How to Forget a Duke Page 7

  During his brief examination, she focused on the tall gentleman. He watched the doctor turn her head this way and that, while probing the area surrounding her temple. She noted the alterations in his expression and kept searching his face for something familiar. And there was something, she thought, but couldn’t quite place it.

  “Now, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” the doctor continued, “could you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?”

  She glanced at the hand he held in front of his chest and wished he would have asked a more difficult question. Perhaps if he asked her the things she couldn’t readily put to mind, it would serve as a prompt, calling forth her immediate, unthinking response. “Three.”

  “Very good. And how many am I holding up now?”

  Disappointed, she bit back a sigh. He was asking her simple questions as if she were a child, and she could clearly see from the shape of her own figure that she was not. “Four, and if you add them together that makes seven. But I’m afraid mathematics is not my current concern.”

  “And what would you say is?”

  She hugged her book to her breast, closed her eyes in humiliation, and lowered her voice. “My thoughts are in something of a muddle. You see, I seem to be having a bit of trouble with . . .”

  “Your memory?”

  Her eyes snapped open and she looked at the wisdom etched in the knowing lift of his white brows, as if he’d suspected the answer all along. “Yes,” she breathed.

  He offered a sage nod. “Do you remember who I am?”

  “Well, of course, it was only a moment ago that we met, after all. You’re the doctor,” she said with utmost confidence.

  “And my name?”

  She opened her mouth and—drat! It had slipped away already, falling into one of the sneaky spaces between her brain and her tongue. Likely, the same place her own name had gone. It was as if everyone were wearing a blank schoolroom slate board around their necks and it was up to her to mark them correctly. Though, even if she had a piece of chalk, she doubted she’d have been successful.

  “Dr. Graham,” he supplied with a placating pat to her shoulder.

  “My apologies, Dr. Graham. I’m certain it would have come to me . . . eventually.” But she wasn’t certain at all, and felt the prickle of frustrated tears at the corners of her eyes. Panic was beginning to set in as well. What if she never remembered?

  Curling her fingers around the book, she repeated her own name silently. Jacinda Bourne. I am Jacinda Bourne. She glanced down to her left hand and—finding it without a ring—surmised that she was in fact, Miss Jacinda Bourne. Thankfully, she hadn’t forgotten a husband as well. At least, she didn’t think she had.

  “Here, my dear.” The doctor handed her a folded white handkerchief with a letter G embroidered on the corner. G for Graham, she thought, feeling a trifle steadier.

  “Thank you,” she said, hastily ducking her head and dabbing away the moisture. Which was silly, she supposed, when her entire person was wet, her hair plastered to her cheeks in soggy strips.

  “I know you are frightened, Miss Bourne,” the doctor said, soothingly. “But if there is anything you might remember—even something seemingly small and insignificant—we might discover more about how you came to be here.”

  She wanted the answer more than she could imagine wanting anything else. “All I know is that I awoke here upon this rock, at which point I met . . .” Jacinda hesitated with a glance toward mole-woman who smiled at her with encouragement. Inwardly she cringed, feeling dreadful for having assigned such an ugly moniker to one of her only acquaintances.

  “Miss Beels, dear,” the woman supplied, pressing a hand over her black-shrouded bosom. A low woof! came from the bowlegged white dog. “And don’t forget Mr. Lemon.”

  Jacinda nodded with gratitude, the pair of them grinning in return. “Yes, of course. Then I met you, Dr.”—again, her mouth opened and nothing came out for a second or two, until she remembered the G on the handkerchief, and then his name came out in a triumphant breath—“Dr. Graham. However, I’m afraid I do not know the other two gentlemen.”

  “That is my fault. I withheld an introduction in an effort to avoid any potential . . . confusion.”

  The boy quickly stepped forward, offering a regal bow with a wide sweep of his arm. “Henry Valentine, your humble servant, my lady.”

  She felt her mouth quirk into a grin, thoroughly charmed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Valentine.”

  “Not yet, Henry,” the doctor chided, before he returned his attention to her. “And where did you find your book, Miss Bourne?”

  She pressed a hand to her midriff, but quickly withdrew it when she saw the tall gentleman’s gaze follow her gesture. And with that one glance, her stomach turned several disconcerting Catherine wheels.

  Feeling somewhat shy, she averted her gaze and focused solely on the doctor. “Apparently, it was on my person. The moment I stood, it slipped out from beneath my redingote, wrapped in that.” She pointed to the oil-slicked fabric lying beside her gloves. “I must have been worried that it would become wet.”

  The doctor pursed his lips. “Clearly, you care for it a great deal to want it with you in your travels, and to protect it so securely.”

  “I had come to that conclusion as well.” Obviously, the book was important to her. But why?

  “Then perhaps there is another clue we might discover within its pages.”

  His logic made perfect sense. Quickly, she held the book before her and opened the cover once more. Kindled with a fresh sense of hope and determination, she traced the title with her ruched fingertips. Then carefully, she turned one page and then another, until she spotted a card.

  Even though the bone white rectangle appeared blank from its current position tucked into the stitching margin, she had no doubt that the other side would reveal a name. From what little she knew of herself, she already believed she did things with intent and purpose.

  “May I?” Dr. Graham asked.

  Breath caught in her throat, she nodded, her hands and arms trembling with excitement. And, perhaps, a bit of trepidation as well.

  Behind her, the storm was brewing ever closer. The chill wind at her back suddenly turned fiercer, whipping her skirts hard against her legs like a sail against the mast of a ship. She stiffened to brace herself against it, ignoring the keen aches along her spine, hips, and torso.

  He picked up the card and turned it over. “This is very interesting, indeed.”

  “What is?”

  Instead of answering directly, the doctor handed her the card.

  Somewhat confused by the keen glint above the rim of his half-moon spectacles, she read it aloud. “Crispin Montague, fifth Duke of Rydstrom.”

  Her voice must have carried because, just beyond the doctor’s shoulder, she saw the tall gentleman stiffen, his shoulders arrow straight. His thick brows lost their subtle arch and flattened into an intractable ridge. Then after a moment, twin furrows lined the bridge of his nose in apparent irritation, and all of it seemingly directed at her.

  “That’s you, isn’t it?” Jacinda asked, seeing the accusation hit the mark in the way he flinched. Which meant they must be acquainted. After all, why else would she have his card? And why would she be in a place where no one knew her?

  She heard Miss Beels gasp and Jacinda’s gaze flitted to her long enough to take note of the dreamy smile that lifted the mole on her cheek, her hand splayed over her heart.

  Quite unexpectedly, as if some of the seawater between her ears had drained away, she recalled the things Miss Beels had mentioned earlier. The words became so clear, they might have been having the conversation this instant.

  Yours is some of the finest embroidery I’ve seen since Whitcrest had a duchess in Rydstrom Hall. You must be an important lady.

  . . . Everyone in the village is talking about the rumors that His Grace plans to marry.

  Suddenly everything made perfect sense. “Am I to be y
our wife?”

  Chapter 7

  “Men of sense, whatever you may chuse to say, do not want silly wives.”

  Jane Austen, Emma

  Wife?

  Jacinda Bourne’s question stunned Crispin into speechlessness.

  All of his fears were coming true. His most recent nightmare had arrived in Whitcrest, just steps away from Rydstrom Hall.

  Though she looked less like a bogeyman and more like a wounded sea nymph washed up on the beach, her hair spilling down her shoulders in dark red ropes, and an angry red wound near her temple. The sight of it caused a surprising jolt of tenderness to rush through him.

  Clearly, he was reeling from finding her here and wasn’t thinking straight.

  “No, Miss Bourne. We are not betrothed.” The notion was absurd. Would he marry the one woman who’d single-handedly set out to annihilate any semblance of peace that he might have possessed a mere week ago? Never.

  She frowned, the corners of her mouth canting downward and drawing attention to the unnatural paleness of her lips. “But we are acquainted, are we not? There could be no other reason that I would have your card.”

  Oh, he could think of one: thievery. She must have stolen it from him when she’d trespassed in his study. Meddlesome bit of baggage.

  “The reason is simple,” he answered succinctly. “I’ve had dealings with your uncle.”

  Her brow knitted together as she silently mouthed the word uncle. “So you and I have met.”

  “Briefly, yes.”

  “And you know a few things about me, like where I live and the fact that I have an uncle.”

  Those light turquoise eyes fixed on him with such beseeching hope that he had the urge to tell her all he knew. It was as if she cast a spell on him, one meant to unlock every secret he kept.

  Unsettling, to say the least.

  Dr. Graham cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Rydstrom, but I do not believe this conversation will benefit Miss Bourne. By telling her too much at this point, she may develop false memories.”

  “I do not see the harm in that,” Miss Bourne said with near-breathless eagerness. “Once my true memories return, everything will sort itself out.”

  “In my experience, it isn’t that simple.” Graham’s frown softened with empathy, and yet concern was still etched in his features. “You see, I’ve spent years working with soldiers who developed amnesia after a battle. The worst thing that could happen is to offer up information too readily, as it prohibits the patient from finding their own answers and thereby healing the wounded portion of the brain.”

  Contemplating this, Crispin nodded. It made sense that she would require time to recuperate. And once she returned to the bosom of her family, they would tend to her needs. Perhaps, by the time she reached London, she wouldn’t remember ever being in Whitcrest at all.

  Instantly, he saw this working to his advantage. “Then I will simply order a carriage to send her back to—”

  “I’m afraid I cannot recommend travel of any extent,” Graham said, interrupting once more, his statement punctuated by a crack of thunder as the storm began to close in on a sudden blast of cold wind.

  They all glanced out to sea. Dark clouds now eclipsed the horizon, and a thick gray curtain of rain approached, undulating in the direction of the wind. Typically, storms did not earn a great measure of surprise among the residents. Inclement weather was factored into the hardships of living on such a brutal stretch of sea where the waves often crashed together from opposite directions. One had to be prepared for disaster in order to survive here. Yet this storm was blowing in fast, leaving little time to prepare for the worst.

  Dr. Graham turned to face Crispin, his intentions marked clearly in the lines of his countenance. “There’s only time enough to make Rydstrom Hall, if we make haste.”

  An icy shiver sliced through the marrow of Crispin’s bones. He didn’t want anyone to enter Rydstrom Hall, least of all Miss Bourne. Surely, there had to be another way.

  His gaze quickly surveyed the footpath to the village. Clusters of winter brown grasses bowed, nearly lying flat against the ground. Waves rose, pummeling the rocks and sweeping over their upper edges. That way was too treacherous, and he couldn’t, in good conscience, force them to travel it. But there was no other way out of this cove. The doctor was right; the sensible route was up the hill, heading away from the storm.

  Left with no other choice, Crispin offered a curt nod. “Very well.”

  He would simply confine his guests to the entry hall and main parlor, and send word to Mrs. Hemple to keep Sybil on the upper floors. This group would wait out the storm while he decided where to put Miss Bourne. “Henry, run up ahead and warn Fellows to make ready . . .”

  While he continued his instructions, he caught sight of Miss Bourne bending toward the rock, hurriedly wrapping the cloth around her book, and then gathering the wet gloves that had blown onto the sand. Yet when she righted herself, she swayed on her feet.

  Reflexively, Crispin took a step toward her, his orders cutting off midsentence. But Dr. Graham was beside her first. He took hold of his cane with one hand, and offered her his free arm. Though, clearly, there was no way that Graham and Miss Bourne would be able to assist each other. Distracted, he sent Henry on his way, certain Fellows would see to the matter.

  Prepared to do what had to be done, Crispin moved toward Graham and Miss Bourne, only to have Miss Beels step in front of him, hold up a finger, and give him a wink before turning to face the others.

  Confused, it took a second before he understood the reason. And by then it was too late.

  “Dr. Graham,” Miss Beels shouted over the roar of the wind, her dog huddled near her skirts. “I wonder if I could bend your ear a bit longer. You see, Mr. Lemon had a terrible cough this morning and I’m almost certain that he’s been nibbling on Mr. Craig’s fish net again. If he has a bone lodged in his throat, I don’t know what I would do.”

  Miss Bourne, who had just laid her hand upon the doctor’s arm, abruptly withdrew it. “I’m certain I can manage. I’m feeling much steadier now.”

  Before the doctor could argue, Miss Beels hooked her arm through his and walked toward the path, chattering away and pausing only to cast another wink in Crispin’s direction, as if she’d arranged for him to walk alone with Miss Bourne.

  Bollocks. The last thing he needed was to have the village featherbrain telling presumptuous stories to his servants or the villagers and believing herself to be a matchmaker. He already knew one too many of those.

  Exhaling his frustration, Crispin strode through the sand to Miss Bourne’s side and offered his arm. “If I may.”

  “You needn’t trouble yourself,” she said with a lift of her pert chin, her eyes reflecting a flash of lightning. A warning growl of thunder followed, foretelling the near arrival of the storm. “Contrary to what you might believe of my injuries, my vision is healthy, and I can see your reluctance quite clearly.”

  Not having time or patience to deal with a feminine snit, Crispin clenched his teeth. “My only concern at present is to leave this beach and seek shelter before either one of us is struck by lightning. And since I am the taller of us, no doubt the bolt would find me. Now, if you would give me your arm.”

  “I don’t think I shall. I’m perfectly capable of walking unassisted.”

  She busied herself with tucking the cloth wrapping around her book, the tip of her ear peeking out from beneath a curtain of wavy burnished hair. His fingers twitched with the unmistakable desire to tuck those loose locks out of the way so that he could see the delicate half-heart shape of it.

  He grew irritated, betrayed by the unwelcome urges of his mind and body. “And I am perfectly capable of tossing you over my shoulder like a coil of fisherman’s rope.”

  Her gaze whipped up to meet his. “What a brutish thing to say, especially to one you found in such a helpless state.”

  “Miss Bourne,” he began, his voice low and deceptively calm. “I believ
e I can say this with utmost confidence—there isn’t an ounce of helplessness in you. Certain types of people are determined to survive no matter what odds they face. In fact, I suspect that the sea was tired of fighting against you and simply tossed you onto the shore as a means of self-preservation.”

  The hard patter of rain upon the water and the bellow of the wind through the crags muted her responding huff of indignation. He knew from experience that storms like this could bring slabs of the cliff face down upon their heads and send rocks tumbling toward them.

  Crispin didn’t want to take that chance.

  There was no more time to argue. Therefore, without making another request, he simply bent down, swept Miss Bourne into his arms, and made his way toward the hill.

  * * *

  Jacinda gasped as her feet left the ground, the wet sand nearly claiming her boots. Her head spun from the suddenness of his movements. “Put me down at once!”

  “Be thankful that I did not toss you over my shoulder.”

  Frankly, she wasn’t sure if this was better . . . or worse. He was holding her with one arm beneath her knees and the other at the middle of her back, his hand curled over her rib cage, a scant few inches from the bottom curve of her breast. She became increasingly aware of the heat of his hand, and the way it sifted through the heavy layers of her clothes.

  In contrast, her own flesh felt much cooler, drawing uncomfortably tight. Even her heart reacted strangely, beating out a hard, erratic rhythm, as if she were the one carrying him. It made her breathless and so exhausted that part of her wanted to relax into his warmth, permitting him this small victory.

  Yet if she gave in to that urge, she sensed that she would lose a bigger battle in the end. She had no choice but to fight it.

  He cast a quick glower down at her. “Stop squirming and have a care for your injuries. I can see how much you are pained each time you wince. It’s likely that you wouldn’t have made the first rise without fainting and would have required my assistance regardless.”