How to Forget a Duke Read online

  She’d made a terrible mistake by coming to Whitcrest. She was Crispin’s matchmaker, not his potential bride!

  But she already knew that, at least the latter part. He needed to marry an heiress, and someone good and kind, too. Not someone who would badger his solicitor or steal into his study. Not someone reckless enough to hire a maid, travel to Whitcrest, and nearly drown in the sea for the sole purpose of ferreting out a secret to see if he was the wrong sort. Not a woman who acted without thought to consequence or the repercussions of her actions.

  A woman like that did not deserve him.

  In that moment, sitting there with his gold thread tied around her finger, Jacinda realized something heartbreaking. She was the wrong sort. Not him. He was perfect, and would make the best husband. And he deserved far better than her.

  The deluge continued to roll down her cheeks as she anticipated the conversation she must have with him. Crispin, of course, would state that because he took her virginity he must marry her. It was a matter of duty and honor. Knowing him, she imagined that he’d already spent the morning thinking of ways to keep Rydstrom Hall standing since he now planned to marry a woman with no dowry.

  Now, because of her, the home he loved would fall into further ruin, and Sybil’s chances of marrying well in the future would all but disappear.

  Jacinda couldn’t let that happen.

  Wiping her tears on the sleeve of her nightdress, she said, “I’m afraid we’ll have to leave for London today, Lucy.”

  Standing up from the rug, Lucy’s features listed downward into a puzzled frown. “Whyever would we do that?”

  Because it was the only thing Jacinda could do. She had to find him an heiress and complete the assignment she was given. Though, not wanting to list all the reasons, she kept her response simple and vague. “With my memory intact, I want to see my sisters. And my uncle as well.”

  But her heart shattered into a thousand pieces at the thought of finding Crispin a bride. She didn’t want to at all and would much rather continue onward, regardless of the consequences. This, she knew, was further proof that she was the wrong sort. The right sort would be selfless at a time like this.

  And yet, Jacinda still wished she knew of a way to keep him and give him all that he needed.

  Oh, if only she had a small fortune! Or, at least, was very good friends with someone staring into the chasm of death who might bequeath one to her in the near future. But that was a self-serving, greedy thought for which she should be ashamed. And she would be, later, when she wasn’t so preoccupied.

  It was absolutely abominable that Crispin was being forced to marry for money at all when his aunt could just as easily . . .

  Jacinda’s thoughts veered suddenly to Lady Hortense.

  She had every means available to save Rydstrom Hall from ruin. And quite possibly, allow Crispin the freedom to marry for love instead of duty. At least, when he found a woman worthy of him.

  “It will be a busy morning for us, miss,” Lucy said. “Would you like me to ring for your breakfast tray or would you rather dress?”

  “I will dress straightaway,” she said, flinging back the coverlet. Jacinda needed all of her armor in place before she faced Lady Hortense.

  * * *

  “Congratulations, Miss Bourne. Now that your memory has returned, you will make fine progress on the list,” Lady Hortense said from the throne in her dressing room. Dipping her fingertips in an open jar of balm, she generously applied it to the column of her throat. “Perhaps, even by the end of this morning.”

  Jacinda stood stiffly in the gilded room, wishing that she’d come here with a prepared speech, rather than only a general idea of what she might say. “I’m afraid, my lady, that I will be returning to London posthaste. However, I should like to speak with you briefly before I leave.”

  “London? Why should you need to return when all the information your uncle’s agency possesses is on the paper I gave you?”

  “As I have stated before, the list was incomplete.” Not only that, but it had been crumpled and turned into ash days ago.

  Lady Hortense expelled an impatient breath. Continuing her beauty regimen, she patted the skin beneath her jaw, her chin jutting upward. “Please, Miss Bourne, I cannot bear to hear any more of your misguided, romantic notions. The children of high-ranking nobility have an obligation to uphold, to marry for money and property, and that is that.”

  The words came forth by rote, as if they were rehearsed from some tragic play. It was still just as irritating to hear them now as it had been the first time. Even more so, with so much at stake. “Didn’t you ever long for happiness?”

  “I am quite content,” she said sharply, her teeth clenching as if the subject flicked a raw nerve. Lowering her hands, she fixed her attention on Jacinda. “Do you truly believe that Rydstrom Hall could remain standing simply because its occupants were happy? There is not enough land to allow the estate to support itself, not without a profitable marriage.”

  There it was again, the reminder that Jacinda was trying to escape. But it was futile. Crispin needed an heiress, and only an heiress would do.

  An icy, harried sort of desperation filled Jacinda. She went cold all over, her fingers numb, her thoughts turning to every possibility that might alter the inevitable outcome of this hopeless conversation. “Perhaps you could provide aid to your nephew. After all, you said that you’d done so for your brother.”

  Lady Hortense frowned, gripping the carved claw arms of her chair. “Miss Bourne, you forget yourself. I will not be spoken to with such familiarity. And while it may be true that I assisted my brother, he never borrowed a farthing. A true gentleman would never stoop to such behavior. My brother sold the deeds of several properties to me. As for my nephew, he has nothing to sell.”

  There has to be a way, she kept thinking over and over again. Yet each path her mind took only led her to a wall of impossibility. Well . . . not every path. There was one, and only one—leave Whitcrest and find Crispin an heiress.

  “You have taken quite an interest in my nephew’s affairs,” Lady Hortense added, eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So much so, that I wonder if I should contact your uncle regarding an inappropriate degree of fondness.”

  Jacinda swallowed. “That is not necessary, I assure you. As a representative of the Bourne Matrimonial Agency, I am merely conveying our collective wish that all of our clients have the freedom to choose whichever candidate best suits him or her.”

  “Then, I should think, finishing the list should be your sole occupation.”

  Chapter 31

  “You think I ought to refuse him then . . .”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  “We cannot marry,” Jacinda said, walking into the study.

  Crispin looked up from his desk and felt a grin curve his lips, along with a contented thrumming in his heart.

  “Darling, you have an unfortunate habit of saying unsettling things every time you walk into this room.” Placing his quill in the stand, he rose from the chair and stepped around to greet her with a kiss. But only then did he notice her pale, troubled expression. Taking her hand, he felt a chill emanate from her soft skin. “Are you unwell?”

  “We cannot marry,” she repeated, slipping free of his grasp and stepping apart from him as if she were in earnest. “I remember everything.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “This morning, it was as if I’d never forgotten at all. I can recall each memory from my childhood and all the ones”—she blushed, her ears turning pink as her gaze held his—“since.”

  “Good. I am glad that your memories have returned and, most especially, that you have not forgotten the most recent ones that are causing your cheeks to color. Because of what happened between us, we will marry.” His tone was indisputably final, his jaw clenched as he crossed the room and closed the door for privacy. “A gentleman does not take a woman’s virginity and leave her to face the repercussions alone. Now, I do not know i
f you are having second thoughts, but I am not.”

  “Then you are not thinking clearly, just as you weren’t yesterday when you found me by the cliffs,” she stated, her gaze imploring.

  Ah. Now he understood. This morning’s meeting was her way to seek his reassurance.

  His shoulders relaxed. Returning to her, he took her hands and settled them over his heart, where they belonged. He took comfort in the fact that she stayed, allowing him to smooth his hands over her shoulders and down her back in an ambling caress. “As I thought I’d made clear last night, I do not regret what happened between us. Far from it.”

  “This isn’t about regret.” She looked down at her hands and, disconcertingly, covered the one bearing the finger with the golden thread. “You require an heiress. My paltry dowry would not even buy the linens for Rydstrom Hall, let alone afford the repairs it requires.”

  Leave it to Jacinda never to say what a deflowered virgin was expected to say. She should be wailing, demanding that he marry her out of honor. Telling him that she loved him and would do anything to be with him. Not saying all the things that had passed through his mind over the course of the past hours.

  He already knew that he’d neglected to think of the longevity of Rydstrom Hall and even Sybil when he’d asked Jacinda to be his wife. He’d only been thinking of satisfying the demands of his heart. It hadn’t once felt wrong, but now she was making him question whether or not they’d both been swept away in the moment.

  “I’ve thought this through. Using materials from the rooms I’ve sealed off, I can make the most essential repairs on my own. I may not have the skills of a mason or master carpenter, but I’ve done a fair job of it so far.”

  She expelled a breath and shook her head. “While it is admirable, it is not a true solution. If you will not think of yourself or your home, you must think of Sybil and her future.”

  “Circumstances have altered since then.”

  “You know that I am right. I can see it in your eyes, and that twig vein on your forehead is glaring at me.” She traced that vein with her fingertip, her palm cupping his cheek, briefly, before she slipped away again, leaving his arms empty and useless without her to hold.

  He remedied that quickly enough. Closing the distance, he took her face in his hands and kissed her. Not tenderly, but with an urgency she needed to understand. She was his, damn it all! And when her lips parted on a gasp, he used that to his advantage, laying claim to her mouth, his hands drifting down her body and feeling her rise against him in a glorious wave of surrender.

  Yes. This is where you should be, he thought, destroying any doubts. He never should have left her bed, and she should never leave his side. As if in full agreement, she clung to him, each breath drawing them closer. And he swallowed down her soft, almost frantic, whimpers, reassuring her with the heat of his hands.

  But, in truth, it was more of a comfort to him. He wanted to lose himself for hours in the taste of her kiss and the perfectly off-center alignment of their mouths. And she wanted this, too. He knew it. He could feel it in the way their hearts beat in the same frenzied rhythm.

  Believing that he’d proven his point, he drew back marginally, ready to lock the door and make a better use of the sofa if she required further proof. She sagged against him, lips damp, cheeks flushed.

  “There now,” he crooned, feeling triumphant as he skimmed his lips over her brow. “Let’s have no more of that talk.”

  He shouldn’t have been surprised when she didn’t listen.

  “If I’d never had amnesia, none of this would have happened. You would have continued to despise me, just as you did when we were in London.”

  “Jacinda,” he warned, but she continued, her hands leaving their perch on his shoulders and drifting down to his wrists, extricating herself.

  “Yet because you have such a strong will when it comes to your duty, you took me in and for that, and so much more, I will always”—her breath hitched—“be grateful.” Then, lifting her chin, she brushed his favorite lock away from her forehead and moved to the door. “I have your list of requirements for a wife on my desk at the agency, or at least what you gave me at the time. Nowhere on it does it state that you desire a woman with less than two hundred pounds to her name and I . . . I will return to London and endeavor to send you a bridal candidate who will be all that you could desire. I was hired to find the right sort of bride for you, and that is what I shall do.”

  He swallowed, his fist clenched. “You’re planning to leave today?”

  Hand on the door, her head jerked in a nod. “If you would allow me the use of your carriage. And please . . . if you would tell Sybil that I will not be able to see her today for her lessons.”

  He refused to believe this was happening. Surely, she would come to her senses. Perhaps, if she thought more about what she was leaving behind, she would understand her mistake. “You are more than a tutor to her.”

  “And she is more to me”—she looked away and drew in a stuttered breath—“both of you are.”

  “Then stay.” He hated the strained tremor in his own voice, the feeble coldness rushing through him. Her tenacious, impulsive nature was supposed to keep her here, not drive her back to London.

  “There is no other way, Crispin. I’m sorry,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes as she gave him the apology he never wanted, and then she swept from the room.

  * * *

  “It looks like a fine day for a journey, Mr. Fellows,” Jacinda said as he helped her on with her coat later that morning. Her voice was high, tight, and she was doing her best to hold back tears.

  “Aye, miss.” He sniffed, but tucked his handkerchief out of sight as she turned to face him. “Soon, Rydstrom Hall will have flowers in bloom. Every year in the spring it’s quite a sight to behold.”

  But she would not be here to see it, not even the seeds she had dropped during the sowing ceremony, or those of the bluebells still tucked in the pouch at the bottom of her satchel beside her volume of Emma. “I imagine it is. I hope you put a button rose in your lapel and think of me.”

  “I will, miss, most assuredly.” His cloudy eyes misted over as he cleared his throat and moved to the door.

  It was time to leave, but Crispin was not here to say farewell. Then again, she imagined he’d said as much in the study, sending her off with a kiss that was now branded into her soul. If she hadn’t been certain of his determination to uphold his word of honor, to marry the woman who’d given her virginity to him, that kiss had convinced her of his sincerity.

  This only furthered her good opinion of him. Yet, in time, she knew he would have come to regret his decision as the home he loved fell to waste around him. This was for the best, she reminded herself, just as she had done for every second in the last hour.

  Still, she wished he was here. She needed just one last, lingering look to keep inside her heart and take with her.

  Turning to go, she stopped when she heard the rapid clatter of hard-soled shoes on the stone. Her breath stalled when she saw Sybil rushing up to her, eyes round with worry. She flung her arms around Jacinda’s waist, clasping her tightly.

  Jacinda squeezed her eyes shut, her heart ripping open. She did not want to leave and every moment she lingered, made it all the harder to go.

  Bending down, she brushed the golden locks away from Sybil’s unusually pale face. “I shall write to you twice each week, and we will continue your French lessons. And I’ll want to know how your book is progressing.”

  Sybil shook her head wordlessly, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “Dearest, I remembered today that I have a very important occupation. You see, I am a matchmaker. My family was hired to find Rydstrom a bride, and I cannot stay in Whitcrest when they are all in London, waiting to meet him.”

  And suddenly Crispin strode in, glowering fiercely, the muscle along his jaw ticking when he swallowed.

  She continued to speak to Sybil, but she kept her gaze on him. “Just think
of our dear friend Miss Emma Woodhouse. Making matches was very important because she wanted the people dearest to her to be happy. Yet, for all the days of her life, she would continue to love them with all her heart, even if she couldn’t be near them.”

  Sybil offered a small, sniffling nod, though it did little to console either of them, Jacinda supposed. They’d grown too attached to each other, and thinking about leaving left her in misery. Why, oh why, did her memory have to return now, reminding her that her whole world was in London, not Whitcrest?

  Her heart did not seem to understand this and lurched inside her, causing a wealth of tears to clog her throat. She pressed her fingers to her lips, hoping to stem the flow. But his name came forth, broken and desperate. “Crispin.”

  He moved a step forward, his hands clenched at his side. But Jacinda, like an awful coward, slipped away and dashed through the door.

  * * *

  Crispin couldn’t breathe. His chest felt tight, raw, as if it had been split open and hollowed out, the contents ripped to pieces and scattered into a state of permanent disorder.

  He couldn’t live like this, not without her here. He needed to stop her before she left, but all of her sensible arguments weighted him down, rooting him to the floor.

  A wheezing sob left Sybil as she rushed up to him. Kneeling down, he held her and let her bury her face against his coat and cry for as long as she needed.

  “Nephew, who is this servant girl and why, pray tell, is she blubbering in your arms?” Aunt Hortense said from behind him.

  His back stiffened but he was past the point of caring about secrets any longer. They had not served him well. “Aunt Hortense, I should like to introduce you to Sybil Montague, your niece.”

  Part 3

  Chapter 32

  “. . . and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  London

  Two weeks later