The Duke's Holiday (22 page)

When he reached the stables and set aside his lantern, he
found a heavy sledgehammer in the tool room and approached his pride and joy,
grim-faced but resolved.

He was doing this for the Duke’s own good, he told himself
as he lifted the sledgehammer over his head.

One day in the distant future, the Duke would thank him, he
told himself as the sledgehammer descended against the front axel.

He didn’t stop until the axel was shattered beyond repair.

IN WHICH
THE DUKE’S HOLIDAY IS EXTENDED

MONTFORD
DID not sleep at all that night, acutely aware that two doors down from him a
certain female lurked, cutting up his peace. He tossed and turned and was
unable to think of anything but what had happened between them in the drawing
room. He could still taste her in his mouth, though he had scrubbed it raw. He
could still smell her on him, though he had bathed and changed. He could still
feel the weight of her breast in his hand and the warmth of her body pressed
against him. And every time he recalled the sounds she had made deep in her
throat as he kissed her, he broke out into a cold sweat.

His arousal would not subside. It was there, tormenting him
underneath his sheets, mocking him. He thought about relieving himself, but
that thought filled him with shame and rage. He wouldn’t give himself the
satisfaction – he wouldn’t give
her
the satisfaction. He’d not pleasured himself since he was a green lad. He
wasn’t about to stoop so low as to behave like a randy adolescent merely
because some impertinent chit had got into his blood.

He’d take a mistress as soon as he arrived back in London.
Araminta Carlisle bedamned – his future duchess was not going to satisfy
this black craving. No, he’d find some buxom widow or courtesan and take care
of this little problem of his.

A redhead, he decided. With generous breasts. He’d not had
one of those, and he was certain it was the novelty that had him so drawn to
this particular female.

Yes, that was it.

But this solution offered no solace to his aching body. It
didn’t want some random woman. It wanted one woman. One completely unsuitable,
frightful-looking woman who angered him with her very existence.

He hated her.

He hated this place and cursed himself for ever stepping
out of his London palace.

He fell into an exhausted stupor around dawn, when he was
supposed to be high-tailing it back to London. By the time he dragged himself
out of bed, it was well past mid morning and approaching the noon hour. He felt
as if he’d been run over by a mail coach.

His only consolation as he crept downstairs was that his
erection had subsided out of sheer exhaustion, and that the castle seemed to be
empty. He could not face any of the Honeywell clan – he could not face
her
again. He’d likely lose his mind.

Newcomb was waiting for him down by the stables. His
coachman’s face was grim, and he could not quite meet his master’s eyes. This
was unusual in his normally frank, no-nonsense servant. Montford felt his first
prick of apprehension.

“’Tis some bad news I have for you, sir,” Newcomb said,
leading him into the stables.

Montford froze in his boots when Newcomb indicated the
carriage and the unmistakable crack in its axel. “What the bloody hell?”

Newcomb thrust his hands in his pockets and rocked on his
heels. “Must’ve happened on the trip up, only it didn’t give way ‘til recently.
Didn’t notice it til this morning myself.”

Montford was dumbstruck. He turned to his coachman in
disbelief. “Didn’t notice it? You, Newcomb? I find it hard to believe.”

Newcomb furrowed his brow. He looked affronted that his
skill at his job had been maligned, and just the slightest bit … guilty?

But surely not.

Surely Montford’s nerves were so shattered by the past
three days he was merely seeing things that weren’t there. Newcomb was a
high-stickler when it came to his job. He’d never purposely sabotage his
precious carriage.

But someone had. The idea that this was the result of an
accident on the journey north seemed flimsy.

Someone did not want him to leave Yorkshire.

An absurd idea. Everyone including himself wanted the Duke
of Montford on the King’s Highway back to London. That was made perfectly clear
the day before when he’d nearly been assassinated.

Unless whoever had shot at him yesterday had done this for
some nefarious reason as yet understood.

Which made no sense whatsoever.

He pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t having a bad
dream. “This looks deliberate,” he said.

Newcomb’s brows shot up in surprise. “You think someone did
this on purpose?” He snorted in disbelief.

“It’s a little convenient, don’t you think? And you
yourself said you hadn’t noticed anything wrong until this morning.”

Newcomb shook his head determinedly. “It was a hair-line
fracture that didn’t snap loose for some time. I remember myself that bit of
rough stretch we had outside Hebden. Must’ve happened then.”

Newcomb seemed bloody sure of his theory. So sure of
himself, in fact, that Montford was increasingly suspicious. He narrowed his
eyes on his driver. “I suppose this shall take some time to fix.”

Newcomb nodded and trained his eyes on the carriage. “A
week at least.”

Montford’s heart sank. “A week! Damnation! I’ll not stay
here another week! I’m leaving today. Saddle up one of the grays.”

Newcomb looked alarmed. “They’re carriage horses, not
saddle bred. You’ll not be riding one of them back to London, Your Grace.”

“Then I’ll buy a horse in the village.”

Newcomb shook his head vehemently. “It’s Sunday. No place
open.”

“They’ll open for me,” Montford muttered.

“Don’t think so, Your Grace. It’s the Festival today.”

Montford growled and clenched his hands. Oh, yes, the
bloody Festival.
That
was where
everybody was.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but you look a bit green
about the gills,” Newcomb said with some concern and a whiff of amusement.

“This is a damned nightmare!” Montford roared, pointing at
the broken carriage. “How am I supposed to stand another day in this
godforsaken place?”

“Reckon you’ll survive,” Newcomb muttered.

Montford glared hard at his driver. Newcomb shrugged and
stared at the ceiling.

Why did Montford have the feeling Newcomb knew more than he
was telling?

“Damn and blast!” he exploded, turning on his heel and
stalking outside. “I’m going to the village. I’m going to find a damned mount
and get the hell out of this damned bloody backwater today, if it damn well
kills me!”

Newcomb fell into step beside him. “Let’s hope it won’t
come to that, sir,” he said, too cheerily for Montford’s liking.

THE
SKY was clear, the air crisp but not uncomfortably chilly for October, the fall
foliage vibrant hued and at its peak, a pleasing, picturesque backdrop for
today’s revelries. Sunday was usually a day of reverence, but not when the
annual Harvest Festival arrived. Only the highest sticklers – few and far
between in Rylestone, thank God – eschewed the festivities.

The vicar himself was not among this pious vanguard,
however. His sermons on the day of the festival were always the liveliest and
most stutter-free sermons he delivered all year. And under the pretense of
shepherding his flock, he joined in the day’s events with enthusiasm every
year, and every year, this enthusiasm culminated in a noticeably wobbly retreat
to the vicarage, often aided by one or two favored parishioners.

Farmers and businessmen from all around the district had
driven into the village in the early morning hours to set up their stalls,
where all manner of food and sundries could be bought. Honeywell Ale, donated
to the Festival, flowed freely from the personal tankards of Rylestone’s
citizenry, both men and women.

Owing to the carnival atmosphere, the normal laws governing
conduct between men and women were loosened, leading to many public embraces
and not a few kisses stolen behind the paltry cover of a tree or building. Many
marriages were hastily contracted in the weeks that followed the harvest
festival, many more babies in the village born nine months to the day
afterwards. It was somewhat of a badge of honor to bear a festival baby.

Spirits were high, as they always were, and only one or two
troublemakers cast a temporary pall over an otherwise merry day. There were not
many bad seeds in Rylestone Green.

And the worst seed of all had thankfully departed for
London.

Astrid was relieved that when she went back to the castle
he
would no longer be there. She truly
was.

But she was in no mood to celebrate. In fact, she felt
rather depressed.

Not to mention rather … distracted. Her mind kept drifting
back to The Encounter, as she had dubbed it in her mind, and every time it did,
her body became all tingly, her stomach fluttered, and her cheeks burned. Had
he kissed her? She didn’t even known what to call what the Duke had done to her
mouth. It had been obscene. It had been meltingly wonderful. He’d awoken parts
of her body – parts of her soul – she’d not known existed.

She would never forgive him for making her feel so … so…

Ruined.

He had stuck his hand down her bodice, and she had let him.
She had craved his touch, and she had wanted more, even as her mind protested.
If he hadn’t been able to unbutton her gown, if he hadn’t broken their kiss and
come to his senses, she didn’t know if she would have had the wherewithal to
stop him. He’d turned her wits to mush, her body into a raging inferno.

Why? Why had he done it? To humiliate her? To punish her
with some primitive display of male dominance?

She would never know now, and it did not matter. She’d
never see him again. Or if she did, she would make sure she was not alone with
him. They seemed to bring out the worst in each other.

And, she reminded herself bitterly, she’d be married by
then.

All three of her prospective grooms were at the Festival.
She’d seen Mr. Lightfoot lurking in the crowd and had promptly hidden herself
behind a stall to avoid him. She would not be marrying
him
, that was for certain. As for her cousin – well, that too
was out of the question.

Which left the vicar.

She studied Mr. Fawkes from the other side of the green as
he attempted to order a meat pie from one of the vendors. As Mr. Fawkes was no
good with his m’s or his p’s, the vendor had plucked up a pie, wrapped it in
wax paper, handed it over, taken his money, and given him change, before he
could finish his request.

Astrid liked the vicar. Astrid liked the fact that she
would have no problem wrapping him around her little finger. But she could not
marry the poor man. It would just be cruel.

She sighed. London it would be.

Alice seemed amenable to the scheme, which wasn’t
surprising. Sir Wesley was never going to get around to noticing her, and if
she couldn’t have him, then a Season away from him had sounded like music to
her ears. It was Wesley’s loss if he was an idiot, and Alice had always wanted
a Season. To her mind, the Duke had been more than generous. He had given them
everything they ever wanted. Dowries, the Hall, the chance to catch a husband
in London. She hadn’t seen why Astrid was so upset, as this was what Astrid had
ostensibly been working so hard to provide for her sisters to begin with.

But to Astrid’s mind, the Duke had taken away everything.
He had reduced her to what she had worked so hard to deny: an unmarried,
dependent, powerless female. Now Astrid knew how Napoleon must have felt when
he was exiled to Elba. Sick to his stomach and bristling with indignation.

Well, she’d find a way to escape, just like Napoleon had.
She’d go to bloody London and find some poor doddering old thing to shackle
herself to. The older the better. He’d likely die during the wedding reception,
and she would own the castle and lands outright as a widow. The Duke couldn’t
do anything about it if she married an octogenerian who’d kick off within a few
months.

Bastard.

And she was not giving up her managerial duties quite yet.
Tomorrow was one of her favorite days of the year, when all of the brewery’s
employees rode out in different directions to deliver the seasonal supply of ale
to cities and towns across the country. She was not going to give up her
customary spot on the cart to Hawes, come hell or high water.

She determined to make this clear as she crossed through the
crowd to reach Charlie Weeks’ side. He was talking to Hiram in front of a keg,
the two men deep into a pint of ale. Charlie blanched when he saw her approach,
which doubtless meant that news had already spread of her fall from the throne.

She sniffed in Hiram’s direction as he doffed his hat to
her. “I’m not talking to you, turncoat,” she said stiffly.

“Well, now, ain’t that a surprise,” Hiram answered wryly.

She turned to Charlie and pointed her finger at his chest.
“Don’t think I’m not coming to Hawes with you tomorrow, Charlie Weeks.” She
swung the finger at Hiram. “And don’t think you can stop me. I’m going, and you
can all hang if you don’t like it.”

Hiram held up his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, lass,
easy. I weren’t gonna stop ye, for cryin’ oot loud.”

“Well, good!” she sniffed. “Because I’m going.” She turned
back to Charlie. “First light?”

Charlie, still rather pale, nodded. “As always, Miss
Astrid. I have the cart made up and ready to go already.”

“Fine.” Astrid crossed her arms and settled her glare on
Hiram.

Charlie, sensing the discord in the air, made his excuses
and left them.

Hiram cocked an eyebrow and pulled his pipe out of his
pocket. “Ach, dunna look at me like that, lass. I done wot best for the lot of
yer.”

“How is that, I wonder?”

“Himself were beyond fair, all considering. Yer sisters are
well set, an ye won’t be caught in yer aunt’s web of hatefulness. He be givin
ye the castle, an that’s more’n we ever thought ye’d see.”

“If I
marry
,
Hiram.”

“Aye an wot so wrong with tha’, pray tell? It’s aboot time
yer settled in an had a passel of wee bairns.”