The Duke's Holiday (35 page)

He blushed through the grime on his face, obviously
recalling the same thing. “Astrid …”

She punched him in his wounded shoulder. Hard.

His mouth quivered, and for a horrible moment she was
afraid he was going to burst into tears. But then he did something even worse.
He began to laugh, horrid, wretched creature that he was. His shoulders shook
from his mirth, and he lay back on the road, giggling like a schoolgirl.

 
“It’s not
funny,” she insisted, the corners of her mouth flickering.

“Yes it is,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes.

And because she couldn’t help herself, she found herself
laughing along with him, laughing so hard tears leaked from her eyes. She was
in shock. There was no other explanation for it.

It was a long, long time before either of their wits
returned. Her stomach muscles were sore from laughing so hard, her throat
scratchy. She wiped the last of her tears away and glanced down at him. He had
grown still, staring at her with a pensive expression.

She set herself on guard. The moment now threatened to
descend into awkwardness. Or worse: earnestness. She had no intention of
mentioning what had passed on top of the horse
ever
again.

She looked down the road to locate the horse. It was in the
undergrowth munching grass, as had become its habit when its riders did
something foolish, and threw them admonishing glances in their direction in
between bites.

“Do you know, I’ve laughed more in the past two days than I
have in years?” he said suddenly.

She turned back to him, flustered. “Nerves.”

“That must be it,” he murmured, still studying her so gravely.
“Astrid, I …”

She cut him off by standing and holding out her hand to
help him up. “We’re not far now,” she urged. “Come on.” She didn’t want to hear
what he might say next. He sat up, glanced down at her palm, then back up at
her face. His silvery eyes had gone opaque. A bad sign.

In a flash, he’d seized her hand, tugged her off her feet,
and into his arms, kissing her madly.

As was usual when such a thing occurred, she immediately
lost all of her resolve and melted into his embrace, twining her hands around
his neck and pulling herself closer. He leaned back against the road, cupping
her face with his hands as his lips explored her forehead, her cheeks, her
nose, even her eyelids. And though he was passionate, he was tender this time,
as he had been that night in the garden, which now seemed another lifetime ago.
And he did nothing more than simply kiss her, over and over again.

It was more stirring to her spirit than all the other times
he had touched her.

Her stupid, mutinous heart didn’t stand a chance. She was
in love, damn it. And there was no accounting for her taste.

“I could kiss you for an age, Astrid Honeywell,” he
murmured against her lips.

“I could let you.” There. She had admitted it.

She felt the smile curving his lips. His fingers sank into
her hair. “Good.”

“Not good. We really should stop,” she said. It was a
half-hearted suggestion.

He did not take it. He seized her mouth with his own,
drugging her with its warmth. “Witch,” he breathed.

“Idiot man.”

He chuckled, turned her head in his hands, and poked his
tongue into her ear. She sighed in delight. She liked his tongue precisely
where it was.

They were so lost to the world that they did not know they
were no longer alone until a throat was cleared.

Astrid raised her head with great reluctance and saw two
riders gawking at them. She froze and jumped to her feet.

Montford did the same, seizing her by her arm and thrusting
her behind him as if to shield her from attack.

She collected her wits enough to take in the intruders,
both of whom were strangers to her but quite remarkable. The one on the left
was more than remarkable: he was off-putting. He was the most beautiful man
she’d ever seen, slim and dark and slightly foreign-looking, with stunning blue
eyes. As if to make a mockery of his beauty, he wore an outrageous pink silk
waistcoat, lace spilling out of his collar and sleeves, and a profusion of
jewels encrusting his fingers. His eyes were wide, betraying his surprise, but
his beautiful face was otherwise unreadable, save for a small, sly smile
bending the corners of his lips.

The other man, no less intimidating than the other man, was
dressed like – well, she wasn’t quite sure what he was dressed like. He
seemed to be wearing his dressing gown. He was not as handsome as his companion
– who was? – but he would have been halfway attractive save for the
bloat of dissipation that seemed to hover around his chin and stomach. His eyes
were dark and presently bugging out of his face. A thin cigarillo dangled
between his lips, which were parted in astonishment.

The cigarillo dropped, completely forgotten, to the road. “Monty?”
the portly man inquired in a querulous voice.

Montford groaned and looked up at the heavens, as if he
wished they would open up and swallow him whole.

“WHAT
ARE you doing here?” Montford demanded of the two idiots mounted in front of
him.

Marlowe couldn’t manage another word. He looked too stunned.
Sherbrook’s eyes danced with amusement between Montford and Astrid. “What are
you
doing?”

“None of your business. And I asked you first,” he growled.

Sherbrook tsked and narrowed his clever eyes. “Aren’t you going
to introduce us?” Sherbrook inquired silkily, smiling at Astrid.

Montford’s blood boiled. How dare the rogue smile at her!
He tried to tuck Astrid further behind him, but she shook him off and stepped
beside him. “Yes,
Monty
, aren’t you
going to introduce us?”

“No.”

Sherbrook arched an eyebrow and, ignoring Montford’s glare,
turned back to Astrid. “Sebastian Sherbrook, at your service. And my colleague
is the esteemed Viscount Marlowe. You are…?”

“Astrid Honeywell.”

“Ah. Honeywell.” Sherbrook’s gaze settled on Montford, then
he exchanged a knowing glance with Marlowe. “How very nice to meet you, Miss
Honeywell. We are Montford’s friends, up from London.”

“I see.”

Marlowe couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Good God,
Montford, what the devil is going on? Been searching everywhere for you. Out of
our minds with worry!”

“I’m sure you were,” he said between his teeth.

“Well?” Marlowe prompted.

“Well what?”

“What the devil is going on?”

“None of your …”

Astrid rolled her eyes and stepped in front of him. “I was
abducted by a madman. He shot my driver and attempted to carry me off to Gretna
Green. Montford came to my assistance. We are now on our way back to Rylestone
Hall.”

“What?!” Marlowe screeched.

“Indeed,” Sherbrook replied conversationally. “Sounds perfectly
exciting.”

“Exciting is not the word I would use,” Montford bit out.
“And there’s a bit more to the tale than that.”

“I should say!” Marlowe cried, giving Astrid a significant
glance.

Astrid blushed, and so did he. Sherbrook and Marlowe
would
pick the most inopportune time to
show up. But then again, they were on a public road, and he should have known
better than to loll about in the dirt kissing Astrid Honeywell.

“Now what are you doing here?” he demanded gruffly.

Sherbrook smiled. “Saving your hide. Though perhaps the
point is moot. I must say, I am thoroughly confused.” He cleared his throat.
“We came to warn you. Elaine is knocked up again.”

“Sherry, please! Language!” Marlowe breathed, looking
pained.

“You came all of this way to tell me that the Countess is
breeding?” Montford roared.

“Who’s breeding?” Astrid demanded.

“M’sister,” Marlowe explained.

“Oh, I see,” she said, though it was clear that she didn’t.

“The long and short of it is, she fobbed off your little
request on my dear Lady Aunt,” Sherbrook continued with obvious revulsion. “and
she’s
taken it into her head to
travel up here. With her sister. They are already at Rylestone Hall, awaiting
your return.”

It took a moment for the news to sink in. When it did, he
felt as if someone had dropped a boulder on his head. He’d forgotten these
people existed. And Araminta!

This was icing on the cake of the most disastrous week of
his life. “What?” he said stupidly, with a voice that cracked.

Sherbrook lips thinned with impatience. “Lady Katherine and
Lady Araminta. They are at Rylestone Hall,” he repeated.

“Who is Lady Katherine?” Astrid demanded. “And who is Lady
Araminta?”

Sherbrook opened his mouth to answer, then thought better
of it. He stared at Montford with an eyebrow cocked.

Astrid turned to Montford. “Who are they?”

He couldn’t look at her. He stared over her head, because
he was a coward. “Lady Araminta is my fiancée.” They were the hardest words
he’d ever spoken.

Astrid was silent for a long time. He finally worked up the
courage to look at her face and he wished he hadn’t. She was ashen, and all the
light had drained from her mismatched eyes. “Oh,” she said, very softly.

“Wedding’s in a week. Allegedly,” Marlowe added,
unhelpfully.

“
Thank you
,
Marlowe,” Montford bit out, never taking his eyes off Astrid’s face. He could
read nothing in her expression beyond her pale cheeks, her clenched jaw. What
was she thinking? Feeling?

And what was
he
feeling?

Nothing. He was utterly numb.

Astrid turned away from him and started walking towards the
horse. “Then we should get back. And make ourselves presentable for our
guests
.” With stiff dignity, Astrid
mounted the horse astride and took off down the road.

He watched her go, his heart shriveling the further she
went from him.

“Well, you might have told her about your bride before
mauling her on the road,” Marlowe commented drily.

Montford looked up at his two soon-to-be-ex-friends.
Sherbrook looked equal parts amused and concerned. Marlowe looked indignant.
Apparently he’d taken it upon himself to be offended on Astrid’s behalf. When
had
that
one developed compassion?

“Looks like you’re walking back, old chap,” Sherbrook
drawled.

Marlowe sniffed. “And it’s no less than you deserve.
Really, Monty. Don’t know what’s come over you. But even
I
don’t tup a wench in the middle of the King’s Highway. It’s just
bad form.”

“I was not tupping her!”

Neither believed him.

“And if you ever speak about her in such terms again, I’ll
tear out your tongue and stuff it up your arse,” he growled.

Marlowe’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Sherbrook. They
shared a private smirk that made Montford’s blood boil, and turned their horses
to return to Rylestone. Without him.

“Do try to catch up, dear boy,” Sherbrook tossed over his
shoulder. “And I’d fire your tailor if I were you. You look dreadful.”

He stared at their backs until they were lost to sight,
then sat down in the road and spent the next few minutes hoping he’d be hit by
a runaway carriage.

IN WHICH RYLESTONE
HALL GOES TO THE PIGS

ASTRID
flung the reins of her stolen horse into Mick’s hands and strode towards the
back entrace of the castle, ignoring the shock on her stablehand’s face at the
sight of her. She had no time for explanations and no thought for anything
except getting to her room without further incident.

She was about two seconds away from bursting into tears.

It was exhaustion, and the emotion of being home at last.
It had nothing to do with Montford. Or his two devilish-looking friends. Or two
titled ladies besieging the castle.

She nearly did cry when the kitchen door opened and Ant and
Art spilled out into the yard, calling out to her, their own little eyes wet
with tears. Her heart wrenched as she gathered them in her arms and held them
close while they alternately sniffled and demanded to know where she had been
all this time. She couldn’t explain, and she couldn’t let them see her break
down, so she stifled her tears and patted their heads. “Don’t worry, I’m here
now, and I’m not ever leaving you again.”

“Ever so much has happened, Astrid,” Ant said.

Art nodded solemnly. “The old crow has been here.”

“Aunt Emily?” she asked, straightening. This was not good.

Flora came rushing out of the door next, looking relieved
to see her, but also completely distraught.

“Where’ve you got off ter?” Flora demanded. “Yer look a
right state. Been worried sick, we have. And where’s Charlie and Himself?”

“I’ll explain it all later. I hear we have guests.”

“That ain’t the half of it. Our Roddy is in the drawing
room now trying to sort it out.”

Roddy
? “Where is
Alice?”

Flora’s expression darkened, and Astrid began to panic in
earnest. “Tell you by and by.” She looked Astrid up and down, then shook her
head. “We better take you upstairs and put you to rights.”

Astrid nodded and directed Ant and Art to help the maids
carry up some pails of water to her room. She was going to need the entire
contents of the well to scrub the muck off of her. Then she followed Flora
inside and up the servant’s staircase to her room.

Flora began to help peel off her clothes and demanded an
accounting from Astrid of her whereabouts the past two days. She provided one
in abbreviated form, to Flora’s growing horror.

At the end of it, all Flora could say was, “Cor!”, her eyes
wide, her hands wrenching Astrid’s ruined pelisse.

“Indeed,” Astrid agreed.

“Oh, Miss Astrid! That bastard didn’t do nothing, did he?”
Flora cried, clasping her by the hand and studying her face.

“No, he knocked me about a little, but nothing more.
Montford came just in time.”

“Aye, that’s good!” Flora said, her shoulders drooping with
relief. “No less than he should of. An where is Himself?”

“I expect he’ll be along shortly,” she said stiffly, not
wanting to think about the Duke’s whereabouts at present or ever again. Fiancée
indeed!

She wanted to throw her boots across the room, but she
restrained herself and merely kicked them under her bed. “And no one had any
idea what happened to me?” She was almost disappointed. Of course she didn’t
want the hue and cry to have been raised. The less people who knew about her
disappearance the better. But
someone
at least could have shown a little concern.

Flora shook her head and helped Astrid out of her dress,
her nose turned up at the state of it. “None, Miss Astrid. By the time we
figured out you were nowt comin’ home either, we were already in a tither here
at the hall.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Miss Alice. Her and that scoundrel cousin of yours
ran off together day after the festival, bound for Scotland.” Flora paused.
“Surprised you didn’t meet them on the road.”

Astrid had to sit down. Her head hurt. “Repeat what you
just said.”

Flora took a breath before starting. “Miss Alice and Sir
Wesley have made off to Scotland to be married. She left a note and everything.
Yer Aunt is in a rare mood, been over here barking out orders. She sent poor
Mr. McConnell after them, and a good portion of his men. So you see, by the
time I noticed you hadn’t come back from Hawes with Charlie or the Duke, then
there weren’t no one to send out to see what were keeping you. But figgered you
were in good hands, what with Charlie and Himself for company. Didn’t wager you’d
be interfered with by that bastard Lightfoot. Pardon my French, Miss Astrid.”

Astrid was dumbfounded. Her sister had eloped, the
household was in an uproar due to Aunt Emily’s hysterics, and
she
had been overlooked entirely. She
should have been quite happy. Alice and Wesley had finally come to their
senses. She only hoped they made it to Gretna before Aunt Emily caught up with
them. And Alice’s timing had been impeccable. No one had cared where Astrid was
in the ensuing chaos. Alice’s elopement was scandalous enough. If anyone got
wind of what had happened to
her
, she
would be ruined, and so would her sisters.

But still,
no one had
cared
enough to worry for her. She felt horribly alone.

A sudden, horrifying suspicion occurred to her. “How did
you know the Duke was with me?”

“Wot yer mean? You just tole me!” Flora cried, her face
flushing. She stared down at the dress she held pinched between her fingers, as
if loath to touch the filth of it, then went over to the fire and tossed it on
top.

“No. You said you didn’t worry about me because you knew
Charlie and Montford were with me.”

Flora tugged out the porcelain hipbath from a closet, then
busied herself fetching a length of toweling from an armoire, avoiding Astrid’s
eyes. “Well, er, I didn’t. Just sort of … figgered it out.”

“Did you?”

Flora spun around, biting her bottom lip. “Oh, Miss Astrid!
I confess. It were me and Roddy and Himself’s driver wot put Himself in that
wagon bed. It were a lark, I swear. And then when you didn’t come back, we just
assumed it were because you and Himself were …” She cleared her throat. “ …
reachin’ an unnerstannin’.”

She should have been furious with Flora for such
presumption. She almost yelled at her maid, but the door opened, and Ant and
Art and two kitchen maids came in and filled the tub with their buckets of
water. By the time they departed, Astrid’s anger had disippated, and she just
laughed. It was either that or cry, and she was not turning into a watering pot
at this critical hour.

Flora looked at her as if she had lost her mind, which she
probably had. “Well, no matter your intentions, I am very glad you put the Duke
in that wagon bed. I’d have had no chance of escaping Lightfoot otherwise.”

Flora smiled in understanding, then helped Astrid into the
tub.

The water was cool. She’d not had time to bother about
heating it. But despite its temperature, it felt wonderful to scrub off the
three days’ worth of grit and grime from her skin and smell the clean lavender
soap as Flora lathered up her hair.

For a few minutes, she wanted to forget the chaos
surrounding her and relax. She’d not been on a holiday with Montford after all.
But it seemed circumstances at Rylestone were not going to give her a moment’s
peace. She would have to face those London ladies, though she didn’t know how
she was going to bear looking at this Araminta person.

All this time, he’d been engaged to marry another woman,
and he’d never uttered a word about it. The rogue!

Though he’d made no promises to her, and indeed, she’d
wanted no promises from him, she was devastated, and she hated herself for
feeling devastated. It made her silly. And weak.

She sighed and leaned her head against the side of the tub.

“You’d best hurry, Miss Astrid. Roddy’s downstairs, an’
he’s his hands full with Our Aunt Anabel, who’s insisted on having tea with the
ladies. She were well into her story about that French sailor of her’s when
last I checked in.”

Astrid groaned. “Not the French sailor!” That story had
once made the vicar cry. And Astrid suspected it would shock even the prurient
mind of the author of
Le Chevalier
L’Amour
. But the damage was done. “Just a few more minutes, Flora. I’m
quite exhausted.”

“Aye, no doubt you be,” Flora said, combing out Astrid’s
wet hair. “An’ I don’t mean to pry, but you sayin’ you reached no unnerstannin’
with Himself.”

Astrid bolted up in the tub and turned to Flora, her face
flaming. “Flora!”

Flora shrugged and smiled. “Just thought I’d ask. You didn’t
… er, you know … express yer appreciation of Himself going through all that
trouble to rescue you?”

“No!” she lied. “How could you think…”

“Yer were quite fond of ‘em afore, in the garden.”

“Flora! You were spying on us!”

Flora had the grace to look sheepish for half a second.

“Well, this is just wonderful! No! I have no
understanding
with Montford. Other than
a mutual aversion.”

Flora pursed her lips, not at all convinced.

“Besides,” Astrid said, hauling herself from the tub and
grabbing up her toweling, “he’s to be married.”

“No!” Flora cried.

“Yes. In a week. To one of those fine London ladies
downstairs.”

“Oh, Miss Astrid!” Flora exclaimed sympathetically.

“And I don’t care. Not one bit. The sooner he’s out of my
life, the better.”

And with that, she ordered Flora to her closet to fetch her
best dress. Then she thought better of it and pulled open the drawer containing
her trousers. She was not going to make this easy on anyone.

WHEN
ASTRID entered the drawing room, her resolve faltered. She’d never seen anyone
like the two ladies occupying the couch, staring wide-eyed at Aunt Anabel and
her wig over the tops of their teacups. When they noticed her, they stood up
and stared wide-eyed at her.

Astrid’s attention was drawn to the tallest of the pair. She
was not as conventionally beautiful as her companion, her aristocratic nose a
trifle long, her lips too full, but her idiosyncratic features were arresting,
her over-large eyes, the color of emeralds, breathtaking. Her gossamer hair,
scraped back into a simple knot, was paler than her alabaster skin, nearly
white. She wore a plain, dove-gray gown, almost stark in it simplicity. It was
something a governess could have worn, although the fabric was of the finest
watered silk Astrid had ever seen. The woman needed no embellishment, however,
to draw the eye. She was quite the tallest woman Astrid had ever seen, easily
taller than most men, and on that point alone she commanded one’s attention.
There was an air of aloofness about her as well, and cold calculation she wore
about her like armor.

The other woman was shorter, fuller of figure, and her hair
was a rich honey-blonde, hanging in pretty ringlets about her face. She was
almost as lovely as Alice. Her dress was light green satin and tailored in what
Astrid could only assume was the latest London fashion, capped-sleeved and
high-waisted. Her relation to the other woman was obvious in her eyes. They
were also green, but not as sharp or vibrant. The similarities of features
ended there, though she held herself with the same stiff dignity.

Astrid’s heart sank. They were the two coldest females she
had ever encountered.

Aunt Anabel swiveled her head, knocking her wig askance,
and smiled broadly at Astrid. “Tea, dear? Look who’s come to visit us! I think
one of them is a Duchess or something.”

Roddy, who had been attempting to disappear into his seat,
rose, relief painting his face. “Miss Astrid! Oh, thank heaven you’re … I mean
… er …” He coughed. “May I introduce you to our visitors?”

“Thank won’t be necessary, thank you, Stevenage,” the tall
woman said coolly. “I am the Marchioness of Manwaring.” She indicated her
companion. “This is my sister, Lady Araminta Carlisle.”

Astrid regretted her choice of attire as she curtsied
awkwardly. So the shorter one was Montford’s intended. She was surprised and
relieved, though she didn’t know why. Lady Araminta was beautiful, just like
she’d imagined. But the other lady was the one Astrid had almost immediately
assumed Montford would pick. For no reason at all, she would have liked that
less. Perhaps because the Marchioness seemed to be in possession of a brain.

“You are Astrid Honeywell,” the Marchioness continued.

“Yes.”

They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

“I believe you are our cousin,” the Marchioness said after
a while.

Astrid was stunned. “What?” she asked, most ungraciously.

“Your mother, I believe, was a Carlisle. Our late grandfather’s
youngest sister. That would make you our second cousin.”

“Cousin? What’s this about a cousin?” boomed a voice from
the doorway.

The Marchioness stiffened even more, if that were possible.
The two gentlemen from the road stood in the doorway. The portly one in his
dressing gown – or was it an Arabian robe? – had his fists on his
hips and was staring at the Marchioness with great suspicion. The other man
– the beautiful peacock – stood slightly behind him. He was also
looking at the Marchioness, but his expression was inscrutable.

Astrid turned back to the Marchioness. The lady was
clutching her skirt unconsciously with one hand. She stared not at the speaker,
but at the peacock, her expression equally unreadable. The tension in the room
was suddenly stretched thin. Astrid did not know the cause, but it was clear to
her that her visitors felt a deep antipathy for each other.

Astrid glanced at Roddy, who gave her a helpless shrug and
looked as if he wanted to crawl under a rock.

“Haloo!” Aunt Anabel said to the gentleman, breaking the
stalemate. “Back for some more, eh?” “You there, young man.” She gestured
towards the peacock then thrust her cane in the direction of the decanter. “If
you wouldn’t mind pouring me a spot of sherry while you’re at it, I’d be most
obliged.”