The Duke's Holiday (23 page)

“I thought you knew me better, Hiram.”

Hiram’s brow furrowed. “Wot, ye doan want bairns? Ye doan
want a family of yer own? Or a man to warm yer bed?”

Astrid was stung by his harsh tone and didn’t know how to
answer him. Did she want a family of her own? How would she know, since she had
enough trouble dealing with the one she already had? “I’ve never thought about
it. I’ve been too busy.”

“Well, now yer not. Now ye have time to think on it. Now ye
have the priviledge for figurin out what ye want. Not what yer sisters want, or
the workers want, or yer auntie wants, but what
ye
want.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “I’d never thought of it like that,
I suppose …” she began cautiously.

“Well, mebbe ye should. I’m sure ye’ll be thinking a lot in
Lunnun. It’s a whole nother world there ye’ve yet to see.”

“I won’t like it,” she said stubbornly.

He puffed on his pipe and shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll
see, woan we?”

With a harrumph, she stalked off. A few paces later, she
stopped and turned back. “You’re a traitor, Hiram McConnell. And I’ll never
forgive you.”

“Mayhap. Mayhap not,” he said, grinning broadly and
saluting her with both his tankard and his pipe.

She harrumphed again and turned to continue her dramatic
leavetaking, nearly colliding with an innocent bystander who had the audacity
to crowd her path. She looked up to apologize – or snarl – at the
person in question. Instead she bit back an oath.

It was Sir Wesley, staring down at her with clear concern. “There
you are, Astrid. We must talk.”

She rolled her eyes and waved away the arm he’d extended.
She turned and stalked in another direction, but he fell into step beside her.

“I wanted to apologize about last night. I don’t know what
came over me,” he said.

“I believe I can say the same,” she muttered, thinking not
of Wesley but of a silver-eyed scoundrel who’d ruined her life – and her
lips. They were still quite tender from his abuse. The thought filled her with
a shameful heat.

“I just thought it was the right thing to do,” Wesley
continued, kicking a pebble with his boot. “It seemed the only thing … but it
wasn’t right, was it?”

She stopped at the distress in his voice, taking pity on
her cousin. She turned to him and decided to do everyone a favor and set him
straight. God knew someone needed to do so.

He stopped too and stared down sheepishly at his boots. “I
just wanted to help. I’ve always just wanted to help. You know I like you,
Astrid. I like all of you … better than my own family.” He admitted this last
bit without the slightest twinge of guilt.

“I imagine you do, Wesley, but I can’t marry you.”

He grimaced.

“For one, we do not suit. I would run roughshod over you,
and you know it. And I have no patience for your … hobbies. Steam engines? In
boats? Really, Wesley. No, I love you, but as a dear friend. Just as you love
me. As a dear friend.”

He scratched his head. “Suppose you’re right.”

“And for another, I hate your mother.”

He didn’t look the least surprised.

“She’s horrible, and I hate her, and am not one bit ashamed
to admit it.”

“She ain’t so fond of you either.”

“And for another,” she continued, taking a deep breath, and
hoping she was doing the right thing, “Alice would never forgive me.”

His head snapped up. His brow creased in confusion. “What?”

“I said, Alice would never forgive me. She’d likely stab me
in my sleep if I married you.”

He looked affronted and hurt. “Why’d she want to do a thing
like that? I ain’t so bad she’d not think me good enough for your husband.”

Astrid sighed wearily. “Wesley, you really are an idiot.
She’d kill me because she’s in love with you, you dolt.”

Wesley’s eyes grew wide. His jaw attempted to drop off his
face. “What?”

“Alice is in love with you. She’s been in love with you
since she was – oh, about four years old, and you threw your pudding over
her head in the nursery.”

Wesley’s face turned scarlet. “You can’t mean it … really …
Alice
? In love with me?”

“And you’re in love with her. Which was why you dumped your
pudding on her in the first place.”

“Alice? Alice? No, it ain’t possible. She can’t … I mean, I
never dreamed she’d … But I thought I’d … And I’m not…”

Astrid wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him
into a complete thought.

He seemed to gather his wits enough to give her a level
stare. “I never thought she’d give me the time of day, Astrid. I never thought
I was good enough for someone like her.” It took several beats for him to
realize what he’d implied about Astrid, and the color in his face deepened
until it was nearly purple. “Not that you aren’t every bit as…”

Astrid snorted to silence his dimwitted apology. “I know
what you mean. Alice is … Alice.”

“Alice is … she’s an
angel
.
She can’t love me!” he insisted.

They both turned to study the object of their conversation,
who was currently conversing with several earnest-faced young men. Alice was
looking particularly lovely in her sky-blue day gown and rust-colored pellise,
her cheeks rosy from the nip in the air. She laughed, and the sound of it
carried over in the wind like a birdsong.

Wesley sighed at Astrid’s side.

“Nonsense, Wesley, if I say she loves you, she loves you.
You’re an idiot for not noticing. And she’s an idiot for not making her
affection clear to you, though God knows it’s quite clear to everyone else in
the district!”

Wesley didn’t seem to hear her any longer, his attention
settled firmly on Alice. “God, Astrid, how can I even speak to her now!” he
moaned, looking miserable and full of longing.

Astrid’s spate of benevolence was over. Now she was feeling
distinctly irritated. What had she done? “You’d best figure out how soon before
she’s out of hearing range. I understand London is quite some distance from
Rylestone.”

He looked sick. “London! But she can’t go to London…”

“You might tell her that,” Astrid suggested, pushing him in
the direction of her sister.

He stumbled forward as if he’d forgotten how to walk.

Really, this was ridiculous. She took him by the arm and
tugged him towards Alice. He went quite reluctantly for someone so violently in
love.

“Look who I’ve found,” Astrid said, brushing aside the
young men crowding Alice. “Wesley’s been looking everywhere for you. I believe
he wants to say something.”

Wesley’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

Astrid decided her job was at an end. She glared at her
sister, with whom she was still quite angry, and said, “You may thank me later.
I think.”

Alice was confused, but Astrid did not wait around to
clarify her statements. She stalked off. She was doing quite a bit of stalking
today. And as the clock in the chapel tower finally tolled out the noon hour,
she thought it was high time she enjoyed a bit of the free ale on tap. Even
ladies were permitted a sip or two on festival days.

Astrid planned on sneaking several pints.

She was surreptitiously filling a mug to the brim from a
tap located at a discreet distance from prying eyes, glad for a few moments
alone, when she heard someone approach from behind. She looked over her
shoulder and cursed under her breath.

Lightfoot. Looking particularly oily and toadish, his dark
eyes filled with a strange light, and his face – unpleasant to begin with
– painted with an unmistakable leer. She looked involuntarily to her
right and left and cursed again. She certainly didn’t want to be alone
now
, with Mr Lightfoot, but she was. And
she felt … uncomfortable. She’d never liked him, never liked the way he looked
at her. It made her shiver, and not in a good way.

“Miss Honeywell, how lovely to see you.”

She inclined her head and attempted to move past him. He
didn’t exactly trap her where she was, but he made it impossible to get around
him without some part of her touching him. And she most certainly did
not
want to touch him.

“I have heard you’ve had a houseguest,” he said
conversationally.

“The Duke has been and gone. He’ll not be here today, if
you were hinting to be introduced.”

Something unpleasant flashed across his eyes, but he smiled
at her, revealing a set of small, uneven teeth that reminded her of Petunia’s.
“I have also heard that he has … come to some understanding with you regarding
the estate.”

“That, I’m sure, is none of your concern.”

 
“But I
am
most concerned. I am
always
concerned for you, my dear. For
instance, I was most concerned when I heard about the Duke’s little … accident
yesterday. If he had been injured, then I … and I hate to be unpleasantly blunt
… I feared that you might be implicated.”

Astrid stiffened and clutched her mug before her, certain
that her wild suspicion the day before had not been so wild after all.

“It would be terribly inconvenient for you if something
were to happen to the Duke of Montford.”

“Nothing
happened
.
Nothing is going to happen, as he’s left for London.”

“The road can be so dangerous this time of year. Brigands
everywhere, storing up for the winter.”

Astrid did not tremble. She would not give this toad the
satisfaction of betraying such an emotion. But she was afraid. Very afraid. And
she was afraid of no one, not even Montford. Unless he was kissing her, of
course.

But she wouldn’t think of
that
right now. She needed to focus on making an escape from her
current companion. Before, Lightfoot had been an annoyance, but now he was
something else entirely. She’d never trusted him. She’d never trusted that
strange light in his eyes. “You did it,” she stated, meeting his glance
steadily.

He smiled. “Did what?” He sounded innocent, too innocent,
and she knew in that moment beyond a doubt he’d arranged for the shooting
yesterday. Rage consumed her. “You killed my horse.”

“That was truly an accident. I’m sure the shooter only
meant to make a point.”

“What, do you think, was the point?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, shrugging insouciantly.
“Perhaps that there are consequences to leading certain gentlemen on. That,
perhaps, it would behoove a certain lady to reconsider an offer that was made
not once, but twice.”

She laughed, though she felt like crying. “Do you know,
that is the second attempt to blackmail me in as many days? It would be
amusing, if it were not so pathetic.”

She shoved past him, not caring if he touched her, just
that she had to escape him. But he caught her by the arm. Ale splashed all over
her sleeve. “You’ll reconsider, Miss Honeywell,” he snarled in her ear. His
breath smelled like old boots. Her stomach churned.

She yanked her arm away from him. “I’ll not reconsider, you
odious man. Kill the bloody Duke. He’s no friend of mine.”

He grabbed for her again, but she sped forward, out of his
reach, her heart pounding with fear and rage.

“You’ll be mine, one way or another,” she heard him call
behind her.

She gritted her teeth and lengthened her stride. She didn’t
slow until the general throng once more surrounded her. She needed to find
Hiram. She had to tell him about Lightfoot, though there was precious little to
be done. He’d not exactly confessed, and there was little proof of his
involvement.

She felt a pang of worry. Was the Duke truly in danger?
Would he be accosted on the road by one of Lightfoot’s agents? Surely not.
Surely Lightfoot would not be so foolish!

But he would. He was … well, insane. He must be, to be
going through such lengths to marry her. Her!

She had to warn the Duke. She had to find Hiram. She had to
do
something
.

Astrid pushed her way through the crowd, who was thrumming
with excitement and heading towards the start of the much-anticipated
foot-and-ale race, many of the contestants already there and doing odd
stretching exercises to limber up their legs. The young men of the village and
surrounding district saw the foot-and-ale race, instituted a century ago by one
of Astrid’s more harebrained ancestors, as a rite-of-passage. The race covered
a two-mile circuit around the village and its surrounding environs, with booths
holding pints of ale set up at intervals along the way. The young men ran barefoot
over the course as fast as they could, and were required to guzzle down a pint
at each of the stations before continuing on.

Many started the race. Only a handful crossed the finish
line, and only one or two managed to do so still standing. The first one of
these was declared the victor, crowned King for a day, and allowed to claim for
himself a Queen by kissing her in front of the entire assemblage. The King
rarely made it to this point in the proceedings until much later, as sprinting
for two miles and drinking eight pints at the same time did not mix well.

It was quite the most ridiculous spectacle Astrid had ever
seen.

Astrid began to notice that not all were moving towards the
course. In fact, a good portion of the throng was milling about at the edge of
the green, casting curious glances toward something out of Astrid’s line of
vision, and whispering behind their hands.

She spied her Aunt Anabel adjusting her wig at the corner
of this crowd, and decided she’d go assist her before the thing leapt off her
head and ran away. When she reached her aunt’s side and completed her task, she
felt an odd tingling on the back of her neck, a heightened awareness, as if she
felt someone’s eyes watching her. She looked around and wished she hadn’t, for
now she saw what everyone was making such a fuss about. Or rather,
whom
.

Montford. Damnation!

What was he doing here?