How to Forget a Duke Page 21

  “I should love to read such a book.” But when the words left her lips, a cold, wistful sensation crossed over her like a cloud passing in front of the sun. Her time at Rydstrom Hall would surely not last long enough to fill the pages of a book. Soon, she would be leaving the only home she knew and venturing back to the one she couldn’t remember. “Will you promise to write it?”

  Sybil, already scribbling on a second sheet of paper, nodded absently. Which was lucky for Jacinda because she didn’t have to worry about hiding the moisture collecting in her eyes.

  Thoughts adrift, she stared out the window and leaned closer to cement this view in her mind, of the chalk white cottages in the distance, the winding path up the hill toward the castle, the slate roof over the gatehouse, and . . . Wait a moment. Was that a carriage waiting just outside Rydstrom Hall?

  Leaving Sybil to her story, Jacinda rushed back through corridors and downstairs, curious to see who had come to visit Rydstrom. Yet as she left the first corridor, it occurred to her that the carriage may not have been waiting for someone who had arrived, but for one who was leaving, instead. Consequently, her steps slowed as she considered the consequences of her actions early this morning.

  Had she gone too far and Rydstrom was now sending her away? Or had her uncle written, demanding her return? Or perhaps her uncle was inside the carriage.

  Then again, it might very well be a visitor for Rydstrom. A friend from London, perhaps. Or even—she swallowed—an heiress.

  Gripping the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, she stared into the yawning mouth of the arched corridor that led to the gatehouse. A peculiar and seemingly foreign wave of trepidation dampened her ever-present curiosity. Did she truly wish to know what lay ahead of her?

  Regrettably, the answer was still yes. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more she had to find out, even at the risk of her own heart.

  Heart?

  She balked at her own wayward thoughts. Her heart was not involved in this matter, or any other matters beneath the roofs of Rydstrom Hall. And whenever her memory returned, she would do well to remember that.

  One at a time, her fingertips released the carved finial as her feet moved forward, taking her down the corridor. But when she reached the threshold to the gatehouse, she stopped cold.

  Her inquisitiveness had led her astray.

  At the far end, Jacinda saw the duke standing with a woman, her head tilted back to gaze up at him, and likely adoringly. Though, from Jacinda’s vantage point, she could not see the woman’s face, only the top of a straw bonnet, tied with a brown ribbon beneath her chin. What she did see, however, was Rydstrom.

  Jacinda marveled at the tender concern softening the hard lines of his features. Gone was the fierce glower. There was no arrogant ghostly smirk on his lips either. No jagged vein rising from beneath his forehead. No clenched jaw. In fact, his countenance expressed wholehearted welcome to this woman.

  Clearly, there was an attachment between them. Perhaps, an understanding as well. The thought made her stomach crumple like paper, twisting and tightening into a hard ball.

  She pressed a hand to her middle, not knowing why she had this strange reaction. What did it matter to her if he’d found a bride—an heiress? Nothing at all. In fact, she might even pen a condolence card to the woman, if they ever met.

  And yet, Jacinda did not want to meet her. Not one bit.

  Curiosity did not propel her forward this time. She wanted to know as little about this woman as possible.

  It made no sense. After all, since Jacinda’s entire world consisted of very few acquaintances, she should want to make as many new ones as she could.

  She frowned, puzzled by this melancholic sensation. Then turning around, she began to step away but hesitated for an instant, wanting one last look at the pair.

  Yet that was another mistake.

  The woman disappeared into the sunlight streaming in through the open door, and when it closed with a heavy thunk behind her, the duke was left alone beneath the arch.

  Then he turned and looked directly at Jacinda.

  Their startled gazes collided. Even in partial shadow, she saw the way his brow instantly knitted above the bridge of his nose. His glower was back.

  Disheartened and irritated, she pivoted on her heel and strode briskly down the corridor.

  “Miss Bourne,” he called out, his gruff voice echoing around her, his purposeful hard steps not far behind.

  Her pace quickened to the speed of a skater over ice, too fast for the heels of her slippers to touch the stone floor. Just ahead, the open doorway of the library cast a haven of rectangular light into the corridor.

  Rushing inside, she snatched a book from the shelf and he charged in right behind her. She averted her face, lips parted, panting, and acted as though she were gathering a collection to peruse at her leisure. Never mind the fact that her heart was hammering so hard beneath her breast that it just might crack through the cage of her ribs.

  “You heard me call your name just now.”

  Jacinda glanced over and saw that crooked vein on his forehead. “Did you? Hmm . . . I must have been preoccupied.”

  Pivoting slightly, she added another book to the ever-increasing stack in her arms. She knew it was silly to pretend that they hadn’t just played a game of cat and mouse down the corridor, but complete denial was the only thing she could think to do.

  “You know very well I saw you in the hall,” he growled, taking three hard-footed strides to her side. “We looked directly at one another before you scampered off in a great rush.”

  “Surely it is not a crime to be in a hurry. Then again, perhaps you are more of a dawdler. I myself find that, if I have someplace to be, I should like to get there with haste.”

  “Must every conversation with you become an inquisition and evasion?”

  When he expelled a patently frustrated breath, the corner of her mouth twitched, tugging her flesh into a smirk. She took odd pleasure in his exasperation. “If you would stop the inquisition, then I would certainly stop the evasion.”

  “No. No. I am not at fault. You were born with a forked tongue and an inability to utter a syllable of truth.” Reaching out, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him, his glower fiercer than ever. “The reason for my pursuit in the corridor was because I noticed an alteration in your features. You appeared to be confused or perhaps troubled. Tell me, have you regained your memory?”

  Was that why he’d chased her—to find out if she was well enough to be rid of her for good?

  Jacinda held tight to her pile of books. “What a fanciful imagination you have. I might have been distracted because I was looking for Dr. Graham, but hardly troubled. And I left because, when I saw you involved in a romantic interlude with that woman, it would have been rude to interrupt.”

  “That woman?”

  “Surely you still remember her,” she said with a hollow laugh, ignoring the fact that he was still grasping her shoulders, his touch giving more warmth than his stern expression. “After all, you were standing close enough to catalogue every single one of her eyelashes.”

  When the furrows disappeared from his brow and the corners of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly, she regretted the waspishness in her tone. Now he had reason to laugh at her.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “You saw me at the door with another woman—with Fellows standing not two feet away, mind you—and assumed I was engaged in a . . . romantic interlude. And that was why you ran away?”

  She shrugged out of his hold and began cramming the books back on the shelves. When she thought it would have been nice to receive a different expression from him, she had not wanted mockery.

  Correction—she did not want anything from him other than information that would help her retrieve her memories. Not a single thing.

  “Whatever you do in full view of your servants is none of my concern. Furthermore, I did not run. I merely decided to look for Dr. Graham elsewhere
and walked down the corridor at my usual pace.” She shoved the last book onto the shelf, fully intending to storm out of the room. Yet just when she thought that was all she had to say, apparently, she wasn’t finished. “And how dare you kiss me—even if it was only to prove a point—when your lips belong to another. I thought you were looking for a bride, not that you’d found her.”

  He studied her for a moment, his expression no longer amused at her expense, but thoughtful. “For your information, my valet has arrived from London. As for that woman—as you refer to her—she shared the coach with him.”

  She expelled a breath. “Oh.”

  Surely an heiress would never share a coach with a valet. She would have her own conveyance, and likely another for her servants.

  Rydstrom stepped closer, the timbre of his voice lower and hushed, a far too perceptive intensity darkening his eyes. She wished she hadn’t put down the book because she felt bare, exposed without it.

  “Though, even if I were going to marry her, or anyone else, you have no grounds for being jealous. There is nothing between you and me, but this mutual”—lifting a hand, he brushed a lock of hair away from her forehead—“animosity.”

  A current of warmth showered through her, bathing her in tingles from head to toe. And it took all her strength not to close her eyes from the pleasure of his brief touch.

  “I was not jealous.” She kept her gaze steady, locked with his, hoping that he couldn’t hear the wild pounding of her heart that would reveal this lie. “And you are absolutely correct—there is nothing between us, Rydstrom.”

  Chapter 20

  “This is an attachment which a woman may well feel pride in creating.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  “I have not seen that dress before,” Jacinda said about the pale celadon frock draped over the foot of the bed, before realizing how silly that sounded under the circumstances. The number of things she did not recall seeing was as numerous as the grains of sand upon the beach below the cliffs. “What I mean is that I wasn’t aware I’d packed another in the satchel you brought.”

  “I’m told it is one of yours, miss,” Lucy said. “Though, according to Mrs. Hemple, His Grace’s valet brought it all the way from London. The maids are all talking about how romantic it is.”

  “Pray tell, how is this romantic?”

  Lucy blinked, pursing her lips as if Jacinda were a simpleton who could not understand that one plus one equaled two. “If His Grace’s valet brought it, then it’s the same as if His Grace hand delivered it himself. Your families must be well acquainted.”

  “Perhaps . . .” Jacinda said for lack of a better response. She still did not see the logic in her maid’s argument.

  This morning, her mood was very like the tea in her cup, cold and bitter. The few sips she’d swallowed churned restlessly in her stomach, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten much at dinner last evening. But that was Rydstrom’s fault.

  Throughout the entire meal, he’d worn that impossible glower. He’d set that hard look on everything he gazed upon, from his plate to his silverware, and to the torches and tapestries on the wall.

  In fact, the only object or person who’d escaped his disapproval was Jacinda. And that was because he’d never once looked at her. Not even when Dr. Graham had reported that—along with the discovery that Jacinda could speak and read French—she also knew Latin, Greek, and German.

  While she’d been rather impressed with herself, Rydstrom’s response was quite the opposite.

  “I’m not the least bit surprised,” he’d said, his focus on the far wall, his hand gripping the stem of his goblet. “Such a talent would be an asset to one with Miss Bourne’s particular . . . skills. In fact, I shouldn’t wonder if she’d have deciphered the Rosetta stone before Champollion could, if given the chance.”

  Gruffly spoken, it had not sounded like a compliment.

  And in the light of day, Jacinda still didn’t know why he’d become so surly since their last encounter in the library. If anyone deserved to be cross, it was she.

  She’d reached her limit of questions inside her head—who she was, why she was here, why Rydstrom was so changeable around her—and one more would surely make her gray matter explode.

  Even now, her headache reared. Pressing her fingertips to her temple, she felt the tender scrapes covered with fine striations of healing skin beneath the light application of salve. Soon there would be nothing left of her injury. At least, on the outside. She still did not know how long it would be until—or if—the one inside healed.

  “Your family sent this dress, a fresh petticoat, chemise, stockings, and a pair of slippers,” Lucy stated as she laid the items out across the coverlet.

  Grateful for the interruption, Jacinda set her musings aside to mull over at another time.

  She focused on the garments spread out over the counterpane. Obviously, her uncle was a kind man, and quite thoughtful, too. A fresh addition to her wardrobe, giving her a three-day rotation in dress instead of two, was most welcome.

  “They sent this as well,” Lucy said, placing a scarf bundle on the coverlet. “Forgive me, miss, but earlier I noticed that there is a box inside.”

  Curious, Jacinda unwrapped the cream-colored scarf embroidered with little sheaves of wheat that matched the russet trim on the dress. Within the folds, she found an ornate wood box with an inlay of gold in a starburst pattern. The small irregular impressions on the surface indicated that it was not new, but still lovely and she surmised that it was sent for a sentimental purpose.

  Perhaps her uncle wanted to aid her in recalling a memory of it.

  Picking the box up in her hands, her fingertips skimmed over the silkiness of the finish as if it had been held often. Inhaling, she caught the sweet scent of liniment polish, reminiscent of beeswax and turpentine. But she remembered nothing. Tiny brass hinges on one side told her that it was meant to open in some way, yet there didn’t seem to be a latch, or a key for that matter.

  A puzzle box, then. Splendid. She did not have nearly enough to decipher already.

  Grumbling, she decided that she needed a pleasant distraction this morning. Perhaps she would breakfast with Sybil and see how her book was coming along.

  After donning the new-to-her dress, Jacinda wended her way up the stairs. Though, distracted by her thoughts, she forgot to be stealthy. She was creaking along the corridor without a care when suddenly she caught sight of Rydstrom.

  Jacinda sucked in a quick breath and pressed her back against the wall. But in such a narrow corridor he would surely see her. Fortunately, he was turned away, the broad expanse of his shoulders taking up much of the doorway, leading into the donjon.

  She was just about to sneak off when she witnessed something that startled her into stillness—Rydstrom ruffling a hand through Sybil’s curls, the huffed, wheezing sound of her laugh, and her willowy arms slipping around his waist.

  “Absolutely pitiful excuse for a paper boat. Why this looks more like an elephant,” he said with a laugh, a deep throaty sound.

  Here again was another example of how different he was with everyone other than Jacinda. What would it be like if he were equally at ease with her, not tense and glowering?

  A foolish wish, she thought, feeling a telltale sting along the lower rims of her eyes. If she had not known before just how unwelcome and isolated she was in Rydstrom Hall, she certainly felt it now.

  This realization caused a fast, one-blink deluge, to spill hotly down her cheeks. And while brief, it seemed to expand the hollowness that had not only stolen her memories, but now a few beats of her heart as well.

  Hating herself for this bout of self-pity, she dragged her fingertips over her cheeks and wiped the dampness on the pleats of pale green muslin.

  “Here,” he said to Sybil, that hearty gladness still ringing in his tone, “I will show you how to make a proper sailing vessel.”

  So enthralled by this other side of him, Jacinda took a step forward as if to follow
him into the room and see the boat for herself. But when the floor creaked beneath her foot, she lifted it quickly and slipped back into the staircase.

  At that precise instant, Mrs. Hemple was coming up the stairs with a tray.

  Panicked, Jacinda stared at the housekeeper and lifted a fingertip to her lips. Face white, Mrs. Hemple looked to the open doorway as the sound of the duke’s voice and a heavy footfall came near.

  “Mrs. Hemple, was that you I heard in the hall?”

  Jacinda swallowed, pressing herself against the wall of the stairway, just behind the door. She shook her head, imploring the housekeeper not to reveal her presence.

  Mrs. Hemple drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “It was, Your Grace. I had to retrieve a fallen napkin from the tray. But all is well, now.” Then, without another glance, she passed Jacinda on the stairs and stepped into the corridor. “Mrs. Limpin prepared a fine feast this morning, sir. Sure to please even Sybil’s finicky palate. In fact, I believe I spied a honey-glazed bun underneath the dome.”

  The announcement was met with the rapid clapping of dainty hands.

  “Then the boat will have to wait until after we break our fast, I suppose. No? Very well, I’ll make it now, but I doubt I’ll find a single place to fold it as there are sketches and papers strewn about,” he said with a gentle reproof and teasing chuckle. “See here, when did you become so untidy?”

  “She’s begun writing a book, sir,” Mrs. Hemple said, her tone filled with pride. “Five pages complete already.”

  “A fine start, and I am curious, indeed. What is the book about?” There was a pause and the sound of a scratching nib over paper. “‘An epistolary novel about a quiet young girl who lives in a castle.’ Ah. The makings of a fine tale, to be sure. And I imagine that the narrator of such would have a great deal to impart.”

  It made perfect sense to Jacinda that Sybil, more than anyone, should have enough words trapped inside her to fill dozens of books, if only to have someone finally hear her voice. When Rydstrom did not reply, and the sounds from that room gradually fell silent, Jacinda wondered if he was thinking the same thing.