The Duke's Holiday (36 page)

The peacock – Mr. Sherbrook – looked amused,
bowed elegantly, and sauntered to the sideboard.

Astrid decided to move things along. “My mother was a
Carlisle,” she told the Marchioness. “Her family disowned her when she married
my father, however. The relation is quite severed.”

The Marchioness remembered her and frowned at her coolly.
“Nonetheless, we are cousins. We are
un
severing
the relationship.”

“Indeed,” Astrid replied, equally cool. “To what purpose?”

“Yes, to what purpose,
Aunt
Katherine?” the peacock interjected in a drawl, prowling across the room with
catlike grace to deliver Aunt Anabel’s sherry, his own drink in his other hand.
A dangerous smile lurked on the edge of his lips.

The Marchioness didn’t flinch, though Astrid thought she
rather wanted to.

Now Astrid was completely at sea. The Marchioness was the
peacock’s
aunt
? It hardly seemed
possible. The lady was his contemporary, if not years younger.

“You are a Carlisle?” she asked Mr. Sherbrook.

He nearly spat out his port in amusement. “Hardly.”

“I am married to Mr. Sherbrook’s uncle,” the Marchioness
explained, eyeing the peacock with utter disdain. “He is no relation of mine.
And my business here has nothing to do with him. Or the Viscount.”

“The hell it doesn’t!” cried the Viscount. Apparently, he
had no compunction of cursing in front of the ladies. Nor of sitting in their
company while they were yet standing about. He plopped himself into a seat,
looking irate. “Pour me one of them, would you, Sherry?”

“Pour it yourself,” Mr. Sherbrook murmured sweetly.

The Viscount glared at him, but made no move to the
sideboard.

Astrid didn’t know what to do. The Marchioness was standing
as stiff as a board, unspeaking. Her sister looked acutely uncomfortable next
to her. The Viscount was fumbling about his pockets and muttering to himself.
Mr. Sherbrook was studying the Marchioness with cold amusement.

And Aunt Anabel had nodded off into her sherry.

Astrid threw up her hands. She’d had quite enough. “I don’t
know what is going on here, and I do not wish to know. You may wait here for
Montford, since you are here to see him. But I shall not waste my time standing
around trying to descry your purpose. Pardon my bad manners, but I am tired.
And hungry. And in no mood for company.”

The Marchioness looked vaguely startled. Lady Araminta
looked offended –
good
–
and the Viscount’s jaw had dropped.

Mr. Sherbrook chuckled.

Astrid scowled at him. She stalked over to the sideboard,
poured a glass of port, and thrust it into the Viscount’s fingers. He murmured
his thanks, staring at her in astonishment.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have much to attend to –”

The sound of a carriage pulling up the front drive brought
her out of her temper. She bolted towards the window and peered out to see Lady
Emily descending from her barouche.

“Damnation!” she breathed.

Lady Araminta’s breath caught.

Aunt Anabel’s head shot up. “What is it, dear? Are the
French invading?”

“No. Even worse. It’s Aunt Emily.”

“Oh, good heavens!” Aunt Anabel murmured, putting her
sherry to her painted lips and gulping it down in one go.

“Who’s Aunt Emily?” the Viscount demanded.

“My aunt!” she cried. She wanted to tear her hair out. Her
pulse was racing wildly. She was beginning to hyperventilate. This was very bad
indeed. She didn’t think she could take any more. She stared around the room
full of strangers and spotted Roddy tip-toeing his way towards the door, making
his escape. She didn’t stop him, although she thought him a traitor for
abandoning her to these people.

She felt a hand on her arm. She started and spun around. It
was Sherbrook, his beautiful sapphire eyes flickering with concern, though his
lips were still quirked with amusement. “You are not looking at all the thing,
Miss Honeywell.” He thrust a glass into her hands. “Here’s a bit of dutch
courage for you.”

“Oh, er, thank you,” she said lamely. She sipped the drink
and nearly gagged. It was straight whiskey.

“You’re getting her drunk,” the Marchioness said with
utmost disapproval, gliding over to them, and snatching the glass out of
Astrid’s hands. “Is that your solution to everything?”

“Nearly,” Sherbrook replied smoothly, jerking the glass
from the Marchioness and thrusting it back at Astrid. “And it’s a fine solution
for her.”

The Marchioness sniffed. “For
you
, perhaps, not for her.” She took back the glass primly.

“I know more about Miss Honeywell’s situation than you do,”
Sherbrook said in a brittle voice. “She needs the drink.” He tugged the glass
from the Marchioness’ hand, but the Marchioness refused to give it up. Their
fingers locked on the glass, and a war of wills ensued.

“This is my cousin, and I’ll not have you corrupt her.”

“Damnation, woman, I’m not corrupting her. I’m trying to
take care of her!” he bit out.

“I’m
sure
you
are.”

“And I’m
sure
I
don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Astrid cried, jerking the glass
from the both of them and tossing back the whiskey. It burned fire down her
throat.

The drawing room door burst open, and Lady Emily barreled
through, her skirts swishing, her furious gaze locking immediately on her prey.
She hardly seemed to notice the other occupants of the room.

“Astrid Honeywell, you’ve a lot of explaining to do. Where
have you been? Aiding and abetting your sister’s shameful scheme, no doubt! I
demand answers, gel. My son shall
not
entangle himself with this dreadful family. How dare Alice lead him into such
scandal! How dare you let your sister behave so … so disgracefully! And I know
you are behind it. Where are they? I demand you produce them.”

Mr. Sherbrook stepped between Astrid and her Aunt, his
expression one of intense disdain. The Viscount had risen from his seat to join
his friend, looking as if he were spoiling for a fight. It appeared they were
coming to Astrid’s rescue, as unlikely as that seemed. She wasn’t sure if she
wanted them to.

Lady Emily blinked between the men, then glanced at the
Marchioness and her sister. She was noticeably taken aback.

“Madam, I ask you to rethink your manner with Miss
Honeywell,” Sherbrook said in a silky voice underlaid with iron. “You are
causing a most disagreeable scene.”

Lady Emily’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “And who are
you?”

Mr. Sherbrook grinned and gave her a leg. His smile was an
utterly frightening sight to behold. He looked as beautiful and as wicked as
Lucifer. “Sebastian Sherbrook, at your service.”

Lady Emily’s face paled, her lips pursed. It seemed she
knew precisely who Mr. Sherbrook was. Astrid wished that she did as well, if
only to know the cause of her aunt’s discomfiture.

Lady Emily’s eyes flashed daggers at Astrid. “What company
you keep! Bringing the devil himself into your household! Have you no sense of
decency, gel?”

“Here, now,” the Viscount interjected, his face red with
rage. “Who the hell are you to insult my mate? The bloody Queen?”

“Last time I checked, we didn’t have a queen, old boy,”
Sherbrook said mildly. “But thanks all the same.”

Aunt Emily turned her rage on the Marchioness, flicking her
quizzing glass to her eye. “And who is
this
?
One of these scoundrels’ tarts, I reckon. You have brought the worst libertines
in all of England under your roof. Sebastian Sherbrook and … ” she flicked a
contemptuous glance at the Viscount. “The wicked Viscount Marlowe! Really,
Astrid, you are beyond the pale.”

She had gone too far. Mr. Sherbrook’s smile was gone, and
nothing was left of his easy manner. His beautiful face was thunderous, his
body tense. He looked as if he wanted to strike Lady Emily and was only barely
restraining himself.

“Apologize!” he roared, towering over her, nostrils flared.

“What?” Aunt Emily breathed, indignant and a little
frightened by his threatening manner.

“I said, apologize, madame,” he enunciated in an overloud
voice. He thrust a hand towards the Marchioness. “You have insulted the
Marchioness of Manwaring. I demand you apologize to her, before I have you
horsewhipped.”

Aunt Emily’s eyes popped out of her head as she stared at
the Marchioness.

“The Marchioness of Manwaring!” she breathed, mortified.
“Oh dear, I do apologize. I am most sorry for confusing you with … er …”

“A prostitute,” Sherbrook supplied in a deadly voice.

“Yes, er, ever so sorry.” And Lady Emily executed an
overzealous curtsy.

The Marchioness looked down the end of her nose with stiff
dignity and did not so much as nod. Her pinkened cheeks betrayed her emotions,
but nothing else.

When Lady Emily came back up, her manner had changed
completely. She forgot Astrid entirely and focused a brittle smile upon the
Marchioness. “You are Carlisle’s daughter. I am your great aunt, Lady Emily
Benwick.”

The Marchioness was dismayed. Her lips pursed. She glanced
towards her sister, who was still standing by the tea service, looking very
unhappy.

“Great aunt!” the Viscount exclaimed. “Egad, it’s bloody
family reunion, Sherry, and I’m the only one here who ain’t related,” he said
disgustedly. “Need another drink. Top you off?”

Sherbrook nodded grimly, never taking his blazing eyes off
Lady Emily.

“You have caught us at a most inopportune time,” Lady Emily
continued. “I fear I am dreadfully out of sorts at the moment. Family crisis.”

“I gathered,” the Marchioness said in a dry tone.

“I must speak to my niece alone,” she said, making a move
to snatch Astrid’s arm.

“Hardly necessary,” Sherbrook interceded, snatching
Astrid’s arm back. “You were speaking to her well enough before.”

Lady Emily gave him a thunderous look. “Astrid, you shall
come with me at once.”

“No she won’t,” Sherbrook said smoothly.

“Yes, I don’t believe she will,” the Marchioness added.

Lady Emily huffed, grabbed Astrid’s arm, and jerked her
towards the door. The Marchioness reacted swiftly and jerked her back. Astrid
felt pulled apart at the seams.

“What the devil is going on?”

The voice came from the doorway. The two ladies tugging her
arms froze. Astrid, arms stretched out from her sides, turned her head and saw
Montford striding into the room. He’d made some effort to repair himself,
having washed and changed into his usual regalia, though his cravat was crooked
and he had not shaved the scruff off his face. He was staring directly at her,
his eyes scanning her person, his expression a mixture of confusion,
irritation, and longing.

Though she might have imagined the latter.

Lady Araminta spoke for the first time. “Good lord,
Montford, is that you?” she drawled, incredulous.

He glanced away from Astrid to his fiancée. His brow
furrowed. He cleared his throat. So did Araminta.

The Marchioness dropped Astrid’s arm, and so did her aunt.
It was an absurd moment to remember proprieties, but curtsies and bows were
exchanged all around. Astrid tried not to look at Araminta’s expression, or
Montford’s, as he came up to his fiancée and raised her lovely gloved hand to
his lips, sketching a kiss.

Instead, she took the opportunity and backed up until she
was safely shielded by Aunt Anabel’s chair, holding on to the top for support.
She felt faint and miserable and two clicks away from total collapse.

“Was I interrupting something?” Montford continued, his
gaze flickering to Lady Emily, then to Astrid.

The Marchioness replied. “This lady seems to have misplaced
her son, and she thinks Miss Honeywell has him,” she said flatly. Astrid could
not tell if she were amused or irritated by the situation. She wished
she
could remain so cool.

Montford looked startled. “What is she talking about,
Astrid?” he demanded in an accusatory tone.

Astrid bristled. Really, he had no right to be angry with
her
! Or to use her first name in front
of all these people as if he’d the right. He didn’t. He never would. “It seems
Sir Wesley has absconded with my sister. They have eloped.”

Lady Emily pulled out her handkerchief and covered her
mouth to stifle her cry of dismay. “For heaven’s sake, gel, must you be so
blatant?”

Sherbrook and the Viscount snorted simultaneously.

“Well, good for her!” Montford stated.

Lady Emily looked thunderstruck.

“And good for that idiot son of yours,” he continued,
giving Lady Emily his most contemptuous look. “He’ll not be sorry for it. Alice
Honeywell is one of the finest females I have ever met.” He glanced towards his
friends Sherbrook and Marlowe as if to impart a revelation. “She’s surprisingly
lovely.”

Sherbrook had recovered his good humor. He smiled in
Astrid’s direction, as if they shared a joke.

Which they most certainly did not. Astrid had never felt
less like joking in her life. What did Montford mean,
surprisingly
? What sort of qualification was that to make?

“He shall most certainly be sorry,” Lady Emily continued.
“He has married against my wishes, and his
wife
shall not be welcome under my roof. She has betrayed me, after all the
kindnesses I have done to her!”

Montford, despite his beard and general dishabille, managed
to pull off one of his infamous ducal glowers. “We have already established the
reach of your kindnesses,
madam
. And
if you are speaking of Benwick Grange’s roof, you are mistaken. It is Sir
Wesley’s roof.
 
I shall be sure to
remind him when I see him again. I’ll not have that fool installing his wife in
the same household as his mother. Alice does not deserve it. Now good day to
you.”