The Duke's Holiday (37 page)

Lady Emily sniffed with indignation and disbelief. She
stared around the room at all the unsmiling faces fixed upon her. She turned to
Astrid, her eyes widened with entreaty. “You shall not let this man treat me so
insolently!”

Astrid dug her nails into the seat back and smiled bitterly
at her aunt. “He does as he pleases, aunt. He’s the Duke of Montford.
I’ve
no control over him.”

Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “That is not what I hear. You’ve
been off with him!” She pointed with her handkerchief in Montford’s direction.
“Ruining yourself and this family!”

“I thought Alice had done that,” she retorted, not daring
to look up from her hands. Her pulse had begun to race. What had her aunt
heard? How much was she simply improvising to bait her? “I’ve done nothing
wrong.”

“Yes, she’s done nothing wrong,” the Marchioness confirmed.
“Unless you find my company scandalous? Miss Honeywell has been with us. We
have been making a tour of Yorkshire.”

Astrid had no idea why the Marchioness insisted on
interfering, but she was grateful.

Lady Emily looked confused.

So did Aunt Anabel. “No she hasn’t,” she said, looking at
the Marchioness as if she were mad. “She’s been on holiday with that young man
over there. Constantinople, I think.”

Sherbrook and the Viscount stifled laughter.

Astrid gritted her teeth, not knowing whether to kill her
aunt or kiss her. “Thank you, Aunt Anabel. Yes. We’ve been in Constantinople.
Fighting Saracens. We flew there.”

“Did you?” Aunt Anabel sounded intrigued.

Astrid couldn’t help but laugh in hysteria. “Oh, yes. In a
hot air balloon. They’re all the rage, you know.”

“This is ridiculous!” Lady Emily cried. She jabbed her
handkerchief in Aunt Anabel’s direction. “She’s insane! She belongs in Bedlam!”

“I most certainly do not,” Aunt Anabel said haughtily,
tossing her head, her wig flapping up and down. “I’ve more wit than you, Emily.
If I say she were in Constantinople, that’s where she were. And if she says she
were in a balloon, then by damn she were in a balloon. I ain’t having you in
here spreading vicious gossip about my girls. It’s none of your business, and
it never were, you interfering old bag!”

“Hear hear,” Sherbrook murmured, toasting Aunt Anabel with
his port. The Viscount followed suit.

Astrid stared at Aunt Anabel in utter shock as the old
woman hefted her cane and swatted it at Lady Emily, nearly catching her in the
stomach.

Lady Emily gasped and jumped back. “Well, I never …! Of all
the gall …!” Lady Emily breathed.

“
I’ll
show you
gall!” Aunt Anabel muttered, climbing to her feet unsteadily and poking her
cane at Lady Emily.

Astrid came to Aunt Anabel’s side and took her by the arm
to keep her from tumbling. “Thank you, Aunt. You have done enough.”

“Not hardly. She’s still breathing.”

They were all interrupted by the sound of a loud bang in
some distant part of the castle, followed by the piercing scream of a woman.
Astrid recognized Flora’s voice, and her heart caught in her throat. The room
fell silent, as if expecting to hear more. They didn’t for several moments. An
eerie silence descended.

“What was that?” Aunt Emily finally demanded. “What’s
happening now?”

“I’m not sure,” Astrid murmured.

The banging noise began again, as if someone were shifting
furniture around. Then it seemed to grow closer. With it came the patter of
feet and the squeal of two children.

Ant and Art.

Oh, hell.

“What is that?” the Marchioness asked, returning to her
sister’s side, taking her hand, as if fortifying themselves for something
dreadful.

“Sounds like a cyclone,” Sherbrook commented, looking
intrigued.

Then Astrid heard another squeal and Flora’s scream, this
time nearly right outside the door.

Astrid glanced at Montford automatically. Their eyes met.
“Petunia,” she said.

Montford’s brow lifted in surprise, then understanding. He
did the sensible thing and moved away from the door.

“Who is Petunia? Is she another sister?” Lady Araminta
inquired.

“No. Petunia is a he, not a she. And he’s a pig,” Montford
explained.

“Oh. What has he done?”

“No, he’s a pig. A real pig,” Montford insisted.

This didn’t have time to sink in for Araminta –
Astrid thought uncharitably she wasn’t the brightest of creatures –
before the door was thrown open, and Ant and Art ran into the room shrieking
with a mixture of glee and terror, dressed in their makeshift togas. Petunia
followed closely behind, grunting in fury, his hooves slipping across the
flagstones, sending his considerable bulk slamming against walls, tables, and
chairs, toppling them and anything upon them.
And
he was completely covered in mud. Wet mud. He left giant brown
streaks in his wake, upon the fabric of the couch, the Turkish carpet, and the
bottom of an ancient wall hanging.

Mayhem ensued. Ant and Art flew over the sofa towards the
pianoforte, and Petunia followed, knocking the staid Marchioness straight into
Sherbrook’s arms, their heads slamming together with a painful thwack. Petunia
got caught underneath the pianoforte, panicked, and bucked up with his
backside, jangling the frame, squealing at the top of his lungs. Then he
exited, catching the elegant, dainty leg of the pianoforte with his hoof. The
wood fractured and the pianoforte crashed to the floor, several keys popping
off, a discordant, funereal scream of strings reverberating from inside the
ruined instrument.

Sherbrook set the Marchioness on top of the sofa and moved
to do the same to Araminta, who was shrieking in horror.

He was too late. Ant and Art scooted underneath the
Viscount’s glass of port, followed by the pig, who snagged the bottom of the
snifter with his snout, sending the glass flying through the air, straight for
Araminta. Tawny port splashed over her face and bosom. She had no time to do
more than spit a few droplets of port out of her mouth before Petunia had
trundled by her, slamming his shoulder against her, knocking her on her arse.

Araminta let out a wail.

Petunia continued his path of destruction straight in Aunt
Emily’s direction. Aunt Emily had no choice but to flee the room, slamming the
door behind her, leaving them all at the pig’s mercy.

“Why, that selfish old bag!” the Viscount roared. “She’s
trapped us inside!”

Montford dodged around Ant and Art to reach Arminta’s side
and haul her to her feet.

“Well, someone do something!” Montford cried, heaving the
weeping Araminta onto the couch beside her sister. He turned to Astrid, his
silver eyes blazing. “Astrid, do something!”

“What do you expect me to do?” she snapped.

“He’s your pig! Your sisters!”

Astrid clenched her hands at her sides, rage coursing
through her veins. Petunia continued to circle the room, laying waste to
everything he touched. He brought down a table with two vases. He trampled Aunt
Anabel’s snuffbox collection and overturned a brass bucket full of ashes from
the fireplace. He then proceeded to wallow in them.

In the sudden lull, the Viscount – the most unlikely
candidate for heroics, in Astrid’s opinion – sprang into action. He
caught first Ant, then Art, by the scruffs of their necks, and hauled them off
their feet.

“Caught you, you little brats!”

Ant and Art stared up at their captor, wild-eyed, their
amusement turning to deep wariness. The Viscount was a frightening enough sight
for adult eyes. He carried them towards the door, swung it open with his foot,
and deposited them in the hallway.

Petunia, locating his quarry, sprang from the ashes and
bolted towards the door. Ant and Art recovered their squealing and ran down the
hall.

Astrid cringed when she heard something made of glass
shatter in the next room.

“That creature is going to destroy the whole castle,” the
Marchioness remarked in a surprisingly steady voice. She patted her sobbing
sister on the back absently. If Astrid wasn’t mistaken, a ghost of a smile
hovered about the Marchioness’ lips.

And if Astrid had any sense of humor left, she’d be smiling
as well.

But she didn’t. And she wouldn’t.

Astrid raised her eyes to Montford. He stared at her
angrily, as if this was all her fault.

She helped Aunt Anabel back to her chair, brushed past the
Duke, the Viscount, and Mr. Sherbrook, and came to the ruins of the pianoforte,
which was still reverberating with sound. She drew back her foot and kicked the
side of it as hard as she could, so hard she was convinced she’d broken a toe.
But it was worth it. She felt much better.

The pianoforte gasped its last, dying breath.

“I say, what did it ever do to you?” Mr. Sherbrook drawled.

Astrid snapped. She spun around and faced the rest of the
room, dizzy with rage and exhaustion. Tears leaked out of the corner of her
eyes. She couldn’t help it. Her attention snapped to Montford, whose anger had
faded, an unguarded, tender look taking its place. It was unbearable. “Satisfied?”

He stepped towards her. “Astrid…”

“I’m not going to London. I’m not doing a damned thing you
say. Show the books to the authorities. Throw me in the gaol. I don’t care.
Just get away from me. All of you.”

“You are overwrought …” Montford said.

“Of course I’m overwrought, you idiot!” She picked up a
fallen snuffbox and hurled it at him. “Go back to London, marry your … your
person
over there.” She indicated a
stunned and indignant Araminta by jabbing her finger towards the sofa. “I’m
sure you are quite suited.”

“No they’re not,” Sherbrook and the Viscount interjected
simultaneously.

She glared at them, daring them to say another word. They
fidgeted under her scrutiny.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, gathering herself up
and striding towards the door. “I shall go be
overwrought
in some other location. I would not wish to offend you
further.”

Once she was clear of the room, she didn’t stop running
until she was outside.

LA CHASSE,
LA CAPTURE, ET LA POMPADOUR

MONTFORD
abandoned the houseguests to pursue Astrid. He spotted red hair disappearing
out the French doors in the parlor. He followed it outside, through the gardens
and into the stable yard. It was coming loose of its pins, flying over her
shoulders like a banner in the wind. He could not see her face, but he knew
from the way she stalked about in her boy’s trousers, splashing through the
puddles, her hands clenched at her sides – and the way the servants
scurried out of her path, wide-eyed – that she was hopping mad.

So was he. Though if anyone asked him the reason, he
couldn’t have explained himself. He just knew that he was angry, and it had to
do with the pig. And that horrible baroness. And Alice Honeywell and Sir
Wesley, for leaving Astrid behind to deal with the consequences of their
foolishness. And at himself for caring so much.

And more than ever, he was angry at Astrid, because
she
was angry at
him
. Or hurt. Or whatever it was that had made her so wretched to
the Carlisle sisters. He had never made any promises or declarations to her.
She had no right to act like such a … a…

Well, a ninny. A featherbrain along the lines of Araminta.
What was
wrong
with her? “Astrid!” he
called, tripping over a bucket, splattering mud all over his fresh breeches.
Damn.

She didn’t even turn. She quickened her stride and
disappeared inside the stables. A few seconds later, Mick, Newcomb, and a few
other hands scurried outside, glancing behind them as if being chased by the
devil.

Newcomb nearly ran into Montford. He pulled his cap from
his head and bowed deeply, pulling his companions down with him. “Your Grace! She’s
towards the back, sir, saddlin’ up.”

He paused and scowled at the lot of them. “That damnable
pig is loose in the castle.”

Newcomb grimaced. “Aye, saw Her Majesty’s cattle out
front.”

“Not Lady Emily. Petunia,” he growled out. “Now go help
them sort it out before it brings the whole place down.”

Newcomb and the others complied reluctantly.

Montford strode inside the stable, past his ruined carriage,
and past several empty stalls until he came to one with the door opened. He
stuck his head inside and saw Astrid heaving a saddle atop her mare, her
trousers pulled taut over her rounded backside, her hair flowing down her back
like a fiery, swirling river.

A bolt of lust ricocheted through his body, stopping him up
short, nearly bringing him to his knees. He gripped the edge of the stall and
fought for control, resharpening his anger. “Where do you think you’re going?”
he demanded roughly.

She pulled the straps through their buckles with jerky
motions and caught his eyes over her shoulder. “Anywhere but here.” She turned
back to her work. “And I expect you and your
friends
to be gone when I return.”

“You’ll not be rid of me so easily. Besides, the castle is
mine.”

She spun around on him, trembling with her anger. “Fine.
Then stay here. I hope you enjoy sharing it with Petunia.”

She began to lead her mare out of the stall, but he stepped
in the middle of the door, blocking her way. “You can’t just leave. What of
your sisters? Damn it, woman. Where are you going to go?”

“Just get out of my way,” she retorted, grabbing up her
crop leaning against a wall and brandishing it in his direction.

“You wouldn’t dare strike me with that,” he guffawed with
more confidence than he felt.

“Wouldn’t I? Get out of my way, or I shall be forced to
make you get out of my way.”

“But this is ridiculous. Your feelings are piqued…”

“You have no idea what my feelings are,” she grit out.

“You’re jealous!” he cried, understanding her at last.

Her lips parted, her eyes grew wide. “No, I am not!” she
answered after an interminable moment.

He couldn’t resist a small smile of satisfaction. “Yes, you
are. You’re jealous of Lady Araminta.”

“Jealous! Of that empty-headed block of ice? No indeed.”

“You are!”

She raised the crop higher. Her blue eye flashed ice. Her
amber eye was filled wth fire. “I am not jealous, you fool. I am angry with you
for
touching
me, and at myself for
letting you. You could have had more honor and told me you were to be married
in a week.”

“Would it have made any difference?”

She drew back as if he had slapped her. An assent was on
the tip of her tongue, but she could not say it. Her face flamed, and she
looked away from him. “What sort of question is that to ask?” she said instead.

It was an evasion, and they both knew it. Something
resembling victory, but far sweeter and more frightening, blossomed inside of
him, warming his bones. He knew with a certainty in that moment that Astrid
felt the same unreasonable attraction for him as he did for her.

She would have allowed him to kiss her, to touch her, even
if she had known. Would she still?

He should turn around and flee immediately. There was no
good in him knowing the answer to that question.

Instead, he stepped further in the stall. She backed away
from him, still holding the crop in front of her in self-defense. He went
around to the other side of the horse and began to remove the saddle, though
his hands were shaking so much he could barely grip the leather.

“Stop it,” she cried. Then she actually
did
use the crop, the minx. She brought
it down across his back. He could feel its sting through the fine silk of his
jacket, cutting it to shreds and digging into his flesh.

He hissed in his breath at the sting and turned to face
her.

She had dropped the crop at her feet. Her hands covered her
mouth, and her otherworldly eyes were wide and filled with tears. She backed
towards the door.

“I didn’t mean to…” she stammered, stepping over the
threshold.

“Yes, you did,” he said, leaving the horse in a state of
confusion and following her out of the stall. The blow had startled him, and
caused him considerable pain. It had also had the rather perverse effect of
stoking his lust for her. It was some sort of ugly illness, like a thirst for
alcohol or an addiction to cards. He couldn’t shake her from his system, and
the worse she treated him, the more he craved her.

Good merciful heavens, he was done for. Because, deep down
he knew this was more than mere lust. When he looked at Astrid Honeywell, he
knew he was looking at forever.
His
forever.
And it was as frightening as it was wonderful.

“Well, you probably deserved it,” she said, regaining a bit
of her usual courage.

He grinned at her, which seemed to confound her further.
Her brow furrowed, and she bit her bottom lip with her teeth and glanced around
her for some defense. But the only exit to the stables was behind him.

“Stop looking at me like that,” she demanded.

“Like what?” he asked mildly.

“Good God, Montford, I didn’t hit you that hard! And you
drove me to it. Can’t you see I want to be left alone? If you haven’t noticed,
my life is in a shambles. No thanks to you.”

“I saved you from a madman.”

She gave him a withering look. “I’m unconvinced you’re any
more sane than Lightfoot!”

“Of course I’m not!” he cried, spreading his arms. “Look
what you’ve done to me! You’ve driven me insane!”

He stalked towards her, and she dodged behind a workbench
littered with tacking. “You have a free will. I did not
force
you to anything. Perhaps you wanted to be ruffled up a bit.
God knows you needed it, what with all of your preening and sorting,” she said.

“Sorting!”

“Yes! I’ve seen Aunt Anabel’s snuff boxes. And the library.
You go mad when anything’s not lined up or in order. You
are
mad. And so puffed up on your own importance you’re likely to
pop. I’ve never seen a man more in need of a good roll…” she broke off, her
face scarlet, and skirted around the corner of the table, away from him.

“In need of what?” he prompted, though he knew precisely
what she’d been about to say. “And how would
you
know anything about such things?”

She looked up at him, startled. “You’ve no idea what I was
about to say.”

“Oh, I think I do.”

She drew herself up haughtily. “Well, that’s what Flora
says, and the rest of the servants, anyway. And from my own … experience, I
would venture to say they are correct. Men seem to find … a certain measure of
…
release
in the … act.”

“Of
rolling
?” he
persisted.

“You said you knew what I meant!”

“Oh, I know what you mean. And I think you’re probably
right.” He cut her off before she could run past him, crossing his arms over
his chest and spreading his legs wide. He towered over her. “Good thing I’m marrying
in a week,” he said.

She gave him a murderous look, took up a brush from the
table, and hurled it at him. It hit his shoulder and sent him staggering back a
few steps.

“Ouch!” he cried, rubbing his injury. “Is it really
necessary to keep on doing such things?”

“You provoke me.”

“I provoke
you
?
Ha!” He came at her, arms extended. He would throttle her. Or kiss her. He
hadn’t decided which he wanted more.

“Leave me be, you lunatic!” she cried, hopping over a
bench, trying to hide behind a bale of hay.

“I can’t. Astrid, Araminta never meant anything to me. It
was a business arrangement.”

She scoffed at him. “Of course! I would expect no less from
you! That is what you intended to do with me, and my sisters. A business
arrangement indeed! How cold you are.”

“I am hardly the first to do so.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is quite the fashion. And so is Araminta.
Go on, off with you!” She threw a wrench at him. He dodged it. “Go back to
London! Marry your
fine lady
. I hope
you’re miserable!”

She picked up a poker and came at him with it.

He laughed in outrage, but in case she was serious –
which he didn’t quite disbelieve – he backed up until he hit a wall. He
yelped as his injured back touched the rough boards. Then she had the audacity
to poke him in the stomach.

“Going to run me through, are you?” He couldn’t help but
grin at her. The situation was so absurd. “Really, Astrid! After all we’ve been
through together,” he said wryly.

She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Don’t you dare!
And stop smiling at me! What the devil has gotten into you?”

 
“You. You.
You
. Wretched creature, I don’t know
what you’ve done, and I don’t like it. Sticking that book down your drawers!
Harridan! Witch!”

He stepped forward. She backed away warily, her smile
faltering.

“Those ungodly eyes of yours! And those horrible spots!
They keep me up at night, wondering if they’re everywhere.”

“Don’t say such things,” she cried, her outstretched arm
trembling.

 
He stepped
forward again. “And your hair. God, your hair! It’s intolerable! I should like
to yank it from your head. It makes me crazy.”

“Stop! Stop!” she murmured. “Don’t come any nearer!”

He stepped forward again. The poker dropped from her hands.
She raised her head, eyes wide, as he stopped a length from her, wanting with
all of his soul to reach out to her. He lifted his hand, touched his fingers to
the end of an errant curl.

Her eyes closed. She swayed on her feet.

He closed the distance between them, driven by some force
outside of himself. At the last second, she evaded him and pulled the knot out
of his cravat. He choked from the force of her gesture.

Looking well-satisfied, she edged around the bench again.
“I’ll not be your … your … plaything.”

“I don’t want a plaything.”

She hefted a bale of hay above her head.

“And what are you going to do with that?” he demanded with
a snort.

“This!” And she threw it at him. It bashed him in the head,
hay flying everywhere, forcing its way up his nose and in his mouth. He managed
to keep his feet, though his head spun. He spat out hay and wiped his nose. It
itched abominably.

She made a dash for the entrance. He moved too quickly for
her, however, and reached out to grab her. “I’ve had enough of this!”

She spun in the opposite direction, jumped over the bench,
and headed for a ladder. She scrambled up into the hayloft above.

He ran to the bottom. “Come down, Astrid! Stop behaving
like a child!”

“What, like
this
?”
She began to pick up hay and throw it down at him.

He sneezed and his eyes began to water.

She laughed at him and dumped another load on his head.

He growled at her and started up the ladder while her back
was turned to gather more hay. He was nearly to the top when she noticed his
approach and took the slats of the ladder in her hands.

“Don’t you dare!” he said in alarm, glancing down. He was
fifteen feet from solid ground, at least. “Astrid, don’t you…”

But it was too late. She’d pushed the ladder from the edge.
He clung to the rails as the ladder balanced straight up on its legs. Astrid
seemed to finally realize what she’d done. Her eyes widened in horror, and her
face drained of color. She reached out for him, but he was too far away.

The ladder teetered for a moment, then began to tilt in the
wrong direction.

“Oh, God, Montford!” she shrieked. She nearly threw herself
over the side in an effort to reach him.

He waved her back, his stomach sinking. “Stay back, or
you’ll fall!”

“
I’ll
fall?
Cyril!”

“Don’t call me that!” he retorted. He managed to swivel his
body around, catching the ledge of the loft with one hand, the wood splintering
into his skin. He clung with all of his strength as the ladder tilted further
away. He reached out with his other hand and grasped the ledge as well, then
pushed off with his feet, hefting his right arm up on the ledge, digging his
fingers around the edge of a slat of wood. His legs dangled in mid air as the
ladder crashed to the floor below. He watched it land with a shudder.