The Duke's Holiday (12 page)

“They’re both poets.”

“Gulliver’s Travels is not poetry,” he ground out between
clenched teeth. He waved one of the books in front of her face. “And this one
is Anonymous.” He turned the front cover to the title page and squinted down
with disgust. “And a novel.
Pride and
Prejudice
:
By The Author of Sense and
Sensibility
. A
ladies’
novel. No
doubt written by a woman.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He held up the book between the tips of his fingers as if
it were soiled. “There is only one thing worse than an Anonymous novel writer.
An Anonymous
female
novel writer.”

She snatched the book from his hand and barely resisted the
urge to cosh him with it. “You are a cretin.”

He clenched his hands at his sides and watched her reshelve
the book with something resembling pain in his eyes.

“You really can’t bear it, can you?” she asked, turning
back to him, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Hmm?” he mumbled, staring bleakly at the shelves.

“The disorder. The chaos. Donne next to Swift. It is really
upsetting your delicate sensibilities.”

“
You
are
upsetting my delicate sensi … Oh, devil take it, what am I saying?” He swung
away from her. He raised his hand to rake his fingers through his hair, then
checked himself, muttered an oath, and let his arm drop to his side. He flexed
his fingers against his hip as if attempting to contain himself. “Miss
Honeywell.”

“You keep saying my name, but never get around to stating
your business.”

“You keep distracting me.”

“Oh, good. Exactly part of my master plan.”

He swung around to her, suspicion crowding his features.
“Is it?”

She laughed. “You think I have a master plan?”

“Don’t you? Some devious scheme laid out that ends with me
roasting on a spit?”

“You give me much credit.”

“Do you not think you deserve it, since you profess to be
so clever?”

“I have never professed…”

“‘In case you are operating under some false delusions
regarding my intelligence,’” he said, pitching his voice to imitate hers, but
making it sound quite pedantic and smug – she did not sound like
that
, did she?— “‘I can inform you
I have read Utopia
thrice
…’”

She ended his little recitation by picking up a book and
hurling it at his chest.

It hit him squarely in the cravat and dropped to his toes.

He broke off and glared at her incredulously. “If I were
not a gentleman, Miss Honeywell, I’d take you over my knees and thrash you.”

“I believe you are fond of making such threats. I heard the
same one only this morning as you stared at my breasts.”

“I did no such…”

“
Please.
It would
be ungentlemanly of you to become a liar as well as an ogler.”

“An
ogler
.” His
hands clenched his cravat, ruining the folds entirely, and his face began to
grow increasingly red. “That’s not even a word.”

“It should be.”

“I think I
am
going to strangle you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

He stepped forward as if intent on just that, and she
backed away, suddenly realizing that he was quite serious and quite capable of
following through with his threat. She had pushed him too far.

But then his boot caught on the rather large book she had
thrown at him, and he tripped, landing on his hands and knees with a grunt of
pain. She caught her breath, and when she was sure he was not terribly injured,
judging from the flurry of oaths that flew from his mouth, she began to laugh.

He sat back on his haunches, startled and furious. He sent
her a scathing look and pushed his fallen hair out of his eyes.

Her laughter trailed off. Just as she suspected, his hair
did look much better when disheveled. So much better that the annoying ache
began pounding away in her stomach once again.

He raised his fist in her direction. “You’ll not laugh at
me when I get my hands on you, you little …” He broke off and reached under his
backside, pulling out the book she had thrown at him earlier. He studied the
cover, began to toss it aside to continue his rant, then paused and brought it
back up to his eyes.

“Oh, hell and the devil,” she muttered, her veins filling
with ice. The estate ledgers! Of all the books in all the castle, she had to go
and throw the one she least wanted him to find right into his clutches.

Well, at his chest.

But still, it was in his clutches now, and he was thumbing
through the contents with a smug look dawning across his face.

He held the book up over his head and waved it tauntingly.
A victorious grin animated his lips, revealing a set of absurdly white, wolfish
teeth. “What have we here, Miss Honeywell?”

She groaned, her heart seizing in her chest. She could not
let him see the accounts. She should have burned the book yesterday. What had
she been thinking, entrusting it to Alice? If he discovered her creative
bookkeeping, he was going to thrash her for sure. Or throw her in Newgate.

Hell. Bloody triple hell! What was she to do now?

There was only one solution that presented itself.

Without hesitation, she launched herself forward, trying to
grab the book from his hand. His eyes widened at her onslaught, and he jerked
the book backwards, attempting to rise to his feet before she could reach him.

He managed to get to his knees when she grabbed for the
book again, her legs knocking against his shoulder. He muttered a curse into
her skirts as she tumbled over his head, knocking them both flat against the
carpet. The book flew from his hands, skidding across the floor, and she began
to crawl towards it, digging her right knee into some part of his anatomy
– hopefully his brainbox – that caused him to bellow a four letter
oath so inelegantly foul – beginning with f, ending with k – even
she
didn’t use it. She strained out her
hand to retrieve the book when she felt something hard clamp around her ankle
and pull her back. Her arms failed beneath her, sending her stomach smashing
against the floor, taking the very breath from her lungs.

She glanced behind her and saw the Duke holding her foot
and attempting to crawl around her. She kicked out with her other foot, landing
her bootheel squarely against his shoulder.

He gasped in pain and released her. She started forward
once more, but so did he. They both grasped the book at the same time, she
tugging one way, he the other. He had an unfair advantage, being several stone
heavier than her and padded with muscle, so she felt rather like a sparrow attempting
to pull a worm from the beak of an eagle. She had no choice but to level the
odds and bring her knee back into the equation. It shot out, catching him in
the ribs, and he fell back with a groan. Refusing to relinquish the book, she
fell on top of him.

Her forehead knocked against his chin so violently that she
saw stars behind her eyes. She gasped in pain, and so did he.

“Umph!”

“Ouch!”

She shifted her weight on top of him, and he gasped again,
his grip on the book loosening just enough so that she snatched it free of him
and rolled to one side, clutching it with both hands, her chest heaving with
exertion.

He sat up next to her, panting, his hair at sixes and
sevens, his cravat dangling loosely from his shirtfront, his jacket torn open
and missing several buttons. If looks could kill, she’d be a pillar of salt. “You
devil’s spawn!” he breathed. “Do you really think you are going to win?”

She hugged the book against her chest tightly and jutted
her chin defiantly.

“I could crush you, you know,” he intoned.

“Haven’t done a very good job so far,” she sniffed.

His jaw dropped incredulously, and he made a move as if to
attack her.

Astrid reacted on instinct. Nothing about their struggle
had been in the least dignified, but she held out hope that at least some
bounds of propriety could not be crossed even at this late juncture – though
there was nothing proper in what she was about to do. But desperate times
called for desperate measures, and she’d never been so desperate as this.
Montford was sure to send her to the gaol if he saw what she’d done.

She sat up quickly, lifted her skirts, and shoved the book
into her drawers.

The Duke froze.

He stared at her as if he’d been hit by a load of bricks.
Or every book in the library. At once.

At length, he seemed to find his voice. “You didn’t just …”
It wavered on the last word.

She laid her hands over her lap protectively. “Oh, I did.”
She arched her brow challengingly because she could not help herself.

His jaw snapped shut, his lips thinned to a hard line, and
his eyes narrowed.

Her heart jumped in terror at the clear look of intent
written on his cold features.

He moved forward.

She promptly moved backwards. A bookshelf stopped her
progress abruptly. She clutched her stomach protectively, her pulse now racing furiously.
“You wouldn’t…”

He arched one of his perfect brows in fair imitation of
her. “Wouldn’t I?” he practically growled, prowling towards her on all fours
like some predatory beast stalking its prey.

She kicked out her leg, but he caught her ankle in a hard
grip and continued forward. He didn’t stop until he was straddling her and
pinning in the sides of her head with both of his arms. His face hovered inches
from her own. He was breathing as heavily as she was, his face flushed.

She hadn’t until this moment realized how massive he was.
He seemed to fill all the space around her and all of her senses with his
imposing presence. His scent – clean male, sandalwood – invaded her
nostrils, his heat crept into her bones. And though no part of her touched him,
other than the sides of her legs entrapped by his knees, she could feel his
strength. He was no featherweight beneath his fashionable wardrobe. No fake
padding filled out
his
figure.

She had the absurd desire to reach up to those broad
shoulders and run her hands over his jacket, feel the ridges of the body
beneath. She knew he would be hard and chiseled and…

She let out a hysterical laugh. He was practically holding
her hostage, and she was thinking about his
shoulders
.

Better, she thought grimly, than to think about what he
intended to do, which she still couldn’t quite believe. The idea of him
reaching up her skirts made her body twinge, her pulse race, and her skin break
out into a cold sweat of pure…

Anticipation?

That blow to the forehead must have disordered her mind.

“You cannot be serious,” she breathed. “You will not … do what
I think you are going to do…”

He expelled a laugh every bit as hysterical as hers had
been. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and his eyes went opaque. “If
you didn’t want me to reach up your skirts, Miss Honeywell, you should not have
put the book there.”

“You are a gentleman, sirrah, I am a lady.”

He barked out another laugh. “When in the last two days
have you behaved like a lady, Miss Honeywell? Chasing a pig in trousers?
Cursing like a Seven Dials pickpocket? Brawling with me like some common …
common …” He trailed off in his harangue, astonishment and annoyance replacing
his ire. “Miss Honeywell, don’t you dare cry.”

“I’m not crying,” she sniffled, tears streaming down the
sides of her face. She turned her head away from him and squeezed her eyes
together. His words hit very close to Alice’s own earlier imprecations. She
hated herself for dissolving into tears, but she could not help it. She was a
lady, she
was
!

No, she wasn’t. Alice was quite right. And so was Montford.
She was a cursing, brawling, common strumpet. And she couldn’t help it. It was
the way she was, the way she had to be to keep this family together. If she
didn’t fight for the Honeywells, who else would? Aunt Anabel?

“You’re crying, which is entirely unfair,” he growled.

“Go ahead, take the bloody book,” she said, going limp
underneath him.

“Oh, no, you’re going to give it to me.”

“Never. Take the book. Just like you’ll take everything
else.”

He sighed and rested his forehead on her fallen hair. The
scent or touch of it seemed to rouse him to his senses, because he immediately
jerked his head back up. “I didn’t think you a female who would use tears and
guilt to have her way.”

“Have my way? Do you think I want you to reach up my skirts
and …” She broke off, her face flooding with heat, her tears drying abruptly.
He stared down at her in that slack-jawed way he had developed since beginning
their wrestling match, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a faint hint of color rose
over the bridge of his nose.

“No of course, that’s not what I meant. You think you can
get away with this act of yours, play upon my sympathies,” he murmured.

“I’m well aware that you possess none of those.”

He groaned in frustration. “What is so damned vital about
that book that you would shove it down your drawers?”

“Just get it over with,” she challenged. “I dare you.”

“You dare me, do
you? You little terror. I should. I should just do it,” he said, his words more
certain than the querulous, bemused tone he’d used to say them. His chest
heaved with exertion as he hovered over her, clearly torn.

Awareness flooded her once more. He was so close, so warm,
so pleasant-smelling, she could drown in him and be lost forever.

She tossed her head, trying to shake out her mutinous
thoughts, and squirmed beneath him. This was a mistake, for he caught her by
the wrists and pinned her hands above her head with effortless ease. He held
her in place with one hand and lowered his other.

“You aren’t …”

“You leave me no choice, Miss Honeywell,” he said in a
strangled voice.