The Duke's Holiday (26 page)

“The Duke of Montford.”

“What? A Duke? Where?” Aunt Anabel spun about, trying to
find a Duke in the crowd.

She had no success.

IN WHICH
THE DUKE SERENADES HIS LADYLOVE

THE
DUKE of Montford cleared his throat, leaned into Sir Wesley’s embrace as they
stumbled down the lane, and began his eleventh recitation of the evening:

“
There was a young
fellow from Kent,”
he began in a stage whisper that was more accurately a near-shout.

“
Whose anatomy was very
bent–”

Roddy burst into giggles behind them, along with Flora. So
did Montford. It took him several moments to compose himself so he could
continue.

“When he thrust to go
in/ He got stuck on her shin/ Back home to his wife he was sent.”

It took several moments for Wesley to comprehend what had
been said, and when he did, his face turned scarlet, and he sniggered with
laughter against his tattered sleeve.

“Oh, my!” Alice murmured next to Astrid. She was also
noticeably wobbly on her feet, and kept glancing in Wesley’s direction in a coy
manner that had the poor man so flummoxed he could not meet her eyes. He
definitely
could not meet Alice’s eyes
after this last delightful obscenity. “That’s the worst one he’s done yet!”

Astrid could only nod, her ears burning. She had no words
to describe the past half-hour’s journey from the village back towards the
castle. They had been among the last to leave the festival. Wesley and Montford
had to be picked up off the ground by Newcomb, who now trailed behind them with
Roddy and Flora. All three of these stragglers looked as soused as Sir Wesley
and Montford.

In fact, Astrid could safely say that she was the only one
of their little company who was marginally sober. Even Alice, it seemed, had
had considerably more. She had to prop her sister up. She’d been glad when
Hiram, traitor that he was, had offered to let Antonia and Ardyce stay with his
girls tonight, as she didn’t think she could have put up wrangling two more
children back to the castle. She already had five on her hands as it was.

Someone had managed to replace the gentlemen’s discarded
clothing, with little success. At least they had been shoved back into their
boots. Their cravats were in tatters, and Wesley’s fine gray wool jacket was
split up the back. They’d lost their hats entirely, and Montford’s cravat pin
was sticking through a hole in his lapel as if it were a carnation, not a giant
ruby.

She was surprised he’d managed to hold on to that precious
commodity. She’d seen it fall into the dirt and the Duke trod upon it at least
half a dozen times since he’d won the bloody footrace.

She was equally surprised to learn that Montford,
apparently, was a poet. Since they’d begun the long journey home – the
longest journey of her life – he’d recited at least ten of the crudest,
idiotic little bits of rhyming nonsense she’d ever heard.

She’d struggled not to laugh.

Everyone else was. Wesley was in hysterics on Montford’s
arm. Montford was in hysterics as well. They had their heads together as they
lurched down the lane, giggling like little boys.

It seemed Montford and Wesley were now bosom friends. He
whispered another verse into Wesley’s ear, this time too softly for the others
to hear – though Astrid managed to catch a couple of very naughty words
– and Wesley stopped in his tracks and gaped at Montford.

Then he doubled over, clutching his middle, laughing like a
lunatic. “You’re a devil, old boy,” Wesley declared, “a devil.”

Montford looked very pleased with himself.

Astrid found herself secretly wishing to know what he had
said, even as she sniffed disdainfully as she passed them by.

Where had Montford learned all of these dreadful poems? She
would have never dreamed he had it in him to be so … scandalously silly.

“Tell us another,” Wesley begged as they approached the
back garden.

Montford gazed unsteadily towards the castle, craning his
head left and right as if trying to puzzle something out. “Nuther?” he mumbled.

“One more, old fellow.”

“Yes, one more!” Alice seconded enthusiastically. Somehow
she managed to disconnect from Astrid’s arm and attach herself to Wesley’s free
one. Wesley glanced down at her with a startled expression that soon relaxed
into something resembling a smile.

The Duke thought about it for a moment, tugging on one side
of his head, then swung his gaze in Astrid’s direction.

She caught her breath but managed to scowl at him. “I think
we’ve heard quite enough.”

“Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?” he asked
her. Or at least that is what she thought he might have asked her. He was
slurring his consonants and massacreing his vowels.

She harrumphed and crossed her arms over her chest. “You
are behaving like an imbecile. All of you.”

Alice and Wesley ignored her and pestered the Duke to give
them another rhyme.

Never taking his eyes off of her, he began.

“There was a Young
Lady whose eyes/ Were unique as to colour and size/ When she opened them wide/ People
all turned aside/ And started away in surprise.”

Wesley began to snicker. Alice laughed uneasily. Astrid
felt her heart sink to her shoes. She would not let him upset her, she vowed to
herself, even as her breath became shorter and shorter, and the garden became
blurry. She was not tearing up. She was merely suffering from the roses
blooming next to her.

Wesley finally realized he shouldn’t be laughing, as no one
else was. “Hey, that ain’t dirty. Is it?”

“No, it isn’t. It’s just stupid,” Astrid retorted.

“Oh, I don’t think that was very nice, Montford,” Alice
said quietly.

“What wasn’t very nice?” Wesley asked, lost.

Alice started to explain it to him, but Astrid had had
quite enough. She abandoned them to their fates and stalked into the hedgerows.
She’d enter through the back of the house and avoid another human being for the
rest of the night.

She’d just reached the edge of her vegetable garden when
she felt the hand on her sleeve. She knew who it was by the scent of him
– ale, sweat, mud, and whatever musk he exuded that made him smell
wonderful despite these other things. She attempted to jerk her arm away. He
held on tenaciously. She stumbled against the wall of the garden. He stumbled
with her, into her, a wall of heat against her back.

She shoved him away and attempted to side step him. He
caught her shoulders and turned her around to face him. Now the wall of heat
was against her front. The cold garden wall was against her back. His cravat
pin was at eye level. It swam before her eyes. “Let go of me.”

“Hold on, now, wanted to ‘pologize,” he managed to get out.

“I don’t want your damned apologies. Get out of my way.”

 
“Th’poem. It
wasn’t meant to hurt.”

She latched on to her anger, which was great at getting rid
of her hurt. “Of course it was meant to hurt.”

“No … I don’t know why I said it. Just came out. Can’t seem
to help myself round you, Astrid.”

She froze. He’d used her first name. He’d never used her
first name before.

But it meant nothing. Just like the rhyme. Just like his
kiss the night before.

She sank against the wall. “You’re supposed to be gone. Why
aren’t you gone?”

He just stared down at her face, his brow furrowed, his jaw
clenched.

“Can’t seem to help myself,” he repeated. “Astrid.”

He raised a hand to her cheek. She courageously batted it
away. “Don’t call me that. Let me by.”

She attempted to push him away, but he only swayed back a little,
then swayed forward, mashing her backside onto the wall’s cold ledge.

“
Astrid
,” he said
again.

“You’re drunk.”

He nodded. “Very. Very drunk.” He paused. “I never get
drunk. D’ya know it feels good? Say my name.”

“What?” she cried, pushing against his chest.

He grinned down at her. “Say my name. Y’know the one.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“C’mon, Astrid. Say m’name.”

She rolled her eyes. “Cyril.”

His grinned broadened. He closed his eyes as if she’d sung
an aria.

“Quite the most ridiculous, stupid, idiotic name in the
world,” she continued.

“I know,” he moaned. Then he opened his eyes and squinted
down at her. “I like it when y’say it. I like your eyes, too. Th’don’t match,
y’know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Like your hair, too. It’s red.”

He stated this fact as if it were of national importance.

“Yes, I know,” she said, irritated and disarmed and
uncommonly aware of the heat and strength of him mashed against her.

He squinted down at her, as if trying to solve an equation
in his head. “You’re wrong, Astrid.”

She bristled. “About what?”

“No,” he said, looking annoyed. “
You’re
wrong.
You
.”

She snorted. He was making absolutely no sense, but her
pulse was racing, her palms were sweating, and her legs felt like jelly.

“
Astrid
.”

That was it. She’d had enough. She shoved at his chest.
“For heaven’s sake, just let me go.”

“Can’t,” he said, his head swaying towards her.

“I swear if you don’t …” His mouth covered her own,
forestalling further speech. She turned into a puddle in an instant. His lips
were warm, smooth, gentle, and he tasted of Honeywell Ale. He stank of it, in
fact, but she didn’t mind. He clutched her shoulders, pressing against her, his
mouth working softly against hers, coaxing her lips apart, tasting, licking,
nipping.

“Astrid,” he murmured against her lips. He brought the back
of his hand against her cheek and caressed it tenderly. “Astrid,” he repeated,
as if he couldn’t help but repeat her name endlessly, even as he kissed her
endlessly. It was nothing like last night. She felt a similar heat rise up
inside of her, but the white heat that had burned so out of control the night
before was defracted, like light through a prism, distilled and sweetened by
his gentle touch, the near-reverence of his mouth as it tasted her. Sampled
her. Reveled in her.

Now,
this
was a
kiss – or, rather, kisses – for his mouth would pull away, murmur
her name, then come back for more. And more.

Then his kisses moved lower, down her throat, over her
collarbone, each contact of his lips to her flesh leaving a burning wake. A
million butterflies began fluttering about in her stomach. She wrapped her arms
around his neck, drawing his head nearer, craving him, burning for him.

He arrived at the edge of her bosom and buried his head
there. Her pulse leapt as she waited for what he would do next. But he didn’t
move for the longest time, his full weight pressing her against the wall. His
arms fell from her shoulders, and he sighed into her bosom. The garden around
them was quiet, still. All she could hear was the steady sound of his breathing
and her pulse thundering in her ears.

After a minute or so passed, she grew uncomfortable and a
little cold, her inner heat fading.

What was he doing down there?

A sound ripped from the back of his throat. It took her a
moment to comprehend what it was. When she did, she went completely cold.

A snore.

The cad! The utter cad! He’d kissed her senseless, then
buried his head in her breasts and
fallen
asleep
!

“Oh, you … you beast!” she cried, shoving him away from
her.

He didn’t wake up. He just slowly crumpled to the ground
like a folding accordion and continued to snore with his cheek mashed up
against the garden wall.

She stared down at him in incredulity. She kicked his shins
and stepped over his body, storming towards the castle.

She hoped he froze to death.

NEWCOMB
WAS congratulating himself on a job well done as he, Stevenage and Flora spied
on their employers from behind a clump of shrubbery. Flora sighed wistfully as
the Duke kissed Miss Honeywell, as if it was the sweetest thing she’d every
seen.

Newcomb didn’t know about
that
. But he felt quite justified in his ploy to linger in
Rylestone.

Who’d have thought the master could be such good company
after a few pints? Well, more than a
few
.
Himself had had enough to pickle the insides of ten soldiers, Newcomb reckoned.
Not that Newcomb had had a doubt in his mind but that his master could hold his
own against the heartiest of these Yorkshire bumpkins. Newcomb had won five
quid on the race. He would have had ten, but His Grace had been too off his
face to kiss the right chit.

The Duke didn’t seem to have trouble finding Miss
Honeywell’s lips now – a feat Newcomb would have appreciated several
hours earlier.

“If he tries it on with her,” Stevenage muttered at his
side, “I’m not standing for it.”

Oh, Newcomb was sure the Duke was going to try it on with
Miss Honeywell, or at least attempt to. The kissing changed course. Montford
bent over until his head was stuck in the vicinity of Miss Honeywell’s chest.

“Why, that
dog
!”
Stevenage huffed, rising up and attempting to intercede.

Newcomb pulled him back down.

Flora giggled into her hands.

“What’s he doing?” Stevenage whispered some moments later
when the Duke had made no further advance. His Grace just kind of listed there,
smashing Miss Honeywell against the wall, his arms hanging limply at his sides.

Then they all heard the unmistakable sound of snoring.

Miss Honeywell let the Duke crumple to the ground –
not that Newcomb blamed her – kicked him in the shins, and ran away in
distress.

Newcomb slapped his forehead and muttered an oath. The
bloody oaf had fallen asleep in the middle of a seduction.

Not well done at all.

They stepped out of the shrubbery and approached the
slumbering Duke. Newcomb nudged his shoulder with his boot. He didn’t stir.