The Duke's Holiday (24 page)

And looking like an alien species in his expensive, fussy
clothes, amid the rustic woolens of most of the villagers. There was no
mistaking who he was or the effect he had on the crowd. If an elephant had been
planted next to him covered in pink paint,
he
would without a doubt be considered the greater curiosity.

He seemed oblivious to the scrutiny, however, his eyes
locked in on her, like a bird of prey’s on a field mouse.

Her heart leapt up into her throat, then thudded to her
feet and stayed there, an aching, miserable mound.

What the bloody blue blazes was
Montford
doing here? He was supposed to be on the road back to
London, being attacked by highwaymen.

Alice came up beside her with a worried expression. She
tugged on Astrid’s arm to get her attention. “What did you do to Wesley?” Alice
demanded.

Astrid tore her attention from the Duke. “What?”

“He’s acting very peculiar. I think he might be ill or something.
He can’t seem to speak.”

And that was a bad
thing
? Astrid wanted to retort. Clearly Wesley had yet to work up his courage
to speak to Alice.

Alice frowned. “
And
he’s
entering the foot race. Perhaps he’s had too much ale.”

Astrid could imagine why Wesley was entering the race
– to make Alice his queen. But that was if he won, which was unlikely.
Gentlemen did not participate in the race, not just because it was considered
de trop
. It was an issue of pride, as
gentlemen had no wish to be bested by the common lads who made their living
through physical labor. Gentlemen were not generally a hearty lot.

When Lady Emily discovered her son’s disgraceful behavior,
Astrid wished she could be a fly on the wall when
that
happened. But she didn’t have time to deal with Wesley. She
had a mission to complete …

A mission she had totally forgotten. What was she on her
way to do? Montford’s appearance had knocked it clear out of her head.

Alice was similarly distracted from her train of thought by
something she saw over Astrid’s shoulder. Astrid didn’t need to see Alice’s
round eyes and slack mouth to know what had caught her attention. Astrid’s arms
broke out into gooseflesh. She could
feel
the Duke drawing near.

“What’s he doing here?” Alice whispered.

Astrid shrugged and raised the mug to her mouth. She drank
the entire pint in one gulp for fortification. She choked at the end, and
someone thumped her on the back. It was Roddy, grinning and already a bit
wobbly. “All right?”

She shook her head. Then Roddy saw the Duke and gave her a
commiserating look. “Oh bloody hell. He doesn’t look pleased,” he muttered and
turned to flee.

“Don’t you dare run away from me, Stevenage!” boomed the
Duke.

Roddy blanched in defeat and spun back around, dropping the
Duke a remarkably steady bow.

Astrid glanced around and saw that everyone in the vicinity
was attempting some sort of bow or curtsy, to varying degrees of success. Now
that word had spread – like a bloody wildfire – that the Duke would
not be chopping off anyone’s head, he was no longer
persona non grata
. In fact, it looked as if Rylestone’s denizens
were more than happy to start currying his favor.

Astrid’s blood boiled.

He ignored everyone around him and addressed his former
man-of-affairs. “I need a mount,” he said.

“A … mount? A horse?” Roddy was clearly in no state to deal
with the Duke’s problem.

“Yes, a horse, you idiot.”

“Why do you need a horse, Your Grace?” Sir Wesley asked,
coming up to join them, avoiding Alice’s eyes.

“So I can leave,” the Duke said with impatience.

Wesley looked baffled. “What about your coach? Fine piece
of equipment.”

“It’s broken.”

“Broken? Oh dear, that
is
a problem.” Wesley’s brow bunched up. “Rode my high-stepper over here, so can’t
help you there. Got plenty of good stock back at the grange if you want one of
‘em.”

“Fine,” the Duke bit off. “Shall we go?”

Wesley was taken aback. “You mean now? Can’t leave
now
. The grange’s a good hour away, and
the race is about to start.”

The Duke looked irritated. “Race?”

“The foot-and-ale race.”

“The foot and what?”

“Foot-and-ale,” Wesley said slowly. He explained what this
entailed, to the Duke’s growing incredulity.

“What nonsense,” he said with utter disdain.

“It ain’t,” Wesley protested.
 
He puffed out his chest. “I’m running
this year, and I mean to win it and claim my kiss.” At this last vow, Wesley’s
face turned scarlet as he glanced in Astrid and Alice’s direction.

The Duke’s expression grew thunderous. “You expect me to
wait until you run barefoot and drunk around the village so that you might make
a spectacle of your cousins and yourself? I think you must forget who I am, Sir
Wesley,” the Duke growled.

Wesley looked mortified. He glanced to Astrid for support.

“Surely you cannot deny Sir Wesley a chance to win his lady
love, Your Grace,” she said with a forced smile. “To win the foot-and-ale race
is a great honor.”

“I don’t give a damn,” he snarled.

From Wesley’s abashed look, the Duke was going to have his
way, and this was not something Astrid was willing to allow on principle alone.
Montford could wait an hour for Wesley to run his silly race. Astrid certainly
had no desire for Montford to stay another minute, much less another hour. But
if anything could be done to inconvenience him further, then Astrid was all in
favor of
that
.

“Not many gentlemen have the courage to enter the
foot-and-ale race, Your Grace. Sir Wesley has bravely entered the fray. To pull
out now, after he has already given notice, would make him lose face. You would
not have him dishonor himself, would you?” she asked sweetly.

He settled his attention on her – or on the space
right next to her head, as he couldn’t seem to meet her eye. “He could only be
dishonored if he were competing against others of his own class,” he said
stiffly.

Bastard
.

Astrid gasped in a horrified way that was not entirely an
act. “Why, you utter snob! It is just this kind of feudal thinking that drove
the French to chop off their rulers’ heads.”

“Oh, dear,” Roddy repeated, smelling trouble and backing
away.

She glanced around her and noticed that everyone –
even Alice – had taken a few steps back from the two of them. A crowd of
curious onlookers had formed around them, but at a safe distance, as if
everyone sensed the electricity in the air. Only Aunt Anabel, who was dotty
anyway, remained at Astrid’s side, nodding her head as if she’d fallen asleep
standing up.

Montford stood before her, fists on his hips, his face hewn
from granite, his silver eyes nearly translucent with rage.

She gave him her mildest smile. “Do you know, I have often
thought that the reason gentlemen refuse to engage in a fair fight with a
member of the lower orders has more to do with fear than pomposity,” she
continued conversationally.

His expression hardened even more. “Oh?”

“Yes. It wouldn’t do for a gentleman … oh, say an aristocrat
of your similar station … to be bested by a mere field hand in a … oh, say, a
footrace. How can one rule when one is shown to be weaker than his subjects?”

“Weaker,” he repeated.

“Yes. Soft. Effete.
Vestigial
.”

“Vestigial?” His voice was soft, but every syllable was
spoken with knife-edged precision.

“As in, no longer necessary to the body as a whole, like
one’s appendix. But in this case, it is the body politic, and the atrophied
organ is the aristocracy –”

“Some would call your statements seditious, Miss
Honeywell.”

“I would have thought
all
,
not just some. But I only meant to point out the general difference in physical
strength between the upper orders and the common man. The higher one is born,
it seems, the less one is required to … well,
move
. Have you found this to be true, Your Grace?”

He was quiet for a long time. At last, he spoke in an
undertone. “You think I can’t see what you’re doing? You’re trying to goad me
into running this blasted race.”

She feigned affront. “I would
never
do such a thing. I was only suggesting that Sir Wesley is a
very
brave
gentleman, to risk losing
to a mere field hand.
Few
gentlemen
would have the nerve to put themselves in such a position. You should let him
race.”

“You think I can’t win this ridiculous race,” he insisted.

“I never suggested anything of the sort.” She smiled at
him.

“You think I can’t even
finish
this race.”

“Absolutely not.” It was an ambiguous statement at best.

He stared and stared at her until something seemed to
explode inside of him, and then he turned on his heel abruptly and began
striding across the green, catching Wesley by the arm and pulling him along.

“Wh … what’s happening?” Wesley asked.

“We’re going to race,” the Duke practically roared.

Astrid stared at the Duke’s retreating back, dumbstruck, as
did the rest of the crowd who had overheard his declaration. Then a rumble of
anxious chatter swelled louder as the news spread, and the crowd began to
follow the two noblemen down towards the start of the racecourse.

She honestly hadn’t meant to provoke the Duke this far. But
things, as usual, had gotten out of hand quicker than she could have
anticipated, once her tongue got the best of her.

Someone really must pass a law forbidding herself and the
Duke of Montford from coming within a hundred miles of each other.
 
They made fools out of each other. In
this case, however, Montford alone would be the fool.

A Duke running in the foot-and-ale race? Stranger things
might have happened in Rylestone, but not in Astrid’s lifetime.

Once her initial shock faded, her heart lifted in
anticipation of his defeat, for surely he would lose. She doubted if Montford
had ever run anywhere in his life, and she knew for a fact that he was quite
abstemious in his drinking habits. Combining the two seldom-enjoyed activities
could only end in a rather splendidly ignoble thrashing at the hands – or
rather, feet – of Rylestone’s farm boys.

Or at least that was what she hoped.

She hurried to catch up with the rest of the crowd.

Only when she reached the starting line did three worrying
thoughts intrude. Number one: what if – and surely she was merely being
paranoid – what if Montford actually won? Number two: if number one
happened, would Montford choose a Queen? Which brought her to number three: if
number two happened, would he choose her?

Would he kiss her again? That was her concern. Would he
kiss her again, in public? Or … Oh, God! She’d just thought of something even
worse. What if he should kiss someone else?

And then she thought of something even worse than that. Why
did she
care
if he kissed someone
else?

Astrid was so caught up in these pressing worries that she
totally forgot about Mr. Lightfoot and that gentleman’s poorly veiled threats
until much, much later.

By then, of course, it was too late.

IN WHICH
THE DUKE ENTERS HIS SECOND RACE OF THE WEEK

THE
WAGERS started flying as soon as word spread that the Duke of Montford,
Rylestone’s erstwhile landlord, was going to run in the foot-and-ale race. The
assembly was buzzing with excitement, gossiping about Miss Honeywell’s
challenge, and calling out bets as the contestants gathered at the edge of the
green, giving a wide berth to their liege, who was staring at the starting
line, looking as if he’d like to murder them all.

Or one in particular, and everyone knew who that was.

It was on account of Miss Honeywell calling Himself a
vestigious organ, the butcher said to the milliner, who had not been close
enough to hear the already legendary conversation. As far as the butcher could
figure, being called vestigious was a terrible insult, and Himself had no
choice but to defend his Honor. Miss Honeywell, answered the milliner over his
pint, may have overstepped her bounds this time, as one just didn’t go around
calling a man’s organs vestigious, especially if the organs were belonging to a
Duke.

The butcher agreed with this assessment and eyed the Duke
appraisingly as the Duke began to take off his jacket and loosen his cravat.
Himself was a well-set-up fellow, beneath all of the fluff he wore, and the
butcher liked the look of his long legs. The butcher also figured that Miss
Honeywell had made the Duke’s blood boil so hot – as she tended to do to
most men – that the fellow would carry himself through the race on steam
power alone. He promptly laid out a sovereign on the Duke. The milliner, who
enjoyed quite a lot of business from the Honeywell girls, remembered where his
loyalties lay (and the exact shade of Alice Honeywell’s eyes) and bet a
sovereign against the interloper.

Transactions of this sort were made throughout the crowd,
and it was noted even the vicar had thrown down a few shillings on the Duke
– for the poor box should he win, he assured everyone. And while the men
bet on the outcome, the women speculated on what the Duke would do afterwards
if he won. Furious primping and preening began in every unmarried female under
the age of one hundred, excluding, of course, the Misses Honeywells.

Although, one observer, who shall remain nameless, but who
had a vested concern for Miss Honeywell’s person, and who was lurking at the
back of the crowd in a particularly ominous manner, noted that Miss Honeywell
tucked back her hair not once, not twice, but thrice, behind her ears, an act
of vanity heretofore unrecorded, and never took her eyes from the Duke of
Montford as he stripped down to his waistcoat. These were troubling signs to
the observer, who began to wish the Duke had indeed tumbled to his death along
with his mount on the previous day.

Unaware of the upheaval he had caused in the surrounding crowd
and the enemy he made, Montford glared at the small group of young men who
loitered around him, looking severely uncomfortable in his presence. Sir Wesley
was half-bent over, trying to pull off his stockings, blushing furiously. A few
of the other fellows were stretching out their legs and contorting their bodies
in a fashion that looked extremely painful to Montford’s eyes.

What the devil had he done?

He didn’t dare turn to find Miss Honeywell. He feared that
just seeing her again would drive him to do something even more outrageous.
Although what could be more outrageous than what he was about to do?

Nothing.

If any of his acquaintances back in London ever heard that
he participated in a drunken foot race, he would be laughed out of the House of
Lords. Or locked in Bedlam on suspicion of insanity.

Sherbrook and Marlowe, of course, would think it hilarious.
If they believed it at all. They thought him the King of Stuffed Shirts, after
all.

As did Miss Honeywell, apparently, last evening
notwithstanding.

Last evening …

His blood simmered. He reached down to tug off his boots.
They were tall Hessians and did not disconnect so easily. He needed to sit down
to take them off himself, and that was something he wasn’t about to do. The
ground was rather damp.

He stared down the racecourse, and his heart sank. He was
going to be running barefoot in grass and mud for two miles? He was going to be
more than
damp
by the end of it.

Sir Wesley, seeing his predicament, came to his aid and
offered his services as valet. The baronet was as incompetent in this as he was
in everything else and ended up straddled over Montford’s outstretched leg, his
backside thrust in Montford’s face, as he pulled off the first boot. It finally
slid off with surprising ease, causing Sir Wesley to stumble forward and
Montford to stumble backwards.

Montford tried his best to ignore the ripple of amusement
that ran through the crowd. Sir Wesley returned to remove the second boot, but
Montford waved him off and tugged the bloody thing off himself, anger giving
him the extra force required. His stockinged feet squelched in the damp ground,
and he cringed.

After several murmured oaths, he managed to tear off his
stockings and toss them aside. He glanced down, his legs bared from his knees
to his toes, and muttered another oath. He glanced up at his opponents, who
were staring at him as if he had a tail.

“You will not let me win,” he snarled at them. “I’ll not
bloody well have this turn into any more of a farce than it is already.”

Some of his opponents looked affronted he’d even suggested
it. Some looked scared witless. Others nodded to him with newfound respect. A
few of the brave suggested he do a bit of limbering up so as not to cramp. They
demonstrated how, and Montford watched these contortions in a daze of
incredulity.

He did
not
take
their advice.

He moved stiffly to the starting line with the others and
saw Stevenage, also equally barefoot, fall into place near his side. He gave
Montford an uneasy salute and began to hop into place in some sort of attempt
to loosen up. Stevenage didn’t seem to need it, as he looked, in Montford’s
opinion, as loose as three sailors after a night out at the public house.

Then Miss Honeywell appeared out of the throng and
approached the start. She climbed an upturned barrel, took a stick wrapped with
a red banner from the hands of a villager, and held it above her head.

“What the bloody hell …” he muttered.

“A Honeywell always starts the race,” Sir Wesley informed
him, “It’s tradition.”

Montford groaned and watched as she lowered the stick. The
crowd went wild. The contestants started to sprint down the course. Stevenage
tripped after only a few strides, picked himself up, and carried on, a dark
stain on his rump. Sir Wesley loped off, looking like a giant, flightless bird,
his elbows pumping at his sides.

For a moment, all Montford could do was watch the spectacle
before him, a knot in his stomach. He could not seriously follow all of these
morons!

Then he made the mistake of looking up at Miss Honeywell on
the barrel with her red flag. She was smirking down at him from on high. It was
as clear to him as if she had shouted for all to hear that she didn’t think he
stood a chance in hell of winning.

Which would never do.

He glanced down the course at Sir Wesley, who was leading
the pack, and he saw red. The thought of that idiot winning was insupportable.
Montford had seen the way Sir Wesley had glanced in Miss Honeywell’s direction
earlier, and he knew just what that idiot intended to do once he crossed the
finish line first.

Montford would be damned if he had to witness Sir Wesley
kiss Miss Honeywell again. He would be damned if any of those idiots planted
their lips on her. In fact, if any idiot were to be kissing Miss Honeywell,
that idiot would be Montford and Montford alone.

Not that he was going to kiss her again! Not that he
wanted
to …

“Damnation!” he muttered as he found his legs carrying him
down the course at lightning speed.

He’d caught up to the rest of the pack after the first
hundred yards. After the second hundred yards, the crowd’s cheers had dwindled
to a distant roar in his ears, and his feet were beginning to feel the pain of
the rocks, twigs, and other debris they encountered. He passed a few of the
stragglers, and then a few more, though his accomplishment – such as it
was – was rather diminished by the fact that these stragglers were the
paunchy ones, or the short ones, or the ones – like Stevenage –
who’d already had too much to drink.

At the quarter mile marker, he encountered the first
“station”, where a tankard full of ale was placed in his hands. He observed the
other men around him guzzling their drinks in between gasping for their breath,
and he cursed – or tried to. He was so winded he couldn’t seem to form a
word.

After a brief hesitation, he turned back his tankard and
began to drink the first pint of Honeywell Ale he’d ever had. It was fizzy and
rather bitter, and he wondered not for the first time why people liked the
swill. But reflection was something he could not afford. Speed seemed to be the
key to this farce, so he drank down the ale in two gulps, tossed aside the
tankard like the other men, and continued to run.

The ale sloshed about in his stomach, and a stitch started
to form in his side, but he observed no other effect on his body, so he pushed
through the discomfort. He let his fury carry him to the second marker, where
he tossed back his second tankard, threw it aside, and continued to run across
a footbridge spanning the Ryle and onto a knotty, muddy path through a field of
grazing sheep. He had to dodge several of these creatures and nearly succeeded
in twisting his ankle in a giant mudhole.

By the next quarter-mile marker, his feet were numb, his
lower body was caked in filth, his knees ached, his lungs burned, and his head
was beginning to feel distinctly muddled. As he took his third tankard, he saw
one lad doubled over by a nearby tree, losing the contents of his stomach, and
another stretched by the side of the path, staring dazedly up at the sky. He
hesitated, wondering what in the hell he was doing once more, but then he
noticed Sir Wesley throwing down his tankard and taking off down the path,
looking none the worse for the wear.

Montford upended the tankard and gulped down the entire
pint, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and took off once more.

He was a good thirty paces on when he realized he still
held his tankard. He tossed it in some shrubbery and quickened his pace. He
found himself in the middle of the pack, huffing along with the two fieldhands
who’d assisted him in the ditch yesterday. They nodded in his direction, and he
nodded back, keeping his sights on the baronet’s gangly form ahead near the
lead position. He gritted his teeth and picked up his pace.

He reached the fourth marker behind Sir Wesley but ahead of
the two fieldhands and downed his pint, ale dripping down his lawn shirt, along
with splattered mud and sweat. He found when he started to run again that he
could no longer feel any pain in his feet or knees, and the stitch in his side
seemed miraculously disappeared. He was pulling ahead of the majority of
runners, aside from the pocket ahead of him that included Sir Wesley. He was
encouraged.

They began up a small incline, then down the other side and
around, back in the direction of the Ryle. Everyone around him was stumbling
and sliding along the route, and he felt like laughing at their clumsiness,
until he realized that he too was stumbling and sliding. He hadn’t even
noticed.

The fifth marker was at the edge of another footbridge
leading over the Ryle, back towards the village, but by the time he reached it,
he didn’t really notice the river or the village up ahead. All he noticed was a
tankard being placed in his hands. Gasping for air – why was he so out of
breath? – he stared down into the ale, wondering what he was supposed to
do with it.

Oh, yes. He was supposed to drink it!

Which he did with great enthusiasm. He was suddenly very
thirsty, and the brew was beginning to taste incredibly good. Honeywell Ale was
not so bad after all. In fact, he decided, he rather liked it. No wonder
Marlowe and Sherbrook swore by the stuff.

He glanced around him to share this revelation with
someone, but the only person he saw was a red-faced young man leaning against
the tree, relieving himself.

Montford felt a corresponding pressure below the belt and
thought hazily that the lad had the right idea. He moved over towards the tree
and began to unbutton the plackard in the front of his breeches, but then he
noticed another lad running by him.

Where was
he
off
to in such a hurry? he wondered.

Oh yes, the race!

He decided his business with the tree could wait and
started to run after the lad who had passed him by. He soon caught up with him,
weaved around him, narrowly avoiding a tree – where had
that
come from? – and continued
down the path.

He glanced up at the sky as he ran, and saw that it was a
wonderful, vibrant blue, the exact shade of one of Miss Honeywell’s eyes. The
comparison made him giggle. Or try to giggle. He was too winded to manage
anything but a little wheeze, and the sound amused him even more. He was still
staring up at the sky when one of his feet caught underneath something hard
– a tree root, he imagined – and he went flying through the air. He
landed with a thud in a patch of tall grass, the contents of his belly lurching
up his throat, his hands clutching at the earth. He rolled over, wheezed again,
and shot back to his feet. He began running again, but then he saw the runner
he had just passed coming in his direction at a dangerous speed.

Now why was the lad running at him?

The lad pointed ahead of him in an urgent manner. “This
way, gov,” the lad rasped as he passed him.