The Duke's Holiday (11 page)

“Sometimes I think you must live on another planet,” Alice
burst out, a fresh round of tears falling. “It doesn’t matter what our mother
was, and it’s not as if her family even deigns to acknowledge us, aside from horrid
Aunt Emily. We have only the barest of footholds above being considered
in trade
.”

“And what’s wrong with being in trade? The way the upper
classes in this country cultivate idleness is absurd. As if honest labor is a
sin.”

“You see? You have all these … convictions, and while I’m
not sure they’re wrong, neither are they helpful, because all of your
convictions are not going to change
how
the world really is
.”

Astrid stared at Alice, stunned. They were treading into deep
waters now, waters Astrid had no idea Alice even knew how to navigate. Like
Hiram had done this morning, and Wesley this afternoon, Alice was bringing up a
whole host of unpleasant considerations that Astrid did not want to face.

“Excuse me,” Astrid said rather peevishly, “for having
opinions
. Sorry for using my
brain
.”

“You miss the point, as usual,” Alice sighed, looking
resigned.

“What is the point?”

“Unlike you, I don’t want to end up an old maid. I want to
be married, to have a family of my own. To get out of this mad house. And Mr.
Coombes was right. This
is
a mad
house.”

Astrid was hurt by Alice’s words. Hurt and completely taken
off guard. She had no idea Alice felt this way about Rylestone. Alice was
understandably angry with her for being the object of Wesley’s pursuit. Though
Astrid did nothing to encourage Wesley’s suit, a fact that Alice knew quite
well, it was only human for Alice to feel some jealousy towards her.

Yet Astrid wondered if Alice’s resentment ran deeper, if
somehow Astrid had failed her sister in a more fundamental way. It was one of
Astrid’s deepest fears. She’d been trying for the past decade to make all of
her family members happy, and she thought she had been doing a decent job of
it, at least where Alice was concerned. But apparently she’d been wrong.

“I had no idea you felt this way,” Astrid murmured.

She reached out to her sister, but again Alice dodged her
hand. “No, Astrid.” Alice cried, moving towards the ladder. “I’m twenty three
years old and had no offers, and do you want to know why? Because of you. No
respectable man dare approach me because they think my sister is a … a hoyden.
A shocking, forward, proselytizing hoyden.”

“Alice!”

“What do you expect people think of you? Running the
estate? Speaking at the tenant meetings? Filling the workers’ head with
father’s nonsense?”

“Adam Smith and Thomas Jefferson happen to agree with
father’s nonsense,” Astrid cut in.
I
thought my sister did too
.

“You show no one the slightest deference, attend church
infrequently, argue with the vicar. You curse in company, converse with the
farmhands, and
wear trousers
.”

“I never wear trousers in public!” she interjected. “Only
around the castle. And in the garden.”

Alice gave her a doubtful look. “You ride about the county
astride
.”

“Sidesaddle is dangerous.”

“It is when you tear off hell-for-leather like you’re
riding into battle. Which you do all the time.”

“I wear a perfectly respectable habit.”

Alice snorted. “Which comes up past your ankles.”

“What is so shocking about ankles? I’ll never understand
it.”

“Nor I, but that is
just
the way things are
. Respectable ladies don’t ride astride. Respectable
ladies don’t bare their ankles. Respectable ladies do not run breweries.”

“What would you have had me do? Let our family starve?”
Astrid burst out. “Someone had to run the estate when father cracked. Someone
had to take care of you and the girls. Who else was going to do it? Aunt
Anabel?”

Alice blanched at Astrid’s harsh tone. “You make me sound
like an ungrateful wretch.”

“Perhaps that is because you are! I have done everything
for this family, and you chastise me for it.”

“No! I am merely pointing out that your manner of doing
things for this family is so very …
blatant
.
Do you really need to wear trousers to save the estate? Really, Astrid.”

“I wear trousers because they are comfortable and
practical, and I ride astride because it is also eminently practical. All of
these petty rules and codes restricting the behavior for ladies are designed
solely to subjugate our sex.”

Alice rolled her eyes. “Of course they are, but flaunting
those rules is not going to earn you any friends. Or a husband.”

“I don’t want a husband.”

“But I do! And what of Antonia and Ardyce? What’s to become
of them when they’re grown? Your conduct reflects on all of us. It’s a wonder
we’re still received as it is.”

“I had no idea the opinions of small-minded gentry were so
important to you,” she huffed.

Alice groaned in frustration. “You just don’t understand,
Astrid. You never think beyond this pile of stones. Whether you like it or not,
the opinions of other people matter. You’ll discover this soon enough when
we’re tossed out of here.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“What? It’s true. The Duke has the right. And the way
you’ve treated him thus far does nothing to help our case. We’ll be lucky if he
doesn’t put us all in the workhouse.” Alice began down the ladder and paused.
“You know you’d solve all of our problems if you’d just accept Wesley’s
proposal.”

“Are you insane? Me? Marry Wesley? You are actually
suggesting
I
marry Wesley?” Astrid
blustered.

“Why not? He wants to save you from yourself, you know.”
Alice’s tone was deeply bitter.

“I don’t need saving. I am the one trying to save the lot
of you!” Astrid cried.

“How can you do it when you won’t accept the truth?
Rylestone doesn’t belong to us anymore.”

Alice started down the ladder. When she reached the bottom,
she looked back up at Astrid, who stood staring down at her sister, dumbfounded
and heartsick.

“I suggest you find the book and give it to the Duke,” she
said in the bossy sort of voice Astrid usually used.

“
You’re
the one
who lost it,” Astrid retorted.

“It’s probably for the best, since I suspect
you
would have burned it.”

“When did you become so … so…”

“Practical? Reasonable?”

“Cynical.”

“I’ve always been like this, Astrid. You were just too busy
to notice.”

“I never knew you hated me this much,” Astrid murmured.

Alice just shook her head and walked away, as if to say
that Astrid was just never going to understand.

IN WHICH THE
DUKE VISITS THE LIBRARY

ASTRID
STOOD on a ladder in her father’s library, thumbing through the titles on the
shelves and sniffling. She blamed her watering eyes and running nose on the
fine layer of dust covering the books and woodwork, not her argument with Alice
earlier in the hayloft.

Her eyes pricked with tears, and she paused in her search
to wipe her face inelegantly with the back of her sleeve.

She did not mean it
,
she tried to convince herself. Alice was just upset over Wesley, and she’d
taken her anger out on her. But these assurances landed rather hollowly in her
gut, for she knew deep down that Alice had meant every word.

Alice was ashamed of her, and had been for years. Somehow
Astrid had failed to see this. She thought she knew her sister, but it seemed
she didn’t know her at all.

Was Alice right, then? Had she been so caught up in the
estate she had been blind to her sister’s true feelings? Had she ever really
seen
Alice at all? She
thought
she had. She had taken care of
Alice and her younger sisters ever since their mother’s death. Astrid had never
begrudged Alice her beauty and grace. In fact, Astrid had celebrated her
sister’s looks, foregoing new dresses herself so that Alice could be outfitted
with a wardrobe that could make her beauty stand out. Alice was the prize of
the Honeywells, and in Astrid’s opinion far too good for any of the young
gentlemen who had come sniffing at her heels. In her heart, Astrid held out
hopes of a fabulous match for Alice.

Not that she personally put any great stock in the married
state. But it had been obvious to her that that was what Alice had wished from
a very young age. With that in mind, Astrid had even begun to set aside a pound
here, a pound there, for Alice’s dowry. It wasn’t much, but at least it would
be something when the time came.

But it never would, it seemed, since Astrid suspected the
only man her sister wanted was never going to propose. When Alice began mooning
over Sir Wesley, Astrid had hoped their cousin – unworthy though he might
be of the perfect Alice – would return her sister’s affections, but that
had not happened. Wesley seemed perfectly oblivious to Alice’s attachment, and
instead seemed determined to court Astrid.

How preposterous was that?

She would never, ever, understand the workings of the male
mind. She couldn’t swallow the notion that Wesley found her the least bit
desirable. Alice’s assertion that Wesley wanted to save her from herself seemed
more likely. Which was just like a man. Even an immensely stupid man like
Wesley.

She didn’t need saving. She didn’t need rescuing,
especially at the hands of her bumbling cousin.

Astrid pulled a book from the shelf at random. It wasn’t
the estate ledgers. It was in fact a rather boring tract of sermons that likely
hadn’t been opened in years, judging from the thick layer of dust coating its
spine. She couldn’t read the words on the page through the haze of moisture in
her eyes, but she suspected there was a reason the book was on the top shelf,
far corner.

Honeywells generally avoided religious tracts.

She snapped the book closed and shoved it back into the
corner. Dust flew off its spine, tickling her nose.

She sneezed. Loudly.

Then she sneezed again.

Evidence that her tears were caused by the dust,
not
her emotions.

“Excuse you,” came a voice behind her.

She spun around and spied the Duke leaning lazily against
the doorframe, his arms crossed, one leg propped up against the jamb. He
studied her with his inscrutable silver eyes, one eyebrow arched in cynical
appraisal.

She lost her balance and flew forward, grasping the edge of
the ladder. She managed to right herself – barely – and scowled at
him.

“Looking for something?” he drawled.

She sneezed again, then wiped her nose with her sleeve.

He cringed ever so slightly and pushed himself off the door.
He glanced around the room at the jumble of books and papers, and a furrow
wedged itself into his forehead. He turned his attention back to her, looking
faintly accusing, as if to say,
How do
you live in such squalor?

She turned back to the shelf and began to pull books at
random from the shelves, ignoring him. Or at least attempting to. She was aware
of his every movement at her back as he prowled about the room, scanning the
rows of books, lifting and sorting as he went. She was
definitely
aware of him when he reached the ladder. She looked down
at the top of his head as he studied the shelf in front of him.

For an ogre, he really did have splendid hair. Thick and
wavy, despite his attempts to tame it into submission, and as luxuriously
colored as the burled wood shelves filling the room. She had the urge to reach
down and run her fingers through those fiercely styled chestnut locks, for she
suspected they would look even better freed from their pomade’s stranglehold.

As if he felt her glance, he looked upwards, catching her
in his intense silver gaze.

She turned back to the shelf, scolding herself.

Fool, fool! Thinking about her archenemy’s hair at such a
time!

What was
wrong
with her?

“You’re still here,” she ground out, gripping the sides of
the ladder until her knuckles turned white. “Was there something you wanted?”

“You,” he said.

She gasped and glanced down involuntarily at him once more.

His eyes went wide, and for a moment something resembling
panic floated across those silvery depths. “That is, I wanted to
speak
with you, Miss Honeywell,” he went
on quickly.

“Oh,” she murmured. That was
not
disappointment curdling her stomach. “Well, what is it?” she
continued, returning her attention back to the shelves.

“Am I to talk to you while you remain ten feet up in the air?”

“I am busy. Looking for something.”

“The estate books?”

She snorted. “Of course not.”

“No, that would be too much to hope for. Is it your copy of
L’Chevalier d’Amour
?”

She froze. Then she began to splutter as a furious blush
rose on her cheeks. She was glad she was ten feet in the air so that he could
not see. “Certainly
not
. What
nonsense. Poetry? Good God, Montford. Do I
look
the sort to enjoy scandalous verse?” The lie sat very heavily on her tongue.

“Then you are at least acquainted with the title.”

“Well, yes. Who is not? But to suggest that I would read
such
poppycock
…” She had no words to
complete her sentence, so she just snorted disdainfully again.

“You do not approve, then?” he asked in a deceptively lazy
voice. “I would not have pegged you for a prude.”

“Oh! Oh!” she exhaled, her fury rising at his nettling.

“
Someone
in your
household enjoys Mr. Essex. I found a copy of
L’Chevalier
tucked between Sir Thomas More.” He began to study his
fingernails. “Shockingly inappropriate, wouldn’t you agree? I thought for
certain it must be
your
doing. But
perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Miss Alice? You must have a talk with your sister,
Miss Honeywell. It is one thing to read scandalous verse, quite another to
disguise it behind lofty pretension. Thomas More indeed.”

She could almost hear her temper snap in violent response
to his goad. “Pretension? Ha! You are one to call
me
pretentious! And I’ll have you know that I have read Utopia
several
times. Thrice, to be exact. And
in case you are operating under some false delusions regarding my intelligence,
I can inform you I
quite
understood
every word of it.”

She broke off in chagrin, realizing she had just as good as
admitted the Essex was hers. His eyes flashed in triumph, but all he said next
was:

“Thrice?” he replied doubtfully.

“You do not believe me?”

“I don’t believe a word that passes from your lips. And I
cannot imagine how it is humanly possible to read that waddle three times
without wanting to pull one’s hair out.”

She wanted to pull
someone’s
hair out. “Waddle? You think More is
waddle
?”

“He’s a dead bore. Tried reading it at school and fell
asleep.”

“Well,
you
would,
wouldn’t you? What need have you of broadening your mind with revolutionary
ideas? I’m sure you are
quite
pleased
with the status quo.”

“I
am
Montford,”
he said, as if that explained everything. But his mouth curved at the edges
mockingly as he said the words, as if he weren’t so satisfied with his place in
the world as he would have her believe.

She attempted to harden her heart against him, but it just
simply wouldn’t turn entirely to stone. A small, stubborn pocket of pity and
something else she didn’t want to examine too closely remained pulsing in the
center of the brick in her chest. Why he inspired this conflict of emotions
inside of her she would never understand. He was a beast. With nice hair,
granted. But a beast nonetheless.

Exasperated with herself and with him, she muttered a few
well-needed curses as she descended the ladder.

“Miss Honeywell?” His voice sounded dangerously close to
her person.

She froze near the bottom and looked through the slats of
the ladder. Montford stood on the other side, at eye level to her now, only
inches separating their faces. His omnipotent eyes scanned her face, and the
furrow in his brow deepened. “You’ve been crying.”

She blew the hair out of her face. “Absolutely not. The
dust in here has made my eyes water.”

“You
are
covered
in dust,” he agreed. Before she could react, one of his index fingers touched
her cheek and trailed its way down her face to her jaw, his eyes following its
movements.

His touch affected her like an electrical storm. And she
couldn’t move. She knew she should finish climbing down the ladder and get as
far from the Duke as possible, but she couldn’t make her legs work, and her
hands seemed determined to grip the ladder, as if afraid of doing anything to
make the Duke’s finger cease its movement across her face.

“You’re filthy, Miss Honeywell,” he said in a soft voice
that belied the accusation of his words. His eyes darkened. “You’re
freckled
.”

He was insulting her, which would never do, but she could
not seem to find her voice.

His finger arrived at her chin and stopped.

She forgot how to breathe.

Then he began to lean towards her, and she began to lean
towards him, feeling precisely the way she felt after one too many sips of
Honeywell Ale. And she realized somewhere in the midst of all of their mutual
leaning that he was going to kiss her. Or
she
was going to kiss
him.

Hell and damnation. They were going to
kiss each other
.

Heat flashed through her veins and pooled low in her belly,
shocking her. She had never been kissed. Opportunities had presented themselves
in the past, and she had adroitly avoided every one of them. None of the men
who had tried to kiss her had ever made
her
want to kiss them. She’d never felt the slightest stirrings of passion. Perhaps
mild curiosity, but nothing to make her actually want to satisfy that
curiosity. But now, staring at Montford’s lips – full, rather sensuous
lips when they weren’t pinched with their usual disapproval – she felt
positively ravenous.

She licked her lips nervously, and something ticked in his
jaw, his own mouth parting in surprise, as if she had dealt him a blow.

Gads, she wanted this. She wanted
him
in that moment more than she had ever wanted anything. His lips
on hers. Her hands in that marvelous hair. More than just his finger touching
her jaw.

How was this possible, she wondered? This was Montford, the
villain she had loathed for years, her greatest adversary. Why, then, did he
have to be so handsome? He didn’t
look
like a villain at all at the moment, what with those parted lips and those
intense gray eyes.

Her innards practically quivered in anticipation.

Then her left foot chose to slip from its perch, and her
ribs hit the slat in the ladder, knocking her back to her senses.

She jerked from him, anticipation replaced by blind panic. “What
are you
doing
?” she hissed.

“What am I…? What are
you
doing?” he retorted, jumping away from her and hitting the shelf behind him. His
shoulder dislodged a book, and it tumbled down his body, its heavy spine
thudding against his toes. He grunted in pain and hobbled out from under the
ladder.

She finished descending and backed across the room, not
taking her eyes from him, her heart thudding wildly.

He growled in annoyance and bent down to retrieve the
fallen tome. He scanned its spine, then turned to put it back on the shelf. His
brow furrowed in vexation as he did so. “Your shelves are completely out of
order,” he clipped out, tapping the spines of the books in front of him with
enough force to bend them. “Donne next to Swift next to…” He let out a pained
sigh. “
Anonymous
. Really, it is
insupportable. How can you find anything in this chaos?”

He pulled out one book, and then another and another, and
Astrid realized he intended to try to order the shelves.

She rushed forward, their near-kiss on the ladder a distant
memory in the face of his latest outrage, and tugged one of the books from his
hand.

“There is an order,” she protested, stuffing the book back
on the shelf.

“D next to S. I don’t see how.”

“They’re both British.”

“They’re from different centuries.”