The Duke's Holiday (25 page)

Montford turned around, not really understanding what had
happened until he reached the sixth marker.

He’d been going the wrong way.

“I got turned around,” he said to the lad in amazement.

The lad, who could not speak by then, just nodded, and took
up his tankard, swaying back and forth.

Montford was doing much the same. He drank deeply of his
ale, sputtered at the end, and lurched onwards.

He passed several more bodies strewn about the pathway,
some groaning, some retching, and some unconscious. He had the sense that he
was looking for someone in particular, but he couldn’t remember quite who it
was, so he continued on his way as quickly as he could in the hopes his memory
would be restored.

Soon he came to an open stretch with some brick buildings
swaying up in the distance. He decided they warranted further investigation, so
he hurried his pace, occasionally picking himself off the ground, but otherwise
having a fine time.

An exhilarating time.

In fact, Montford could not remember any time in his life
he’d ever felt so … wonderful. So free. He couldn’t feel the entire lower
portion of his body, and his head felt as if was floating about ten feet in the
air. He’d forgotten why he was running in the first place, but he was certainly
glad he was. It was a fabulous mode of exercise, he decided. He’d have to do it
more often. He’d introduce the practice when he got back home – wherever
that
was. He’d start a rage.

Running. Sprinting. Leaping through the air, over puddles
and tree roots and bodies.

Wait. He’d just jumped over a body. Not a dead one, he
hoped. He tried to glance back, but this motion threw off his balance, sending
him sprawling in the mud.

He hauled himself up and stumbled onwards.

He rounded a bend in the path and nearly collided with
another person.

“So sorry –”

“Pardon me –”

He righted his balance and trotted onwards, looking to his
side. The person he’d collided with bobbed in and out of his line of vision.
The fellow was nearly his height, he thought, and lanky, with a shock of
reddish hair.

It was Sir Wesley, weaving along, his face cherry red, and
his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He glanced over at him, his eyes bugged
out, and his mouth curled in a wobbly grin. He raised his hand and tried to
doff his hat, even though he wasn’t wearing one. “Mont – ford! Haloo, old
– chap. Fancy – us – last – ones – standing –”
Wesley broke off as he swayed to the left, then the right, nearly running into
Montford.

Montford didn’t know what the hell Wesley was babbling on
about. But he knew it was important not to let the idiot out of his sight. Or
better yet, to put the idiot behind him.

He concentrated on making his legs work, even though he
couldn’t feel them, and he gritted his teeth, his good mood vanishing with each
puff of air Sir Wesley expelled next to him.

Really, did the man have to breathe so hard?

But why were they running in the first place? And what was
that fellow doing up ahead with the cups?

He reached the man’s side, and the man thrust a large cup
in his hand, and then one in Sir Wesley’s. Sir Wesley started to drink his, so
Montford did the same, having no idea what it was, but not liking how it felt going
down. When he finished it, he started to run on, but the man stopped him and
shoved another cup in his face.

“What-the-bloody-hell—” This exclamation came out as
one word, one syllable.

“Two this time ‘round, Yer Excellency. Last leg,” the man
explained, grinning broadly.

Montford glared at the man and drank the beverage in his
hand. It didn’t taste like water to him. It didn’t
feel
like water going down his throat, burning his insides.

Wesley choked on his last sip, looking a little green
beneath his red face.

Montford threw down his cup and swayed on his feet. Now
that he wasn’t moving, the world seemed to be turning around him.

The man who had dispensed the drink gestured to his right.
“Well, go on, gov, go on!”

Wesley stumbled forward, righted himself, and stumbled on.
Montford did the same. They rounded another curve in the path, and then
suddenly stretched before him was a sea of people making the most god-awful
racket he’d ever heard.

Wesley, some paces ahead, waved him onwards. “Well –
come on, old man –
hic
–
not –
hic
– gonna let
– you win.”

“Winwhat?” he belched.

“Th’race –
hic
– wanna –
hic
–
kiss –
hic
– Miss A
– Miss A – ” Wesley gave up on his speech and puffed out a breath,
taking off at an unsteady lope towards the ocean of screaming people.

Montford wasn’t sure he wanted to go in that direction
– what
were
they carrying on
about? – but instinct told him he couldn’t let Wesley go without him, so
he lunged forward. Then forward again, one foot in front of the other, or as
near as he could manage. He was having the devil of a time even making out his
feet.

He was engulfed on all sides by screaming plebs, waving
banners and all sorts of strange objects in his direction. They surged around
him like driftwood on a sea, and he tried to block them out. They made him feel
– strange – in his stomach. As if he were going to cast up an
entire sea himself.

He did not feel so good.

He heard a strange sound to his left. Sir Wesley had curled
up on all fours and seemed to be hacking at the ground with his head.

Montford spun away and tried to focus on something. He
stumbled forward, and when he felt something thwack him across the backside
– he wasn’t
that
numb –
he lengthened his stride, which may or may not have been a mistake, for he was
suddenly falling against several bodies. They pushed him upright and shoved him
forward.

Something loomed a few feet in front of him. A blue line,
floating above the ground. What on God’s green earth was that? And how was it
floating? He reached it, stopped, and extended his arm to touch it. Several
attempts later, his finger at last connected with it. He poked it, and it
stretched back.

A ribbon. A blue ribbon. What was it doing here?

He felt someone shove his shoulder, and he stumbled through
the ribbon, snapping it with the weight of his body.

Well, that was a shame, to ruin a perfectly good ribbon.

The crowd, which he had forgotten, erupted into a cacophony
of catcalls, laughter, applause, and whistles. He tried to gather up the
ribbon, but was mobbed by people who insisted on slapping him on the back or
shaking his limp hands, congratulating him for something.

He looked at one well-wisher, a man with beady black eyes
and a balding pate, who was shaking his hand and smiling at him in a way that
reminded Montford of a cat just before it pounced on a mouse. “What the devil
are you shaking my hand for?” he demanded, or tried to demand. The words didn’t
sound quite right.

“You’ve won, Your Grace,” the man explained.

“Won? What’ve I won?”

“The race.”

He vaguely remembered now.

“Ah yes. Race.”

Then he tumbled forward.

ASTRID
WATCHED with a mixture of horror and amusement as the Duke of Montford,
mud-splattered, red-faced, and entirely perplexed, poked his finger at the
finish line ribbon, as if it were some new species of animal, and swayed
forward and backwards on wobbly-looking legs. Then someone pushed him through
the finish line – he was the clear winner, as Sir Wesley was sprawled out
in the grass some twenty paces back and no one else had yet to appear around
the last bend of the course – and he swiveled about, trying to save the
ribbon from the mud.

The crowd went wild. Even those who had wagered against the
Duke seemed well pleased with the result. Who could not be? A peer of the realm
was standing barefoot and drunk, wet with sweat and ale and mud, looking about
as regal as a stable boy after sneaking gin from his master.
     
Astrid’s nerves
jangled when she saw Mr. Lightfoot among this throng shaking Montford’s rather
droopy hand, and she finally remembered that odious man’s horrid threats
against her and the Duke.

She started forward. She had to warn Montford. But the
crowd was thick. She could not get by.

Montford seemed unconcerned by Mr. Lightfoot, and Astrid
realized he was in no condition to digest her imprecations. In fact, the Duke
attempted to say something, laughed, and fell on top of Mr. Lightfoot, nearly
bringing them both to the ground.

The crowd caught them at the last moment and hauled them
back to their feet.

Then the chanting began.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

At first it was a few of the more mischievous young boys,
but it soon spread to the older men, then the women as well.

Even the vicar had joined in. The chanting grew louder,
more insistent.

Astrid’s heart sank. She did not try to get to the Duke’s
side any longer. She was frozen in place.

But she was close enough to hear him slur out: “WhaddayameanIhavedakisssommone?”

As this was explained to him repeatedly, Astrid began to
move backwards. Then forwards. She couldn’t decide where she wanted to be any
longer.

But it was apparent where every other female wanted to be.
They were clawing their way to the front of the crowd, anxious to draw the
Duke’s eye.

Astrid could see that this was not going to be an easy
task. The Duke seemed to have trouble focusing his eyes at all. He shut one,
then opened it and shut the other. He tried squinting through one, then the
other, then both.

Astrid frowned. She couldn’t imagine any female in their
right mind wanting to kiss him at the moment. His face was splotched in red, he
was covered in sweat and breathing heavily, and he couldn’t seem to stand on
his own.

She
certainly
didn’t want to kiss him. He looked …

Drunk. Frightful.

He grinned stupidly at no one in particular.

Her breath caught in her throat. She’d never seen him grin like
that, with such genuine glee. It made him look all of five years old and
entirely … delicious.

Astrid’s heart thudded against her ribs.

Oh, dear.

He swayed on his feet, turning in a half circle as if
looking for something in the crowd, and his gaze fell onto her. He stopped. His
grin faded, and his head bobbed up and down. He squinted at her and raised one
of his arms. He extended his finger and pointed at her.

Well, not
at
her.
Somewhere in her vicinity.

“You,” he said.

A collective groan of disappointment ran through all the
females present. All eyes turned in her direction.

She looked around her, hoping he was not really pointing at
her –
dreading
he was not
really pointing at her – but the only other female in a good ten paces
was Aunt Anabel, who was looking extremely amused by the spectacle.

Montford lurched forward, past Mr. Lightfoot, who stared at
his back with narrowed eyes. The crowd parted, letting him stumble to his
destination. He kept his arm extended, and every now and then he would hiccough
and sway to the right or left.

Astrid braced herself for the inevitable. What could she
do, she told herself? This was tradition. The winner of the race got to kiss
the female of his choice, and if Montford chose her, then tradition demanded
she accept her fate. She
had
to kiss
him, there was no other choice. She had no wish to do so, in fact, she detested
the very notion, but she would be the last person to break a custom her own
family had begun.

She would take no pleasure in it.

None at all.

Her breathing ceased all together. Her cheeks burned.
Anticipation bubbled up inside of her stomach.

Montford loomed above her for a second, then he staggered
to the left, lost sight of her altogether, and fell atop Aunt Anabel. He pinned
the aged woman to the earth, knocking off her wig, and planted his lips on the
side of her mouth.

Aunt Anabel screamed, raised her cane above them, and
brought it down across Montford’s back. He howled in pain and rolled onto the
grass, his hand tangling in Aunt Anabel’s wig. He jerked back and tried to
shake the wig off of his hand. This took several tries. Meanwhile, Aunt Anabel
had climbed to her feet and continued to batter him with her cane.

Astrid managed to pull her aunt away, and someone helped
the Duke to his feet. The crowd was ecstatic. Many were hunched over, laughing
too hard to stand straight. A couple were crying with their mirth. It was
without a doubt the most memorable festival Rylestone had seen in generations.

Astrid had to grudgingly agree. She was not at all disappointed,
of course, that the Duke had been too drunk to kiss her, and had, in fact,
mistaken her aunt for her. If indeed there had been a mistake at all. Surely he
had not
meant
to kiss Aunt Anabel?

No, she was
not
disappointed, she told herself, as she watched several burly men heave Montford
onto their shoulders and dance away with him into the crowd. Montford wore an
expression of bemusement and surprisingly good cheer. He did not know where he
was being taken – to the nearest keg – nor did he seem to care.

Not disappointed at all.

She turned and caught Mr. Lightfoot’s eye, and a cold chill
crept up her spine. He smiled at her, but it was the most menacing smile she’d
ever seen.

She turned away. She’d deal with him later.

She glanced in the direction of Sir Wesley and saw that
Alice had him well in hand, then bent over to pick up Aunt Annabel’s wig, which
now resembled a dead poodle. She fluffed it out and set it on top of her aunt’s
faded red hair.

Aunt Anabel was flushed and very perplexed. “I do believe
I’ve been molested, my dear,” she said. “Who
was
that oafish fellow?”