How to Forget a Duke Read online

  So much had altered since he’d first stepped into the Bourne Agency. The traits she possessed that had once incensed him, he found that he admired. In fact, her sharp wit, courage, and doggedness appealed to him a great deal. “It isn’t right to use her.”

  “Use her.” Hortense scoffed, then narrowed her eyes at him. “You are sounding suspiciously soft. Do I have need to worry?”

  What, worry that he would forget that he needed money to repair the walls that surrounded him each day? Not likely. Or worry that Sybil would have the funds to live away from society’s scorn for the rest of her life? Never. And yet, for the first time in years, Rydstrom Hall felt like a prison to him once more.

  “Of course not. I know my duty.”

  Chapter 27

  “There is one thing, Emma, which a man can always do, if he chuses, and that is, his duty . . .”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  The following morning, Jacinda stood at the threshold of Lady Hortense’s gilded rooms, a sense of firm resolve straightening her backbone. “I cannot find a match for your nephew.”

  She’d thought about it all night and decided that she couldn’t endure the torment. Just seeing the names on the list that one time was enough to fill her with burning jealousy.

  Sitting at an ornate writing desk, Lady Hortense did not bother to lift her gaze up from the letter beneath her long-fingered hand and scratching quill. “Of course you can, Miss Bourne.”

  “The list you provided gives me no means of determining which woman would best complement your nephew’s character. Therefore—”

  “As I said before, such sentiment does not concern my nephew,” she interrupted, pausing long enough to dip her pen into the inkwell. “And since I have come to believe that this answer will likely not satisfy you to an acceptable degree, I will enlighten you further and tell you that my nephew learned that happiness in marriage is as fleeting as it is fruitless.”

  Jacinda wanted to disagree, knowing in her heart that happiness in marriage was the ideal state between husband and wife, but Lady Hortense continued.

  “While I stayed here, I saw my brother’s marriage failing each day. He and his wife argued incessantly about one topic or another. And it was no wonder. My brother’s wife was always preoccupied and melancholic, neglecting her duty as a mother, letting my nephew run wild enough to charge up a list of debts from clubs, shops, and gambling houses. In fact, from what I understand, they were arguing about this very thing out on the bluffs just before my brother . . . died.”

  Jacinda went still, her heart breaking for Crispin. She could not imagine the amount of guilt he must carry over this. Though, it seemed to explain so much about his nature, and how obsessed he was about keeping those beneath this roof safe. “How awful.”

  “Indeed,” Lady Hortense responded after a lengthy pause, her voice quiet and detached. Then, looking down at the ink pooling on the paper, she shook her head and the usual hauteur in her tone returned. “The financial strains were a constant source of my brother and his wife’s discontent, among other things. I, of course, assisted my brother with his own debts from time to time, purchasing some of the Montague landholdings to ensure they did not end up in a stranger’s hands, but I refused to pay my nephew’s arrears.”

  Jacinda frowned. Was Crispin a man who’d gambled so much that his father had been forced into poverty?

  This did not sound at all like the man she had come to know, who valued his home and the people who lived here. He would never have put them in jeopardy. “And His Grace’s debts were so extensive that your brother was willing to sell off part of his estate?”

  “In truth, those instances occurred before my nephew grew into an age to follow in his father’s footsteps.” Lady Hortense sniffed, a slight uncomfortable shift in her stiff posture. “However, my nephew caused his share of damage later on, and it is because his mother was too soft on him. He needed a firm hand to guide him, to live up to his duty, as every Montague ought. If I had been his mother—”

  “But you were not.” Jacinda’s temper flared. This cold woman wanted to cast the blame onto Crispin’s mother, when it was clear that the father had far more to do with the financial strains on the Rydstrom estate and providing an example for his son.

  “I am fully aware of that fact, Miss Bourne, as my own children did not survive infancy.” A taut, pained sigh escaped her. “That was the one thing I had in common with my brother’s wife. After my nephew, all the others were stillborn. For that, I did pity her. But she was weak, allowing those losses to make her lose sight of the healthy, bright child she had—the boy who needed firm guidance in order to become the man he is today.

  “And I am glad to say,” Lady Hortense continued, her voice warming, “that after four years under a stern hand of isolation, my nephew has run this estate without any assistance. He has proven himself worthy of the title he holds.”

  A slight shift in Lady Hortense’s demeanor caught Jacinda’s attention. Each time she mentioned her nephew, the light in her gray gaze softened, and her lips curved ever so slightly.

  “You care for him,” Jacinda said, working through the puzzle that Lady Hortense presented. And, perhaps, she’d even been jealous of Crispin’s mother.

  Without so much as a blink in Jacinda’s direction, the lady in question rose from the desk and walked through a white glazed archway that led to her sitting room. “Affection has little to do with it. We are family and that bond is unbreakable.”

  The woman was a contradiction of rigid censure and a guarded demeanor that, quite possibly, hid a wealth of tenderness for her nephew. And if the latter was true, Jacinda hoped it would aid Crispin in the future.

  Lady Hortense arranged herself on the edge of a gold chintz cushion and waved her hand in the general direction of the bellpull. “Ring for tea, if you please. I find that I am quite willing to tolerate your company for a short while longer.”

  High praise, indeed. Jacinda felt nearly dizzy from the whirlwind that was Lady Hortense as she crossed the room to pull the tasseled cord.

  Spotting a collection of miniatures on the wall, she paused to study them, and seeing one that looked very much like a younger version of Crispin, and with a decidedly rakish gleam in his eyes, she smiled. There was another one beside it that struck her with familiarity, a girl with ringlets and gray eyes that looked like Sybil, but only with a narrower face.

  But why would Lady Hortense possess a likeness of Crispin’s ward?

  Then slowly, those familiar prickles skittered down her spine as the kernel of a notion started to grow. “My lady, who is the girl in this portrait?”

  “The small one there? Why, that is of me, when I was a girl of thirteen. Even then, I had impeccable posture—the artist said as much. Thankfully, I’d packed a few of my own miniatures and brought them here, for it seems the ones that were in this room have gone missing.”

  Jacinda’s breath stalled in her throat. There was no reason why Sybil should look nearly identical to Lady Hortense, not unless . . . unless they were related somehow.

  Yet the lady herself stated only moments ago that her children had not survived.

  Suddenly, she recalled that Sybil had arrived four years ago, on the very day that Crispin’s parents died while they’d been, presumably, arguing about money on the cliffs.

  But what if it hadn’t been about money, after all?

  What if . . . Sybil was not Crispin’s ward? But his sister, instead.

  I have a responsibility to protect her, he’d said. She has already suffered enough for one lifetime.

  And all at once, Jacinda knew the truth.

  * * *

  “Is Sybil your father’s child?”

  Crispin looked up from his desk to see Jacinda striding into his study, and went numb from the top of his head all the way down to the soles of his feet. He couldn’t even feel the quill in his hand.

  “What . . . did you say?” he managed through the panic choking him. Then he shook his h
ead because he had heard her. He didn’t need her to repeat it. His gaze searched the empty doorway behind her, a swift pins and needles sensation sweeping through him as he forced himself to stand and he walked, wooden, to check for anyone lingering in the corridor. Empty.

  Closing the door, he pressed his forehead against it before facing her again. “Who have you told?”

  “I came to you first, of course.” A quick defensive frown drew her slender brows together. “Since I was just with your aunt, I did not want to reveal my suspicions that her brother had another child.”

  “Will you stop saying that! You cannot rush around the castle flinging accusations of this magnitude.”

  “But it’s true, isn’t it?”

  Breathing through his gritted teeth made it hard to catch his breath. Yet even when he relaxed his jaw, he still couldn’t. Reaching up, he pulled on his cravat, but it didn’t help either. It was happening—his worst fear coming to fruition.

  “You have overstepped again, Miss Bourne,” he rasped. Raking a hand through his hair, he glanced at his desk searching for order, rightness. Yet his ledger was off center, angled, a spill of ink staining the surface near the red discoloration from the smear of sealing wax that Jacinda had touched little more than a week ago. He had to look away, but then the pillows on the sofa drew his attention and only made him think of Jacinda and that night they’d spent in here. He couldn’t even look to the shelves without thinking of the way she’d moved his bookends.

  She’d disturbed every single part of his life, from the very beginning. He’d been a fool to forget the damage she could inflict. He’d let down his guard, instead of seeing to his duty.

  Heedless of the tenuous control he had over himself, she continued. “Sybil’s illegitimacy must surely be the reason you’ve been hiding the truth about her. Why? Because it would sully your father’s memory?”

  “Because society scorns children born on the wrong side of the blanket. Unless illegitimates possess great wealth, they are outcasts, living half lives and skirting scandal wherever they go. And Sybil deserves better.”

  “Is that also the reason you do not want your wife to live here?” She stepped toward him, crowding him with her questions.

  Over the past days, he’d forgotten how dangerous it was to have Jacinda here. His own blissful amnesia had allowed him to feel things that he’d never felt before. And he didn’t want her as the enemy. Or to only think of her in regard to the secret she discovered.

  Now he had so much more to lose than ever before. “Whispers travel great distances. I do not want Sybil to suffer any more than she already has done.”

  Jacinda reached out and curled her hand over his sleeve. “I do not think that shielding her, masquerading her as your ward, is the answer. Surely you saw the way she blossomed at the festival. In time, she will build on her own strength if you give her the chance.”

  “You have known her for only a few days,” he chided, shrugging free of her and pointing to a place beyond the wall, where his most painful memory still lingered. “I have known her since the day she first walked through the door and asked to see her father—our father. Therefore, I believe I know her better than you do. In addition, I am a far superior judge of seeing after her welfare than a young woman who carelessly traveled here from London and put her own life in danger just to expose a secret!”

  Jacinda went still. “Is that the . . . reason I came to Rydstrom Hall?”

  He gave her a curt nod.

  She winced, her skin fading to that frightening white, her colorless lips parting on a shallow breath. “And all this time . . . you’ve been protecting Sybil . . . from me?”

  “Yes, Miss Bourne.” The instant the words left him, he wanted to haul them back. He shouldn’t have spoken with such vehemence. The fury he’d once felt for her was no longer inside of him. This was only panic, not anger or even blame.

  She staggered back, her brow furrowed, her gaze shooting to the door. “What kind of person am I for you to feel that I am capable of—” She shook her head. “No. Please do not answer that. I believe I already know.”

  Without another word, she flung open the door and rushed out of the room.

  But her absence brought Crispin no peace. He paced the study, feeling caged. The knot of tension that usually resided at the back of his neck now settled coldly in the pit of his stomach.

  Regret. He knew the feeling of it all too well.

  He wanted to call her back, explain his worries, share his every thought, the same way he’d been tempted to do when they’d sat together during the storm, and every moment they’d spent together since.

  Yet those ideas brought a new wave of panic as that unnamed emotion that had been with him for days suddenly came forth.

  Damn it all.

  He cared for Jacinda. Hell, it was more than that and he knew it.

  Was this love? No. Surely not. Crispin raked a hand through his hair again. Clearly, he’d been spending too much time in her company, his thoughts constantly distracted by when he would see her again, hear her laugh, and talk to her. His arms felt empty without her. The air stale without her fragrance. He couldn’t even eat his dinner without wanting to catch her impish smirk as she looked at his plate. This was madness, not love.

  But it was love.

  How had she done this to him? How had she infiltrated his life so completely that he could no longer imagine it without her?

  Tenacity. Her sheer, unrepentant tenacity was the answer. And it filled every drop of blood and every breath in her body.

  Before he knew what he was doing, he strode out of the room. First, he went up to her bedchamber, but found she wasn’t there. Then thinking he would find her in the library, he descended the stairs. But she wasn’t there either. Sybil, he thought. Jacinda was likely with her in the donjon.

  “Your Grace,” Fellows called, catching Crispin at a near run down the corridor, heading toward the stairs once more.

  He slowed only enough to call over his shoulder, “Unless it is a crisis, I have an urgent errand.”

  It was vital for him to find Jacinda and tell her that he’d fallen in love with her. A shout of laughter escaped him. Yes, this was madness!

  “Of course, sir. I was only concerned about the storm that’s arrived, you see. Mrs. Hemple is with Sybil, but Miss Bourne went out of doors a short while ago and has not returned yet.”

  Crispin stopped. In that exact instant, a growl of thunder vibrated the floor at his feet. The eerie sound flooded him with the memory of four years ago. He’d been in this exact spot when the cliff face had sheared off and dropped into the sea.

  A terror, stronger than he’d ever known, sent his feet flying back down the corridor, through the gatehouse and out into the storm.

  Chapter 28

  “. . . if a woman doubts as to whether she should accept a man or not, she certainly ought to refuse him.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Jacinda ran out the door, wishing to escape what she now knew. She was a horrible person. The type of person that a man like Rydstrom wanted to keep far away from the people he cared for.

  How could she have been so blind that she hadn’t seen it? Crispin had never wanted her here. And suddenly she was glad she didn’t have a memory of who she was. She never wanted to remember that person either.

  The rain came down in hard, icy needles, pelting her cheeks and soaking her dress as she dashed through the gardens of the upper bailey. She took a set of stone stairs without knowing where they led, but when she saw the cliffs, she veered toward them.

  Pointlessly, she wiped away the tears that stung her eyes as she stopped to look out at the dark, roiling sea. Tucked in her bodice, she felt the scratch of the leather knot that tied the pouch of her wishing stone. She’d kept it with her ever since the Spring Festival for an idiotic reason—a wish that Rydstrom would no longer need an heiress.

  Drawing it out, she poured the pebble into the cup of her hand. It was only an ordinary p
ebble. One of millions on the beach below. And yet, if she could have one wish, she would ask that she might never remember who she was. She wanted to be this new version of herself and start her life today, this moment.

  Clutching her wishing stone, she squeezed her eyes shut, repeated her wish and reared back her arm, ready to fling it far away into the churning waves below.

  “Jacinda!”

  She looked over her shoulder to see Crispin running fast toward her, the wind parting his coat. For an instant, she had a hope that he’d come to make amends. Then she saw his glower, fiercer than ever.

  “Come away from the edge!”

  She turned back toward the sea, and by her estimations, she wasn’t even close to the edge. Clutching the stone, she said her wish once more, reeled back, and then let it loose.

  But with the driving rain saturating the ground, and the wind pushing her off balance, she slipped. The soles of her slippers were no match for the thin wet grass and clay beneath her feet. She fell hard on her backside, knocking into the large white slab beside her.

  “Noooo!” The anguished cry tore through the roar of the storm.

  Jacinda barely recognized Crispin’s voice. It was too feral and raw to be his.

  Lying on the ground as she was, she could not see him. Was he hurt? “Crispin!”

  She tried to right herself, but the rain was relentless. She slipped again, down to her knees this time. Then finally, she set her hand on the large rock and stood, only to find Crispin already upon her, his face bleached white, his hands outstretched like claws.

  He took hold of her roughly, hauling her against him, dragging her away from the edge. Breathing hard through his open mouth, he stared at her in disbelief and gave her a slight shake, that vein pulsing at his forehead. “Why didn’t you stop, you fool? I thought I’d lost you.”