How to Forget a Duke Page 2

  Jacinda scoffed, indignant. “Frankly, sir, I am offended that you think I deliberately deceived your staff. I am a professional, after all.”

  And as such, she had come in through the garden gate, as anyone could have done. Then, keeping out of sight, she’d skirted the corner to the small terrace, up the stairs and to a deep-set lacquered door. As was the custom at her family’s rented town house, the door had been propped open to let in the sweet, dew-scented morning air. It was almost as good as an invitation.

  To her credit, she’d never trespassed in her life. Well . . . not unless she counted the time when she happened upon a Cyrano de Bergerac costume, complete with plumed hat and a mask with a bulbous nose, hidden in the back of Uncle Ernest’s wardrobe. Or the time when she’d accidentally dislodged Ainsley’s diary from a hidden desk drawer, letting loose a collection of pressed flowers that had littered the floor (and if it weren’t for that errant bluebell sliver, she’d never have been caught). Then there was the time when—

  Hmm . . . perhaps she had trespassed a bit.

  “A professional busybody,” the duke said with fractious scorn. “Have you no shame, no thought of conscience for your machinations?”

  “Of course I have a conscience,” she said with unflinching certainty, hiking up her chin. “When the circumstance warrants such feelings, it is the first to rear at me. This morning, however, you are the only one rearing, which tells me that you are prone to exaggerated emotions. This is something I must note for your file. If you’ll excuse me.”

  Picking up her book from the desk, she held it against her like a shield. She had every intention of walking out the door. The only problem was, he was still blocking the way. Not only that, but she had his letter beneath her slipper. Bother.

  “I will not excuse you, Miss Bourne. You are trespassing in my home, disguised as a servant, and—”

  “Aren’t we all servants to one another, sir, each in our own way?” She’d heard these very words from the reverend this past Sunday.

  Fortunately, her impassioned piousness stopped whatever diatribe the duke had been proceeding to inflict upon her. However, unfortunately, it also made him take two hard steps toward her.

  The carpeted floor bumped beneath her feet, resonating a warning up her body. He is not one to trifle with, her inner voice of reason whispered. Jacinda did not doubt the truth of it for an instant.

  It was a shame that she had yet to heed the advice of that voice.

  Standing at the corner of the desk, he loomed over her, the scent of cedar rising from his clothes, his eyes turning dark as a forest at midnight. Indeed, he was a lean-bodied tree of a man, all shoulders, and arms as thick as branches. A jagged vein streaked across his forehead, looking like a gnarled twig beneath the surface of his skin. His nostrils flared as his mouth compressed into a firm white-edged line. “They say even the devil can quote scripture, and I imagine that applies to Sunday sermons as well.”

  Devil, indeed.

  The unfounded accusation caused his voice to drop lower, more vibration than words. Her skin reacted to it, drawing tight over her bones. The bare flesh below her sleeves felt like a freshly plucked goose as she rubbed her free hand over one arm. The heat he radiated did nothing to lessen this effect. In fact, the longer she stood in his proximity, the more she became aware of her skin and the fit of her clothes, especially how the fine cambric of her chemise seemed to have abraded her nipples until they were taut. She was even strangely conscious of her height and how—if she took a half step forward—her nose would touch the knot of his cravat. And if she were to tilt up, her lips would brush the shallow cleft in his chin.

  She swallowed down the thought and the startling impulse to verify this suspicion. “But what would the devil be doing in church?”

  This time, he was the one with a ready reply. “Sitting beside you.”

  He leaned toward her, and his hot breath drifted across her cheek, carrying the spiciness of a licorice lozenge as if he’d used aniseed tooth powder during his morning ablutions. The pleasing scent teased the glands at the back of her mouth where saliva pooled.

  Beneath her cap, she felt the first prickle of perspiration and a hank of hair fell over her brow. She left it there, worried that if she moved at all she might brush against him. And she didn’t know what would happen if they touched.

  For some reason, the notion caused a quiver to climb up her back, plucking each vertebra to the base of her skull and making her scalp tingle.

  Even though it was out of character for her to walk away without somehow gaining the upper hand, this time she felt it prudent to take a sideways step from him. Before she did, however, she slid the letter further beneath the desk, covering the scraping sound with a small cough. Then, sweeping that lock from her forehead, she looked from him to the door.

  Escape was so close she could almost feel the damp morning air upon her skin. “Clearly you are too ill-tempered to discuss business this morning, and therefore I will leave you to brood over your morning tea.”

  “You have stolen into my house like a common thief and under a wholly false pretense.” He laughed without humor, angling his body in a way that would allow him to reach out and take hold of her, if he so chose. “If I weren’t a gentleman, I would put you over my knee and teach you the lesson that you obviously require.”

  “I am three and twenty, sir, hardly a child.” He might have spared her the insult by threatening to call the guard, instead. Not that she wished for such. All the same, she stood her ground, straightening to her full—nose to his cravat—height.

  His eyes darkened, his hand closing into a fist at his side. “Your behavior proves otherwise with the way you run around bullying elderly solicitors and getting into mischief when your uncle’s back is turned.”

  “I’ll have you know that my uncle has no—” She stopped her rant, closing her mouth with a clack of teeth. Then, clearing her throat, she took another tactic, using what her governesses had often called her knack for dramatics. Lifting a timorous gaze, she continued. “My uncle is in poor health at the moment, and I fear that if he learned of this episode, he might decline further. He’s all the family my sisters and I have and we would be lost without him.”

  “Do not play the coquette with me. It is obvious that you are attempting to garner sympathy, casting a—likely false—woeful haze over your transgression. When, in fact, you are guilty of a crime.”

  Horrible man! Jacinda had never encountered someone so determined to point out this tiny, completely forgivable, act of trespassing. “How can you accuse me when I have not had the opportunity to state my business?”

  He drew in a breath that expanded his chest and created horizontal furrows in his cashmere waistcoat. “I am a patient man by nature, but you’ve managed to whittle that down to a splinter. Give me one reason why I should not cancel my subscription this instant.”

  Without missing a beat, she boldly said, “I came here with a question regarding your application. The only family we have listed for you is your aunt, and my uncle was wondering if you had anyone else.”

  Perhaps someone named Sybil?

  “I do not,” he said quickly. “Nor do I see that information as having any significance.”

  Of course he didn’t. All throughout the questions she’d posed upon their initial meeting, he’d made it patently clear that he saw little value in their process.

  Name: Crispin Montague, the fifth Duke of Rydstrom

  Age: 28

  Property: an estate in Sussex

  Income: £4,000 per annum (a total fabrication)

  Beliefs: refused to answer

  Interests: refused to answer

  Hiding her irritation, she offered an inconsequential shrug. “Some debutantes find large families appealing and therefore are more interested in the match.”

  This earned a lift of his brow, his glower vanishing. “Have you a list for me, then?”

  Oh, wasn’t he the ever-eager bridegroom? She might
have found it charming if he hadn’t blatantly proven that he didn’t care a whit for his bride—not her name, not her temperament, and certainly not her dreams. All he required was that a woman stood on the opposite side of the church aisle when he said his vows, effectively claiming her as his own.

  A strange sort of ripple rushed through her at the thought. She shook her head, ridding herself of it. “None yet, but soon. At least, now that I have verified the truth.”

  A short silence hung between them, one deceiver sizing up the other. His broad mouth, no longer compressed with censure, revealed that it canted slightly to one side, as if he were deciding whether to smirk at her or not.

  “The same truth that you have had all along,” he said in apparent disregard of his solicitor’s account and her knowledge of it. “That I require a wife and I employed your uncle’s agency to find me one.”

  “Yes, but you conveniently did not reveal your requirement for one with a large dowry.” Nothing vexed her more than a man who kept secrets, even small ones. “There was no reason to hide it. But by doing so, you might have cost my uncle a great deal of effort searching for a bride who complemented your character, and shared your interests and beliefs. It is better for him, at least, that I have discovered your deception.”

  The twig vein in his forehead reappeared. “I despise being called a liar. So be careful where you tread, Miss Bourne.”

  Unbelievable! “Are you still claiming to earn four thousand pounds per annum?” She knew it was rude to speak of money in the open, but the man incensed her.

  “I never said per annum—that was your assumption,” he said with a smug shake of his head. And before she could argue, he went on, looking down the straight ridge of his nose at her. “You asked how much I would earn this year. Since I plan to marry by year’s end, and subsequently receive a promised wedding gift from my aunt, that sum is what I shall have.”

  She often used the truth as a tactic as well and suspected he had purposely deceived her. Being unable to prove it, however, irritated her to no end. “If all you need is a wife—and likely a rich one at that—then why not simply take out an advertisement in the Post? Why bother with our agency at all?”

  She noted his hesitation and discomfort as he shifted from one foot to the other. Clearly, he was not a man used to explaining himself, or being challenged to do so. She assumed they’d reached the end of their encounter, but he surprised her once again.

  “Not that it is any of your concern,” he began, “but there are stipulations to my aunt’s gift. She requires approving of my bride. And with your reputation among the ton’s elite—in particular, with the Duchess of Holliford—my aunt hopes to eliminate any bride with ill-favored characteristics that could be passed on to my heirs.”

  “Yes. I’ve met your aunt,” Jacinda said with genuine empathy in her tone. “Lady Hortense has rather exacting standards.”

  The instant his aunt had walked through the door of the agency, she’d demanded a list of all first-class debutantes so that she could peruse them beforehand. Thankfully, Ainsley’s skillful ease with the clients had given the stern lady the comfort of knowing that all would be handled in due course.

  Lady Hortense was also a wealthy widow, and Jacinda couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t simply offered the duke money without the necessity for a bride.

  He acknowledged her statement with a stiff half nod. “Surely you can understand how a man of my rank in society would not wish to reveal every aspect of his personal affairs to a stranger.”

  Warmth rushed to her cheeks as a faint stirring of guilt returned. She was quick to tamp it down, however. After all, if she started to feel pangs of remorse for every person she investigated, the Bourne Matrimonial Agency would have no chance of survival. “If you had been forthcoming, I might never have been forced into action.”

  “Would that be the criminal action of trespassing or the elder-badgering of Mr. Burke?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him without responding, prepared to walk past him and to the door. And she might have a chance because, it seemed, his demeanor had altered. The barely tethered fury he’d emanated at first was now more blustered irritation and a grudging acceptance of events, as if they’d both come to an understanding of each other’s natures. He was faultily secretive, while she was plagued by righteous curiosity.

  All the same, she hoped he wouldn’t spot the letter beneath his desk until she was gone, and then think nothing of it.

  She nearly had her hand on the ivy embossed brass knob when—

  “What have you there?” He was behind her in an instant, an arm’s distance from placing his hand against the door, should he choose.

  Once more, her proximity to him was too close, her nerves running raw under the surface of her skin. She’d never suffered this sensation before. But standing near him, for reasons beyond her understanding, flustered her.

  Anxious, she wet her dry lips before lifting her head to meet his gaze. “My own book. I am not a thief.”

  With a frown, he glanced to her mouth as if expecting to find a lie lounging there, mocking him. “Then let me see it.”

  She didn’t want to. His borrowed card was tucked within the first pages. She knew, however, that refusing would only make her appear all the more culpable. Reluctantly, she handed it to him, hoping he would be satisfied with a look at the title.

  There was no reason for their fingers to touch. Her hand was much smaller and she purposely kept her grip to the bottom of the book, offering him the top. Instead, he took the volume from the middle, his long, tanned fingers splaying just enough to brush against the tips of hers.

  A jolt slid over her sensitized nerves, causing an unbidden shiver. He seemed to hesitate before withdrawing, as if the current passed between them, and they were both like helpless frogs pinned to a surgeon’s table for reanimation. Yet, his inscrutable expression revealed nothing, leaving her to wonder if he had, indeed, felt anything at all.

  She had the sense that he’d wanted to make a point—that he was in control. He was the man and she the woman. He was the master of the house, and she the trespasser. And if she wanted to leave, then he would be the one to allow it. Or not.

  Whatever his intention, she did not particularly like the way it kept those currents arcing through her, helpless to the effect he had on her.

  Taking the book in hand, he rubbed the broad pad of his thumb over the worn, gold embossed title. “Why did you carry this with you today?”

  “As I said, I came here on business and that book is something of our hallmark. If you’d read Miss Austen’s magnificent story about Miss Emma Woodhouse and her calling to become a matchmaker, you would understand.”

  “I have read it,” he said, amazing her. But when he continued, her shock quickly transformed to exasperation. “Though, I cannot say that it gives me any more faith in the Bourne Agency’s abilities than I would give Miss Woodhouse. She was a complete failure in her attempts.”

  Of course he would feel that way—he was a man, and men typically did not appreciate the nuances of a well-written, clever heroine. “My sisters carry their own volumes as well.”

  “Are they as meddlesome as you are?” The cant of his mouth—that almost smirk—returned, becoming more pronounced as he handed the book to her. This time, he left her room to grasp the book without a collision of fingers.

  She tugged it to her breast. “We each have individual accomplishments to best serve our agency. Of course, for a man who has no care for the type of bride he will wed, but only that marriage to her brings forth an income, I’m certain you would not understand.”

  “I did not realize matchmaking was a philanthropic endeavor for your family. I was under the assumption that it was a business, and therefore required paying clients. Now that I know differently, I shall rescind my subscription. I should rather hire an agency that is motivated by something other than foolish inclination.” He glanced down to her book.

  “We are the only age
ncy in London,” she corrected on a breath, feeling the weight of Emma upon her. “The matches we make are essential, offering the happiness that may have been otherwise unattainable for our clients.”

  “No. You help those who are willing to settle for anything and anyone,” he said with such conviction that it left no doubt he was including himself. “Does the Duchess of Holliford know that you scurry around, sneaking into homes under the guise of aiding your uncle?”

  For the first time, Jacinda felt true fear in a swift deluge of icy blood in her veins. The Duchess of Holliford was their benefactress, and the weight of her good name offered the Bourne sisters a degree of leniency when they assisted their uncle. Not only that, but Her Grace’s generosity was the only way they could afford to live in London at all. Uncle Ernest, though a kind and wonderful man, was a terrible money manager and had been forced to let his small estate in Hampshire. To lose the duchess’s support would make them homeless. “We are ever grateful for her patronage.”

  He took no apparent pleasure in the thready sound of her voice, but seemed to crowd closer to her without moving an inch. “You are fortunate that I have more of an immediate desire for a wife than I do to inform my aunt’s friend of your less than scrupulous practices.”

  “I’m afraid it is not that simple,” Jacinda croaked, that doggedness in her character unwilling to keep quiet. “It is a matter of personal pride that we only pair our clients with those best suited to them.”

  “Then find me a woman who only wants to be a duchess, and nothing more.” He offered half of a wry smile and the barest glimpse of straight white teeth.

  The sight of the tantalizing tilt of his full, flesh-toned lips caused her skin to heat and tingle as if she were slowly breaking out in hives. The sensation covered her from head to toe, tightening her flesh, prickling her scalp, much like the time she’d foraged for garland greenery, not realizing it was poison ivy.

  At the time, she’d been so agonizingly itchy that one might imagine her only memory of the event had left her with a supreme fear of feeling that way ever again. And yet, she couldn’t help but remember how intensely good it had felt to give in to one long, blissful scratching session.