How to Forget a Duke Read online

  He groaned again, a spike of sheer pleasure bolting through him, sending another pulsing surge to his cock. Through pleats of muslin, he gripped her slender hips and rocked her against his aching flesh.

  “Crispin,” she gasped, her back arching.

  He released her breast, panting, “You . . . shouldn’t . . . call me that.”

  It was too dangerous. Hearing his name on her lips made him lose all reason. He should tell her, but he couldn’t form words. All he could do was fasten his mouth on her other breast and think about how good it would feel to be inside her, enveloped in the tormenting heat of her with nothing between them but a fine sheen of perspiration.

  He still thought he could stop, still thought he had control. This was just one prolonged taste. Then she said his name again, taunting him, the sound of it unleashing tumultuous chaos inside him.

  He tried to slow them both, but the firm press of their bodies and long, leisurely slide only intensified the pleasure. They were both too greedy, too wanton. And too far gone.

  Her hips hitched forward in a telltale sign of her approaching paroxysm. Clutching her, he rolled her heated core against his length in a rhythm that matched the luxurious, unending pulls of his tongue. A choked cry stuttered out of her as her body quaked, her fingers gripping him as if she would never let him go. And he was helpless against the quickening of his own need, the rapid grinds of her hips against his long-denied flesh, and that final surge that caused him to convulse in thick, voluptuous pulses—completely, irrevocably unmanning him. In his trousers.

  She collapsed on top of him, her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder and neck. “My heart . . . It’s racing. Do you feel it?”

  She was out of breath. So was he. Wrapping his arms around her to hold her close, he flopped his head back against the curve of the sofa, entirely undone. “Yes, I do.”

  “I feel quite sleepy all of a sudden.”

  He skimmed his hands over her back in an aimless caress that pleased him more than it should. Likely he should feel embarrassed or even the smallest trace of guilt over what he’d done, and how he’d taken more than just one taste.

  But he couldn’t summon either of those emotions. “Then rest here for just a moment.”

  “You don’t mind that I am not on my cushion?”

  He could hear the smile in her voice. “No, imp. We are both in the middle, where we belong.”

  And in the morning, he would likely regret saying those last words. But for now, he was supremely content to have her sprawled over him.

  Chapter 24

  “Your time has been properly and delicately spent, if you have been endeavoring for the last four years to bring about this marriage. A worthy employment for a young lady’s mind!”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Crispin awoke shortly after dawn, slumber still clinging to his brain and making him slow to open his eyes. He didn’t truly want to rouse for the day. He’d rather continue the dream he was having, an unbelievably erotic scenario about Jacinda invading his study and making him lose all sense.

  The dream had been so real that he could still taste her on his tongue, and smell her scent in the air. A dangerous dream, to be sure, but one he would not mind repeating. Especially because he hadn’t slept this soundly in years.

  Drowsily, he scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling a growth of whiskers scrape his palm and a grin on his lips. Though, hearing the footsteps of servants, the hushed voices, and the occasional clang of an ash pail, he knew he could not indulge in sleep any longer.

  Opening his eyes, he was somewhat disoriented not to find his gray velvet bed curtains around him. He blinked and saw that he was in the study, instead, and lounging on his sofa. That was . . . odd.

  Then suddenly, his pulse started to accelerate, sending blood to his brain to clear away any cobwebs. And that was when he sat up with a jolt and saw a cream-colored shawl draped over him.

  Damn. It wasn’t a dream at all, was it?

  He darted a glance around the room, half expecting to find Jacinda still here. But then he remembered the sweet kiss she’d pressed to his lips sometime in the middle of the night and her whispered wish for him to have pleasant dreams.

  He might very well still be in one because, at the moment, he felt like laughing. Not in a “Ho, ho, this is terribly amusing” sort of way, but more in a “what in the bloody hell have I done?”

  Yet he knew what he had done, and quite honestly, he had thoroughly enjoyed every single heated moment. Worse, he knew that, given the same conditions, he would do it again.

  What kind of man did that make him? After four years of abstinence that served as a self-imposed punishment for the life he’d led and the lives he’d failed, he suddenly thought it was acceptable to indulge in an evening of pleasure with the virgin debutante beneath his roof?

  He looked down at the shawl, and felt a stab of tenderness for the wearer. Jacinda was not just any young woman living beneath his roof. He was drawn to her in a way that neither sanity nor rational thought could explain. And if he were a man who did not live in a crumbling castle and had ample funds to ensure the happy life his sister deserved, then he might take time to examine his feelings.

  Under the circumstances, however, such an undertaking was pointless. Because no matter how he felt about her, duty demanded that he marry an heiress.

  Still, he would need to talk to Jacinda and explain how this rash moment changed nothing between them.

  In other words, he would have to lie to her.

  By the time Crispin washed and donned the fresh clothes his valet pressed for him, he knew precisely what to say to Jacinda. But he wasn’t in a rush to do so.

  He would wait for the opportunity to present itself. Besides, he didn’t expect her to be awake this early and, more important, if he saw her too soon after the dream—that wasn’t a dream—he wasn’t certain what would happen. She might smile at him and call him by his given name and he might be tempted to scold her fondly and kiss her again. Which was certainly not the best way to begin telling a woman that he wasn’t going to marry her.

  Therefore, he decided to keep to his usual morning routine, stopping first to speak with Fellows.

  Reaching the gatehouse, he instantly noticed dozens of trunks, bags, and hatboxes cluttering the expanse of flagstone. “Fellows, what are these—”

  “Good day, nephew.”

  Crispin lurched to a halt, his gaze darting to the person standing beneath the stone archway. “Aunt Hortense. Wh-what are you doing here?”

  She did not answer, but speared him with the same steely gray glare that had always held the power to read every transgression he’d ever committed throughout his life. Or, at least, it seemed to. A willowy woman with the Montague height, she possessed a regal bearing, in addition to a long, angular face, pale complexion, and most especially, marked disapproval in the constant pursing of her lips.

  “Your Grace, Lady Hortense has arrived,” Fellows said needlessly, rushing forward. Clearly unsettled, he passed a handkerchief over his perspiring pate then lowered his voice to continue. “And her carriage is loaded with a great many trunks. A great many, indeed.”

  Even now, more of those trunks were being carried in by his footmen.

  And while he watched, Crispin still could not move forward. This was like a scene summoned from his nightmare. Quite ironic considering how he’d woken in a lovely dream. Now it felt like someone had thrown a pail of February seawater on him and a shiver coursed through him from nape to knees.

  “I assume,” Aunt Hortense said in her rounded tone of superiority, “you will need to air my chambers before my maid can unpack?”

  Her chambers. He thought of the mural of her younger self, the dust sheet he’d tacked over it, and the likelihood that she would want to remove it. But, of course, she would. His aunt was particular about her apartments, among other things.

  He thought of Sybil, who was upstairs and likely waiting to break her fast with him as the
y always did. Sybil, who was the very image of Aunt Hortense as a child. Sybil, who was wholly innocent but would pay for the sin of their father for the rest of her life if his unforgiving aunt Hortense ever discovered who she was.

  He also thought of Jacinda and the host of transgressions he’d committed last night. He still needed time to speak with her, but that commodity was scarce at the moment.

  “If you’ll permit me, sir,” Fellows interjected with a pointed glance upward, “Shall I see to all of the arrangements and ensure that you and your aunt are at leisure to visit for the next . . . hour?”

  Crispin nodded curtly, knowing that Fellows would relay the information to Mrs. Hemple.

  Now he had an hour to figure out what he was going to do with all this confounding chaos. Stepping into the room, his booted footfalls echoed with dread. “Had I known of your visit, I could have done so ahead of time to better suit you.”

  His aunt bristled, her shoulders stiff, chin high. “I should hope that I would be welcome in my own apartments. After all, it was my husband’s money that built them.”

  It was true. Crispin’s grandfather had added an entire east wing after arranging Hortense’s marriage to a wealthy privateer. Then when Father had succeeded to the title, he’d always kept the rooms for Hortense. She’d stayed in the castle for months at a time. And throughout many years of Crispin’s childhood, she’d been both his companion and tutor, teaching him about their ancestors. But whatever bond they’d once shared changed four years ago.

  Since Crispin had become the reigning Rydstrom, she’d never once lived here. And the reason was because she blamed him for her brother’s death.

  “This is your home, as it has always been,” he said with a convincing amount of feeling. He hoped. Then, like a dutiful nephew, he offered his arm and led her to a small sitting room that hosted a pair of yellow, striped chairs, a briny breeze seeping in through the warped window casing. “Though, just out of curiosity, how long do you plan to stay?”

  She slid him another look of disapproval, back straight as a broadsword. “When I received your letter about Miss Bourne’s accident, I knew she would need a chaperone. Otherwise, you may well end up being forced to marry her.”

  There it was again—the same topic that had beleaguered him ever since Jacinda had washed up in Whitcrest. Strangely, the mention didn’t irritate him as it had before. Though the likely reason was because he had a host of other things on his mind. “As I mentioned in the letter, Dr. Graham is staying here, in addition to a host of servants.”

  “All of whom are employed by you. If word got out that you had Miss Bourne alone, under this roof, far away from civilized society, the scandal would be nothing short of monumental.”

  Hearing that his aunt was only concerned about a potential scandal, he felt prickles of irritation crawl over his skin. “And yet here it is, a week after I sent the letter regarding her condition, but only now do you find it necessary to act as chaperone.”

  Aunt Hortense sniffed. “The Duchess of Holliford recently brought it to my attention that there may be those among the ton who might not believe a country doctor capable of ensuring your good name. Why, Miss Bourne is practically in service.”

  “Oddly enough, I seem to recall how you fully supported the Bourne Agency on the recommendation of the Duchess of Holliford. In fact, your selling point was that Viscount Eggleston and his nieces were all well-bred members of society.”

  “Well, yes,” she hemmed. “They are fine as business associates, but dear heavens I would not wish to be related to them. Their father, Lord Cartwright, has a terrible reputation. I do not even know how many illegitimate offspring he has.”

  “Miss Bourne and her sisters are legitimate,” Crispin enunciated, the mention of illegitimacy rubbing a frayed nerve.

  “Only by the skin of their teeth, much like your mother had been.” She cleared her throat and added an unfeeling, “Rest her poor soul.”

  Aunt Hortense never liked his mother, believing that Father could have done much better than marrying a woman who came from landed gentry. And yet, Crispin had always suspected there was something deeper that sparked the squabbles and bitterness between them.

  “What I cannot fathom is why Miss Bourne came here in the first place. For any well-bred woman to travel such a distance is unthinkable without a compelling reason. One would normally expect such behavior from a person misguided by her affections.”

  He laughed at the supposition. “Are you suggesting that Miss Bourne traveled to Whitcrest because she is in love with me? That notion is”—a wayward thrill raced through him, catching in his throat—“preposterous.”

  Hortense cast a shrewd, skeptical glance over him. “Of course, Lord Eggleston explained that it had something to do with his agency but did not have all the details.”

  “I can hardly enlighten you, nor can the young woman in question, due to her amnesia.” Crispin swallowed, the cording along his neck tightening. “It appears we are all at a loss.”

  * * *

  Jacinda was most certainly, most ardently, in love with the Duke of Rydstrom. Crispin, she thought with a sigh, her memory of last night as clear and bright as a bead of dew.

  And that kiss . . . Well, it was a good deal more than a kiss, wasn’t it? She grinned, feeling every bit the imp that he’d called her. Likely, she never should have allowed him to kiss her so . . . thoroughly. Even now a rush of heat consumed her as she reminisced on the wicked things he’d done with his mouth and hands.

  “Miss Bourne!” Lucy chirped excitedly from beyond the bed curtains, her shoes rustling hurriedly over the rugs. “Oh, Miss Bourne, how can you still be abed at a time like this, when the entire castle is talking about it!”

  Jacinda’s eyes sprang open. “The entire castle? But how did they find out?”

  She’d been so careful. She was sure no one had seen her leave the study last night.

  “It was obvious.”

  “It was?” Jacinda gulped, wondering if it was because she’d left her shawl behind. But she couldn’t have left Crispin there, sleeping so contentedly on the sofa with nothing to cover him. She’d even added a log to the fire before she’d left. But now, it seemed, that everyone knew about what they’d done in the study and—

  “When the carriage arrived, yes,” Lucy added, interrupting Jacinda’s thoughts and confusing her all at once.

  Carriage? “What are you talking about?”

  The maid threw open the bed curtains with a clatter, her freckles fairly dancing on her lifted cheeks. “Why, His Grace’s aunt, of course. And best of all, Lady Hortense has requested to see you straightaway. Everyone is chattering on about how her ladyship must have traveled all the way from London to give her blessing to her nephew. There can be no other explanation. Up, up, Miss Bourne. We must not dally, for I am told her ladyship does not like to be kept waiting.”

  Jacinda rose, part of her still dazedly content after last night, while skepticism filled the remaining parts. If Lady Hortense lived in London and was traveling last night, then there was no need to give her blessing because she could not have known about the kiss—or kisses, rather—between Jacinda and Crispin. And as for the excitement spreading through the castle, it seemed that it was all due to Lady Hortense’s arrival. Which meant that no one knew what happened in the study.

  A slow, relieved breath left her lungs. She didn’t want anyone to find out about it, because to her it was too wondrous and precious to share with anyone else. And even though her own heart had altered toward him, that did not mean his had altered toward her.

  Besides, she still had enough sense to remember that Crispin intended to marry an heiress. Not her.

  “There is no cause to be excited. I’m certain it is nothing more than a courtesy,” she said, unwilling to be swept up in Lucy’s romantic notions any more than she already had done. Thus far, the duke had given her no inclination that his feelings toward her were tender.

  And yet, Jacinda couldn�
�t seem to stop her blood from racing in her veins or the frantic, foolishly hopeful flutter of her pulse at her throat.

  A quarter hour later, she was sufficiently dressed, coiffed, and was standing at Lady Hortense’s door. Unlike Lucy, the dour maid who answered her knock did not appear to have any grand notions, romantic or otherwise, concerning Jacinda. Without a word, she escorted Jacinda through the slightly musty, gold chintz bedroom to the small inner door that lead to the vast dressing room that was as large as the duchess’s chamber.

  And seated in the corner, within the tufted depths of an enormous, throne-like, golden wingback chair was a silver-haired willowy woman in a pearl-hued morning gown, applying a balm to her elbows.

  Receiving a familiar disapproving glower, Jacinda knew this was Rydstrom’s aunt, and she curtsied. “Lady Hortense, I hope you are well this morning.”

  “Do you recognize me, child, or are you just being impertinent by speaking before you are addressed?”

  Jacinda rose, bristling. “I do not recall meeting you, no. As for the question regarding my impertinence, I’m not entirely sure, but I have a sense that I might be. Perhaps, like your nephew, you know my character better than I know it myself.”

  Lowering the lacy sleeves of her dressing gown, Lady Hortense regarded her coldly. “I know of you, child.”

  “And what you know of me is through my . . . uncle?” Jacinda asked, using the opportunity to gain as much information about herself as possible.

  After a moment of consideration, Lady Hortense inclined her head. “In a manner of speaking.”

  Humph. Jacinda grumbled. “I see that Dr. Graham has spoken to you about my memory.”

  A pair of thin, silver brows arched. “Are you not worried about the delicacy of your condition?”

  “Of course I am. I just hate the puzzle of it. Every moment is a riddle and I am standing before the Sphinx with no answers. It’s quite trying, your ladyship.”