How to Forget a Duke Page 12

  Just then, he heard the rush of footsteps and turned to see the chambermaid Fellows had assigned to Miss Bourne’s room.

  Clutching her side, Martha panted, her round face chalk white. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I went to Miss Bourne’s room just now and she’s gone. I dunno where she could have gotten to in such a state.”

  Damn. It was already beginning.

  Chapter 10

  “But I,” he soon added, “who have had no such charm thrown over my senses, must still see, hear, and remember.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  A slender girl in a white pin-tucked pinafore stared at Jacinda through the open archway of a cozy sitting room. Behind her, a brace of candles on a desk sent a spill of golden light through her pale hair, making her look like an angel.

  The candlelight also illuminated an oriel window, turning the surface into something of a mirror. Seeing herself in a borrowed dress and cap, Jacinda said the first thing that came to mind. “I’ve come to remove the linens.”

  Of course, that declaration might have worked better if there were actual linens in the room.

  A slow, impish smile spread over the girl’s face and she shook her head. Living here, the girl likely knew all the servants. Perhaps she was a servant as well, or the child of one.

  Jacinda tried again, continuing with another lie because she didn’t know what else to do. She hadn’t thought this far ahead, and her head was throbbing again, making it difficult to think at all. “I could go to the kitchen to organize a tray of tarts and biscuits, if you like.”

  The girl’s smile broadened. She stepped forward and took Jacinda by the hand, quickly drawing her into the room.

  Jacinda went along, watchful, but letting the child guide her. When the girl closed the door behind them, a draft of wind caused a paper on the desk to flutter to the floor.

  Jacinda bent down automatically, but wished she hadn’t. A wave of dizziness swam through her head, nearly toppling her over, though she managed to right herself with a hand flat to the desk. And the girl was beside her in an instant, laying a small, cool hand over Jacinda’s, a pout of concern on her face.

  “There were a lot of stairs,” Jacinda said by way of explanation.

  The girl nodded, a commiserating puff of air accompanying it.

  “I believe this is yours.” Jacinda handed her the paper that had fallen.

  But the girl did not take it. Instead, she clasped her hands and rolled her lips between her teeth, her cheeks lifting in a barely contained, expectant grin as her bright gaze darted from Jacinda to the paper.

  Jacinda looked down at the page, too, and what she saw surprised her. It was a drawing, and a rather good one at that, depicting a likeness of the duke. There was no mistaking those broad shoulders and that granite jaw, after all. And in the picture, he was holding something. Or someone, rather. Her.

  The sketch showed Jacinda clinging to the duke. Curled in his arms, she did not appear to be the struggling, unwieldy baggage that she had tried to be. And he did not look like the glowering, intractable duke that he actually was. The slanted lines illustrating his face portrayed nothing of the animosity she’d experienced from him. In fact, from this perspective, he looked somewhat . . . protective.

  A rush of heat swamped her cheeks. Though she’d never admit it aloud, she had felt safe in his arms. His strength and willingness to step forward—even when it was clear he did not want to—had helped to douse her climbing fears in a way that the doctor’s reassurances had not. How strange that it was the bristly duke’s sense of duty that had ultimately soothed her.

  “Did you draw this?”

  The girl nodded, her expression animated with eagerness. Then, unlacing her fingers, she pointed from the figure of the woman in the duke’s arms and then to Jacinda.

  “Ah.” Jacinda’s ruse as a household servant was at an end. She returned the paper with a wry smile. “I’m afraid I’ve come out a little worse for sea bathing.”

  The girl grinned. Taking Jacinda’s hand, she drew her toward a small milieu table situated near a crackling fire in the aged limestone hearth. There, she sat in one of the two straight-backed chairs and gestured to the other.

  Jacinda obliged her, only now realizing that she had yet to hear the girl speak. Though perhaps, like Jacinda, the girl wasn’t supposed to be here either and preferred to keep quiet in order to avoid discovery.

  The girl didn’t appear to be wearing servant’s clothes. Her garments were simple without any embroidery along the hem of her blue dress, but the fabric was of a fine muslin and not a coarse homespun. Of course, there were a few charcoal smudges on her white pinafore and, correspondingly, on her fingers. However, her curls were tidy, her face clean, which seemed to indicate that she had no other occupation than drawing. And scattered among the papers on the table were what appeared to be school lessons.

  A torn page lay on top of the others with one line written neatly over and over again until it filled every blank space.

  Crispin thinks she’s pretty!

  Curious, Jacinda wondered what that could be about but was distracted by other drawings—a pair of birds on a windowsill, a pair of cats by a hearth, among others—each one equally remarkable. “You’re very talented. If I may . . . how old are you?”

  The girl flashed both hands, fingers spread.

  Apparently, their quiet game was continuing. “Ten years old? That’s a lovely age. At least, I think it is. To tell you the truth, I don’t actually remember being ten, or any other age for that matter. At the moment, I don’t even know how old I am.” She quirked her lips and pointed to the raw lump near the edge of her borrowed cap, trying to keep her tone light to stave off her own worries. “I could very well be four and eighty. What do you think? Do I look like an octogenarian?”

  Another huff of air escaped the girl, her cheeks lifting as she shook her head in obvious amusement.

  Of course, Jacinda knew she wasn’t that old because she’d seen her own reflection in the mottled oval looking glass above the washstand in the tower room. Unfortunately, nothing of her appearance had been familiar. It was like peering through a window and seeing a stranger staring back from the other side.

  Quite honestly, she was tired of meeting strangers. The sooner she regained her memory, the better. And she felt, without a doubt, that the answer was here, somewhere in Rydstrom Hall.

  “No? Then perhaps . . .” She couldn’t finish. Just as her lips parted to say something comical, to coax a true laugh out of the girl, a wave of light-headed exhaustion crashed through her, leaching out every last ounce of strength she possessed. It seemed she’d reached the pinnacle of her endurance.

  A chill stole over her, sudden and bone deep. The shiver was unlike what she’d experienced earlier. This one emanated from her marrow, radiating outward. She wondered if the fire had gone out. But no, when her gaze alighted on the hearth, it was aglow with flickering orange flames. Yet she could not feel any warmth from the inviting blaze.

  Standing up from the chair to get closer to the hearth, a dizzy spell blurred her vision and she braced her hand on the table’s edge. After blinking a few times, her focus returned, if not a bit cloudy around the edges. Beside her, the girl’s mouth tipped downward and Jacinda pretended that her intention was to lean over the table in order to get a better look at the sketches.

  “My, my, you already possess a remarkable talent,” she said, out of breath as she examined a pair of figures standing beneath a leafy archway. Their faces were indistinct, but it was clear by their forms that one was a man and the other a woman. Evidently, this girl was a romantic at heart and, for some mysterious reason, the notion comforted Jacinda. “Though most artists, I imagine, sign their works. How else will people trace your illustrious career?”

  The quiet girl beamed. Then, quick as a wink, she shot up from the table, grabbed a haphazard handful of drawings and crossed the room to the desk. Taking a mottled quill in hand, she dipped it into the inkpot.

&
nbsp; While she was busy signing her name, and each time with more flourish than the last, Jacinda made her way to the hearth.

  The few short steps were more difficult than they ought to have been. Her limbs were both frozen stiff and boneless at the same time, and she had to keep her hand to the back of the chair to keep from listing forward. The floor beneath her squishy boots seemed to slant in a different direction with each step. But, at last, she triumphed and curled her hand over the smooth lip of the mantel for support.

  Her new friend came up to her side and presented the faintly wrinkled sketch of the duke carrying Jacinda. Only now, a name was written in grand, sweeping letters across the bottom.

  “Sybil,” Jacinda read aloud. The light of the fire flickered, mesmerizing her, as she mused over the name. There was a sudden ripple disturbing the wading pool near the center of her brain where all of her memories floated without care. The name was like a pebble that fell into the water with a tiny splash of familiarity. “Hmm . . . Sybil is a lovely name. I feel as if I’ve heard it before.”

  Across the room, the door burst open with such force that it smacked the wall behind it.

  Startled out of her trance, Jacinda turned to see the duke barging in, that angry vein rising beneath the flesh of his forehead.

  “Miss Bourne, what do you think you are doing in here?”

  Another shiver wracked her, her teeth chattering. “Clearly, I’m s-standing by this f-fire, admiring a w-work of art.”

  Beside her, Sybil grinned sheepishly, but after a warning glance from Rydstrom, she pressed her lips together. Still, by the evidence of a lingering cherubic dimple, it was apparent that she wasn’t at all threatened by the duke’s presence.

  This realization was a tremendous relief because Jacinda didn’t think she had the energy to battle the duke into showing fairness to the girl—who may or may not be trespassing in this part of the castle. In fact, she didn’t think she could summon the strength to cast him a single verbal parry on her own behalf either.

  “I cannot leave you unguarded for one moment. You were supposed to remain in the tower,” he muttered through gritted teeth. Raking his gaze over Jacinda, a dark scowl furrowed his brow. Then he jerked off his green coat and strode toward her. “You’re pale and shaking. I don’t suppose you bothered to eat anything. I gave specific orders for you to eat everything on that tray.”

  Order? Furious castigations lined up on her tongue, but they were sluggish and cold, too, refusing to leave her mouth to rail at him. Before she could utter a single one, he wrapped his coat around her shoulders.

  Pleasurable, cedar-scented heat enveloped her and she nearly moaned. She couldn’t stop herself from swaying toward him. Worse, the room seemed to be growing darker, making her want to close her eyes and rest.

  “Not your prisoner . . . Never order me . . .” There, she’d told him.

  “Sybil, run along and have Mrs. Hemple bring Miss Bourne a cup of tea with a great deal of sugar stirred in. And make haste because she will likely faint unless—Damn it all. Miss Bourne”—he tapped her cheek with his fingertips, tilting her head up to his—“you must rally.”

  “Cannot.” The volume of her voice eroded like sand beneath crushing waves. She was no longer even trying to stand on her own, but shamelessly sagging against him for support. It was his own fault for being so strong, capable, and wonderfully, decadently warm. With her head resting against his shoulder, she had the opportunity to study his cinnamon-colored whiskers closer and wished she had the strength to lift her hand to see if they would dissolve into powder like the spice. “Too tired.”

  And then she fell into a weightless dream, where she was no longer touching the floor, but cradled in his arms again with him muttering oaths beneath his breath.

  * * *

  Damn it all to hell.

  For the second time that day, Crispin lifted Jacinda Bourne into his arms. Not having her wiggling around to injure herself further should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. Not when she was so pale even her lips were drained of color, and a chill colder than a February gale emanated from her entire body.

  Standing near the hearth, he held her as close as he could without injuring her. For all her fire and pluck, she felt entirely too soft and fragile.

  When another shiver wracked her, his arms tightened instinctively, yet he’d never felt more powerless.

  Ever since he’d met her, she’d begun stripping control away from him. Just now he’d walked into his worst nightmare—Jacinda in the same room with Sybil—and he wasn’t even given the opportunity to rail at her. Instead, he was overcome by an urge to heal her, to do whatever he could to turn her back into the most bothersome meddler that’d ever walked the earth.

  The very thought shook him.

  Insanity! Here she was, in his arms, and dressed as a servant . . . again. Either she’d regained her memory, or the need to create havoc had been ingrained in her character since birth. Though, after his conversation with Dr. Graham a moment ago, Crispin was more inclined to believe the latter.

  If Graham thought she must stay here, then Crispin had to put her someplace where he could keep an eye on her. The only solution was one of the guest rooms on the same floor as the master chamber. And, if he had to, he would hang a bell above her door.

  Or around her lovely little neck.

  He eyed her now, taking note of the ruffled cap, the delicate design of her half-heart–shaped ears, and the one fiery lock of hair that rested over her brow. He itched to put it back in place, and if he had a free hand he just might take the opportunity to do so. But that was an impulse better left alone. Because, if he decided to give in to one impulse, then he might give in to another and another, and each more dangerous than the next.

  With that thought in mind, he carried her out of the donjon.

  Forced to adjust his hold in order to traverse the narrow staircase, he angled her, cradling her head into the curve of his throat, shielding her from the wall. With her body curled closer, it was impossible for him to be unaware of the fact that she wore no corset and no stockings. In fact, it was entirely likely that she had on nothing more than this dress.

  Given the circumstances, a swell of lust was bloody inappropriate, not to mention unacceptable. He swallowed, steeling himself against the way his blood quickened.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Mrs. Hemple rushed up to him, Sybil close behind and worrying her bottom lip as she stared at Jacinda.

  “I summoned Dr. Graham, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said. “And I have a chamber all prepared for your guest. My, but she is lovely, isn’t she?”

  In front of Sybil, Crispin refrained from reminding Mrs. Hemple that Miss Bourne was not a guest, but an intruder. His housekeeper hurried down the hall, her steps efficient enough that he never had to slow his stride. Yet as they passed door after door of the guest chambers, turning down corridors that he would normally take to his own suite of rooms, he was suddenly wary.

  “Mrs. Hemple, where precisely is this guest chamber you’ve prepared?”

  “You see, sir, the storm has become a problem. There are now leaks in every chamber save for the one Dr. Graham will occupy. In addition, the rose room has a loose stone in the fireplace, and the jonquil room has a cracked windowpane. And even when the storm recedes,” she went on quickly, “we’ll have the drafts to contend with—hardly the environment for an ill woman just washed up from the sea.”

  Ahead, the corridor ended, but first widened to accommodate a broad, wooden staircase, leading to a private solar. Across the expanse of polished flooring, strewn with blue and gold runners, were two doors, standing on opposite sides. His own chamber was to the right, and to the left . . .

  “This is the duchess’s bedchamber,” he said to Mrs. Hemple as she disappeared into that very room. A glance over his shoulder proved that Sybil was still with them. Her pale gray gaze darted from him to Jacinda, a dreamy, hopeful expression lifting her cheeks.

  No. No. No. This would no
t do.

  Without a word to his sister, he lingered just outside the door. “Mrs. Hemple, this is highly inappropriate. I have already explained that I am not going to marry Miss Bourne.”

  At his declaration, the woman in question stirred in his arms—the barest tremble—before she burrowed closer. Instinct taking over, he stepped beyond the threshold and crossed the room. Laying her on the bed, where the thick coverlet had already been turned down, he rested her head on the pillow.

  When he tried to slip his arms free, Jacinda frowned and gave a soft mewl of distress, her body twisting to get near him. His hold tightened and a soothing shh . . . shh left him. He wasn’t sure which disturbed him more—his automatic desire to comfort her, or the fact that the gesture mollified him as well.

  “She requires another coverlet,” he said briskly, needing to release her. “Sybil, fetch the one from my chamber.”

  Later, he would explain to her that Miss Bourne was only going to remain here long enough to recuperate. He did not want his sister to form any attachment to his unwanted trespasser or to seek her out during the interim.

  “And I’ll ready a warming pan,” Mrs. Hemple said, already sifting through the fire bed for the heated stones kept there for such a purpose.

  Looking down, he saw that Jacinda was wearing her wet boots. The leather was starting to dry and crack around the ankles, but the toes were still a glossy black. He reached out and adroitly worked the stiff lacings free, tugged gently, and let them fall to the floor. Her feet were pale and well formed, but the tips of her toes were waterlogged and bloated. Covering them in heavy silk, he curled his hand around one, and then the other, massaging blood and warmth into them.

  Mrs. Hemple rushed over with the warming pan. And as he slid free, settling Jacinda into a downy, silken nest, he made one egregious error.

  He tucked that auburn lock beneath her cap.

  Chapter 11

  “. . . and when they did meet, his grave looks shewed that she was not forgiven.”