and rubbed the lenses with a corner of the napkin. “Apparently one of the Olson boys backed a horse cart into their mother’s home. Thankfully, no one was hurt; however, from what I understand, her entire kitchen lies in rubble.”

  Oh dear, the trials that poor widow had to endure. The only time Jacinda had seen her boys behaving, and the widow at ease, had been during the log-chopping competition. When Mrs. Olson was holding Mr. Alcott’s coat. Hmm . . . And during Jacinda’s conversation with Mr. Alcott, she had learned that he had come from a large family of strapping boys and hoped to start his own one day soon.

  “That’s simply awful,” Jacinda said absently, feeling that sense of purpose ignite inside her once more. All at once, she knew that she wanted to—no, needed to—forge a match between the widow Olson and Mr. Alcott. It’s precisely what Miss Emma Woodhouse would have done.

  “It is, but at least Rydstrom and a few of the village men are helping to repair what they can.”

  Her thoughts whipped back to the conversation. “So Rydstrom isn’t here to”—kiss me again and declare his undying love for me—“see you off?”

  “No,” he said simply, slipping the curled ends of his spectacles around his ears. “I suppose I must pack my things in order to get a good foot under me.”

  “Well, then I shall be standing at the front door to bid you farewell.”

  As soon as the doctor stepped away, Jacinda headed to the kitchens. She knew that with Mrs. Hemple and Mr. Fellows busy with their morning schedules, they wouldn’t think of sending the doctor away with all he needed for the call he was paying. Although, since she wasn’t familiar with exactly what was needed for such an event, she asked the cook for a basket of food for the expectant family.

  While there, Mrs. Limpin bade Jacinda to approve the menu for that evening, and asked if there was anything she would like, in particular. Having no memory of her favorite foods, she was at a loss. However, thinking back to the kiss—because it was never far from her mind—she confessed to liking the flavor of aniseed. There had been a subtle hint of it on Crispin’s tongue.

  But, of course, Jacinda kept that part to herself.

  Mrs. Limpin smiled broadly, her ruddy complexion accentuated by the creases from her smile. “Is that so? As I recall, His Grace was always partial to aniseed biscuits when he was a lad. I’ll bake a batch in time for tea, if that pleases you.”

  “You are a jewel, Mrs. Limpin.”

  Then, basket in hand, Jacinda headed to the foyer to see off Dr. Graham.

  She waved him farewell at the door and watched as his carriage wended its way down the lane. Beside her, Mr. Fellows regaled her with another tale of Rydstrom Hall’s history. He was alw
ays sharing something with her about the previous generations who’d lived here, the additions they’d made—some better constructed than others—and even some of the battles that had been fought here. She was so enthralled by these glimpses into Crispin’s ancestors that she didn’t notice Lady Hortense approach.

  “Miss Bourne, might I have a word with you?” Though her words were phrased as a question, it was clear from her expression that she would only accept one answer.

  “Of course, my lady.”

  Without saying another word, Lady Hortense turned and strode through the gatehouse toward the arched doorway. Jacinda supposed she was meant to follow.

  Lady Hortense continued walking through several corridors and didn’t stop until they’d reached the Great Hall. Framed in front of the massive stone hearth, she turned her pinched glower on Jacinda. “Gillian informs me that you had the kitchens prepare a basket for one of my nephew’s tenants.”

  “Yes, my lady. With the duke away, I wanted to lend a hand.”

  “The task should have fallen to me. After all, I am a member of this house, and you are not,” she said crisply.

  Jacinda offered a clenched smile. “I never thought otherwise.”

  “Good. Then we have an understanding.”

  “If I may, my lady, but what are your plans for Mrs. Olson?” When Jacinda was met with the inquiring arch of silver brows, she decided to enlighten her. “She is one of your nephew’s tenants as well. In fact, it is her house that he is helping to repair.”

  Lady Hortense sniffed. “He, Miss Bourne? I believe you meant to say His Grace. And as for his tenant, it is common practice to leave the villagers to settle village matters.”

  Apparently, not too common. According to nearly everyone in Whitcrest, Rydstrom was always ready and able to assist them. And when Lady Hortense walked away as if the matter were settled, Jacinda knew with an equal amount of certainty that it wasn’t.

  At least, not yet.

  * * *

  Weary after a long, arduous day, Crispin dragged his feet through the front door of Rydstrom Hall and gave Fellows an abbreviated recounting of events before inquiring about the state of things here.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary, sir, just a standard day in Rydstrom Hall.” Fellows glanced away and began tugging on the cuffs of his livery coat.

  Crispin eyed the butler, taking note of the uncharacteristic fidgeting. “Has something happened?”

  Fellows released a nervous, gusty exhale. “Of course not, sir. Whyever would you”—he broke off, his gaze darting toward the corridor where one of the village women was meandering slowly, gazing up at the tapestries as if she were on a museum tour—“imagine anything was amiss?”

  “Who is that?”

  Fellows cleared his throat. “I believe that is Mrs. Parish, sir.”

  Before Crispin could ask what she was doing in Rydstrom Hall, he saw Aunt Hortense storm past the woman and head directly to him. Without even knowing what had transpired, he knew Jacinda was at the center of it.

  Crispin walked heavy-footed toward his aunt, already seeing the marked disapproval in the lines around her pursed lips. “Good evening, Aunt.”

  “Miss Bourne,” she began without a word of greeting and confirming his suspicions, “needs to remember her place. She has begun to assert herself in matters that a guest should not, and now this.”

  She gestured with a sweeping arm down the corridor to Mrs. Parish. And further down, he could see other village women milling about as well.

  “And what is this precisely?”

  “She has turned Rydstrom Hall into a circus. Commoners are roaming at will, lining up in the Great Hall, and all because you have allowed her to be treated and regarded by your servants as your equal. Perhaps if you hadn’t allowed her to remain in the duchess’s chamber, this would not have happened.”

  Crispin frowned. He’d wondered how long it would take before word reached her. “It was merely a matter of necessity. Rydstrom Hall has many rooms in need of serious repair, as I explained earlier when I showed you the paneling placed in front of the mural in your private sitting room.”

  The tall accordion screen, from one of the rooms he’d closed off years ago, was the only thing he’d had time to set in place this morning. He’d known that his aunt wouldn’t have stood for having a dust sheet hanging from her wall. So he’d concealed it, anchoring the dark mahogany to the wall, then explained that he would pay an artist to refurbish the painting once he was married. Thankfully, that had appeased her.

  At least, until this event—whatever it was—happened.

  “I spoke with your housekeeper on the matter and she said the same thing,” she said. “Then I took a tour myself and found none of the reported issues. There are many guest chambers that are more suited to accommodate Miss Bourne, that are a more respectable distance from your own. Quite honestly, I’m appalled by the fact that you did not see to this matter yourself.”

  “She was quite ill.”

  “Perhaps, but no longer. She was the picture of health this morning when I summoned her to my dressing chamber.”

  “You summoned her to your . . . rooms?” Crispin cleared his throat. While part of him was relieved that he’d hidden the mural, another part dreaded the coming days when his aunt would surely ask about the collection of miniatures that had once been on display.

  “Certainly. After all, one of us needed to ensure that the girl knew her place and did not entertain any romantic notions, but clearly it will take a much firmer hand.”

  “I will see to the matter.” Regrettably, Crispin knew that his aunt was correct. Allowing Jacinda to stay in the duchess’s chamber had weakened him and likely contributed to his actions yesterday and the growing sense of familiarity.

  Leaving his aunt to fume in the corridor, Crispin strode to the Great Hall.

  When he reached the room, he stopped at the threshold, astounded by the mess before him. There were dishes and silverware strewn over the surfaces of the tables. Jars and crockery filled with mysterious foodstuffs. Sacks of grain and lentils piled haphazardly. Groups of village women were standing about and chatting as if they were attending another festival.

  And in the center of it all, Jacinda was bent over the table, scribbling on a page.

  “Your Grace,” Mrs. Hemple said in a rush, worrying the center of her apron. “I hope that all went well in the village today.”

  “It appears that Rydstrom Hall has been rather busy in my absence.”

  “Indeed, sir. And Miss Bourne has been ever so kind. Were you aware that she ensured the good doctor had a basket of food to take to the Matthews’ residence before he left? And also a bundle of fresh linens. I’m sure no other young woman would have thought of such generosity. It sheds a most favorable light on Rydstrom Hall and all who reside here.”

  The clenching of his jaw gradually receded as he learned what Jacinda had done. He never would have suspected that the young woman he’d met in London had such a warm and giving heart. Then again, a great deal had altered since then. More than he cared to admit.

  He shifted uncomfortably. Looking around, he gained a fresh understanding of his aunt’s concerns. For Jacinda to act on his behalf, indicated that there was an understanding between them.

  He should have set matters straight first thing this morning.

  “Mrs. Hemple, please see that these women are removed from my home with the utmost haste. And bring the maids to clear all this away.”

  The housekeeper looked at him with a pleading gaze and then her shoulders slumped. “Yes, sir.”

  Crispin crossed the expanse of the hall, his boots hitting hard on the stone floor. Jacinda straightened, paper in her grasp, and watched his approach with wary eyes.

  She glanced around to the women leaving in murmuring swells and then back to him. “I had to do it, Rydstrom. You weren’t here and your aunt thought it beneath her.”

  Weary, covered in chalk, his boots caked in mud and who knew what
else, the last thing Crispin wanted to deal with was the complete wreck of the Great Hall. But he had to admit, he was curious about Jacinda’s motives. “You’re blaming my aunt for your sudden whimsy to turn Rydstrom Hall into Bedlam?”

  “Well”—she pressed her lips together briefly—“yes.”

  “Explain yourself, then.”

  “I spoke with your aunt and she said, in her imperious tone, that the villagers saw to the village, and I’d heard that you were busy—”

  “Now you’re using me as an excuse for your complete annihilation of the Great Hall?”

  “Annihilation? You’re being a bit dramatic, Rydstrom.”

  Losing his grip on both his patience and sanity, he growled. “Before I stepped into this room, Miss Bourne, I was perfectly content with my life but now you’ve robbed me of that.”

  And in so many ways, he couldn’t even fathom them all.

  “I think, perhaps, that you have had a trying day and are not open to being reasonable.” Then turning toward the table, she picked up a small basket with a bit of cloth folded inside and held it up in offering. “Mrs. Limpin said these were once your favorites.”

  “I don’t want whatever is in that”—he watched distractedly as Jacinda flicked open the folds and a deliciously familiar scent wafted up to his nostrils—“basket. Are those aniseed biscuits?”

  His mouth was already watering, his breath short. And something inside of him stirred, shifting like a foundation stone falling into place.

  “They are, indeed. And if you stop grousing long enough, you might find they taste quite delicious.”

  “You asked Mrs. Limpin to bake these for me?” His gaze met hers and he was caught by the softness he found there as she nodded hesitantly.

  A week ago, this entire episode would have made him send her back to her uncle, regardless of Graham’s warnings. But suddenly, the only thing he wanted to do was kiss her. Soundly.

  “Thank you,” he said instead, his voice lower. “And also for sending the basket with Dr. Graham. That was something I wouldn’t have thought of.”