The Duke's Holiday (41 page)

“The castle’s walls are still standing … somewhat,”
Montford said dubiously. “We can renovate it.”

Astrid didn’t even look up at him. She picked up a clump of
mud and lobbed it at his knees.

She was mourning the loss of her home, he told himself. He
would
not
be angry.

He heard the sound of a carriage rolling up behind them. He
turned and groaned. It was the baroness’ barouche. She’d returned. With the
stuttering vicar. Oh, this was all they needed.

The vicar gaped at the smoking castle as he descended the
barouche. Lady Emily eyed the ruin through her quizzing glass. She was looking
smug, and Montford had the urge to plant her a facer, female or not.

She turned her quizzing glass on him. He scowled blackly at
her, and her smug smile faded.

“Oh, d-d-d-dear h-h-hea-heavens!” the vicar cried, rushing
to Astrid’s side, helping her to her feet with Flora’s assistance.

Astrid looked pale and weak and utterly forlorn, and
Montford’s heart cried out. He wanted to go to her, comfort her, take her in
his arms and make all of this go away, but he knew she would never allow it.

“What happened here?” Lady Emily demanded as she descended
from the barouche. “What has she done now?”

Sebastian and Marlowe stepped forward, inserting themselves
between Montford and the old bag, as if sensing how close he was to murder.

“How nice of you to return, madame,” Sebastian said
charmingly, his smile all the more potent from the soot dusting his skin. “We
need extra hands hauling buckets. You look a stout sort, madam. I’m sure you
won’t mind.”

Lady Emily sniffed contemptuously at Sherbrook’s needling
and turned her attention to Astrid. “I knew one day something of the sort would
happen. You are careless, gel. Don’t expect
me
to pick up the pieces of this latest disaster. It is justice, as far as I’m
concerned, for leading my boy to ruin.”

“M-m-my l-l-lady! P-p-p-please reconsider your h-h-harsh
words!” the vicar exhorted.

“Yes, do stop acting an ass,” Sebastian drawled.
 
“Before my friend here calls you out.”

Lady Emily was outraged. “
Really
!”

Sebastian turned to Montford. “Shall I stand second for
you, old boy?”

“I’m obliged, but no. Should I feel the need, I’ll inform
you.” He continued to glare at Lady Emily. She had the good sense to back up a
few paces, out of his reach. “If you speak one more unkind word against Miss
Honeywell, I shall put you in the stocks. Do I make myself clear?”

“You have a great deal of concern for my niece,” she said,
studying the hay on his person through her quizzing glass.

“You take
no
concern. I suppose you won’t wish to receive her any longer after this.”

“Certainly not. It is plain to anyone with eyes what you
and she have been up to. No one of good breeding could
possibly
receive her now.”

“I am glad to hear your decision. Of course you must
understand, under such circumstances, that
we
shall not be able to receive
you
. No
one with such a low opinion of my wife shall be welcome under my roof!” he said
with all of his most chilling ducal austerity.

It took a moment for his words to sink in. Lady Emily’s
quizzing glass dropped from her eye, and her jaw went slack.

Astrid pushed her way free from her helpers and stalked forward,
trembling with rage. “I…I am not marrying you!” she hissed.

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not!” She thrust her hand in the direction of
Araminta, who was standing next to her sister, rumpled and distraught. “
She’s
marrying you. In a week.”

The Marchioness patted her sister’s arm and gave them all a
serene smile. “I’m sure some arrangement can be reached. In fact, now that you
mention the subject, Montford, it is one of the purposes of our visit. Well,
tell them, Minta, for heaven’s sake.”

Araminta’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. The events
of the last few hours had stricken her dumb, apparently. Montford squinted at
her, wondering what he had been thinking to have engaged himself to such a …
boring
specimen.

The Marchioness rolled her eyes when Araminta remained
speechless beside her and barreled on herself. “My sister does not wish to
marry you, Montford. She never did. She is running away with a Mr. Morton. You
don’t know him, but he fancies himself a poet and is quite the romantic. He’s
wooed my sister with his verses quite effectively. I am told poetry is a fine
way into a lady’s affections. It seems to work much better than ordering them
about and telling them what they are going to do without waiting for their
agreement.” She gave him an arch look and glanced Astrid’s way as if to
emphasize her point. Canny woman. “I am sure Minta shall be quite happy with
Mr. Morton. He is not quite as rich as you, but then who is? Have you any
objections?”

Montford shook his head mutely.

Marlowe chortled, another cheroot plummeting to its hasty
demise. “By gad, that’s what I call a coup. Why didn’t you just say so in the first
place, Lady K? Wouldn’t’ve been so churlish to you about you coming up here,
would we, eh, Sherry?”

Sebastian just stared at his step-aunt with an inscrutable
expression.

“Araminta, is this true?” Montford demanded.

The chit finally found her voice. “Er … yes. Quite. It was
father’s idea for us to wed. But I’d rather not. Though I’d like to be a
Duchess, I think having a husband who loves me shall be much better. At least,
that is what Katie says. She’s usually right.”

The Marchioness nodded and patted her sister’s arm. “Of
course I’m right, dear.”

Astrid snorted. “Well, this changes nothing. I’m still not
marrying you.” She gestured towards the castle. “Look at what you’ve done!”

He’d known it was coming. “Me?” he cried. “I did not burn
the damned castle down!”

“You kept me away, when I might have done something.”

“That is the most absurd reasoning I’ve ever heard,” he
said contemptuously.

“Well, it’s all your fault. Somehow,” she returned.

They stared each other down, oblivious to the discomfort of
their companions.

The vicar broke the silence by gasping and gesturingly
wildly towards the castle. He tried to force some words out, but his mouth
could not reach past the first syllable.

Everyone swiveled towards the castle, and Marlowe and
Sebastian began cursing indiscriminately. So did Montford. The north tower,
already on its last legs, had succumbed at last to gravity, one stone, followed
by another, tumbling down onto the castle keep. The impact sounded like cannon
blasts, sending puffs of smoke and debris up into the sky.

The falling stones ceased, and for a moment all was quiet.
They breathed a collective sigh of relief. But then a great groaning sound rent
the air, like the bellow of a newly-awakened dragon. The tower began to stagger
about, then pitched over in a dead faint, right into the center of the castle.

Montford stopped his ears against the terrible sound. The
ground beneath them quaked as the entire castle collapsed in on itself in a
chaos of fire, smoke, splitting oak and rubble.

Araminta fainted. The Marchioness rolled her eyes and bent
over her sister, fanning her face.

Marlowe’s new cheroot dropped, unlit, to the ground.

Astrid looked at him briefly, her mismatched eyes filled
with shock … and desolation. Damned pile of rocks. She cared more for that
bloody castle than for him.

Not that he could blame her, precisely. He’d behaved like a
total arse from the moment he’d clamped eyes on her, rutting around in a muddy
garden with a pig.

His heart ached. It was as if a surgeon had cut him open,
sliced off a piece of it, then sewn him back up and expected him to muck on. He
couldn’t muck on. Not without Astrid. She owned that piece of his heart.

He breathed out at last, but it was a hoarse, ragged sound,
as he waited on tenterhooks for what she would do next.

But as usual, it was nothing he could have predicted. She
began to laugh, her cheeks pinkening and her eyes overflowing with tears. She
laughed so hard her body shook all over, until she was forced to lean against
his chest for support. He didn’t mind this one bit, enjoying the feel of her in
his arms once more and relieved she’d not resorted to hysterics, as most sane
people would have done at the loss of their home. But then Astrid wasn’t sane,
was she? She was delightfully cracked in the head.

Soon everyone was laughing – aside from Aunt Emily,
of course – because what else could they do?

“I told you that damned north tower was crooked,” Montford
said through a chuckle.

She lifted her head, and her eyes flashed with heat. “Shut
up, Cyril. This
is
all your
faul—”

He stopped her mouth with a kiss before she could say one
more ridiculous thing. Somewhere in the background he heard Lady Emily gasp,
the vicar sputter, and Marlowe and Sherbrook whistle, but he was beyond caring.
He was not going to let the virago in his arms get away from him so easily, now
that he’d made up his mind to keep her.

He’d never know another moment’s peace without her. He’d
never know a moment’s peace
with
her,
either, but he longed for the delicious, madcap tangles she plunged him into.
The arguments – God, the arguments were thrilling, arousing! He even
longed for her to throw things at him. And the very sight of her made his blood
sizzle and his body burn. She was so very wrong, what with her corkscrew hair
and mismatched eyes and convoluted scheming, but she was utterly perfect to
him.

And as he came up for air and gazed dazedly around him at
the small throng of onlookers who’d turned their focus from the imploding
castle to his rather bold display of passion, he caught sight of Lady Emily’s
vacant barouche and had a brilliant idea.

A way to bind this woman to him forever. And as quickly as
possible before she could come to her senses.

He took advantage of her kiss-induced disorientation, bent
down, heaved her over his shoulder, and made for the barouche.

IN WHICH
THE DUKE AND MISS HONEYWELL NEGOTIATE A TRUCE

IT
TOOK Astrid a moment to figure out what had happened to her after being kissed
into incoherency and then unceremoniously thrown over a hard shoulder. A tumult
of emotions bombarded her, what with her entire life in literal ruins, but
foremost among them at the moment was indignation. She’d had enough of the
Duke’s high-handed behavior.

“Put me down this instant, you beast!” she roared, balling
her fists and thumping them against his back. She squirmed on his shoulder, but
he only tightened his hold with one arm then thwacked her on the backside with
the other.

The thwack left her at sea. It infuriated her, but at the same
time she felt warm all over. Dear heavens. He’d spanked her like a child, and
she had been…

Aroused
.

“How … how dare you…” she sputtered, a bit less
emphatically than before. “Let me down.”

“Not on your life,” Montford said next to her hip.

“Beast! Churl!” she snarled.

When she realized his destination was Lady Emily’s empty
barouche, her stomach sank. What the hell was he about? She lifted her head and
glared at the crowd who gawked at them yet made no move to intercede. Even Lady
Emily seemed too shocked to raise the hue and cry.

Truly, it was distressing to have so many obliging
accomplices to her kidnapping.

“Help!” she cried. “You must help me!”

“Ignore her,” Montford said tersely. “Miss Honeywell and I
have matters to attend to. We shall return in
 
… well, a fortnight or so.”

A fortnight?

He climbed inside and hauled her onto the front seat before
she had time to properly digest his last statement. She guffawed with
indignation when he began to bind her wrists with his soot-stained cravat. Of
all the high-handed, unmitigated gall! Tying her up like some piece of
livestock! As if she could go anywhere. If she tried to run away, she had a
feeling the unsympathetic onlookers gathered outside would simply thrust her
back into Montford’s keeping.

He glowered at her, took her trussed hands and secured the
ends of the cravat to the driver’s seat. This hindered her movement even more,
but she still managed to kick him in the shin. He wrangled with her for a few
more seconds, as she was determined to cause him as much bother as possible.
Finally, he took her feet and sat on them so she could do no more damage, then
took up the reins and flicked the team of horses forward.

And
still
no one
made a damned move to stop him.

“Good luck, Your Grace!” Flora called, beaming at them, one
arm wrapped around Roddy, her other arm hugging Ant and Art close.

Mr. Sherbrook and the Viscount just smirked at each other
and gave Montford a jaunty salute of approval.

As they put the castle and all of its chaos behind them and
once again set off along the North Road, she turned to glare at her kidnapper,
who handled the reins of the barouche like the rank amateur he was. He clearly
had as little grip on the proceedings as she did. All of Montford’s legendary
composure was gone, stripped away, revealing the man beneath. And that man was
a dangerous beast in need of a good shave and a good meal, judging from the
wild, hungry look in his eyes.

That, or he was in need of some other sustenance only she
could provide.

Oh, he looked like the very devil, with his glinting silver
eyes and grim-set jaw.

Or at least, he would if he hadn’t been covered in hay.

“Well, that was bang out of order,” she muttered. She
wriggled her torso in an attempt to rearrange her top, which had twisted during
her kidnapping. But it was hard to do with her hands tied.

His eyes followed her every movement, she noticed with some
satisfaction, when they weren’t focused on the road. But his intent, predatory
gaze made her satisfaction melt away into the sudden inferno of lust. She tried
to keep her head. She tried to resist the lure of those eyes, the promise of
pleasure hidden within those depths. “What do you plan to do with me
now
?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m abducting you. To Gretna Green.”

Well, it was about bloody time! Her heart sang with joy at
his threat.

But she would settle for nothing less than all of him. It
was the only way she could see being married to the Duke of Bloody Montford.
She needed some leverage, and his heart seemed like a good place to start.

And, damn and blast it all, she so very much wanted him to
love her as much as she loved him.

“You cannot be serious!” she said haughtily.

“Oh, but I am. Very. Serious. You’re not leaving this
carriage until I get what I want.”

She laughed. “Then I’ll stay here forever. And make you
very sorry for it.”

He turned from the road and grinned broadly at her. And it
wasn’t in the least mocking. She was very worried and very, very aroused. He’d
smiled like that on one other occasion. Right before he had chased her up the hayloft.

“Oh, I doubt that, Miss Honeywell. I could never be sorry
for that.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean?”

She gasped out loud as he leaned in closer to her face. There
were stray bits of hay, she noted, caught in his eyelashes. She leaned in
towards him involuntarily. If she could just flick out her tongue…

“I said,” his lips said, not an inch from her mouth, “I
should not be sorry if you stayed here forever. Tied up in the barouche. In
fact, it would please me very much.”

She sucked in a shocked breath, just for show. A little
tremor of pleasure shot through her spine. “You’d never get away with it.”

His grin deepened. “Won’t I? It seems I already have.”

“You’re cracked in the head, Montford,” she said, squeezing
her eyes shut to distract herself from his eyelashes. And lips. Damn, he was
making it very difficult to think straight. “It really was not well done of you
to kidnap me. There is much to sort out about the castle. Not to mention
running Lightfoot to ground. And Aunt Emily will dine out on this tale for
years, the old goat. You’ve ruined my reputation, you know.”

“I know.” He grinned. “I may have finally succeeded in
ruining mine as well.”

“Piffle. You’re Montford, remember?”

He smiled again, that predatory smile that made her burst
into flames. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“As if you could ever forget,” she grumbled.

“Oh, but I do. Every time I think of you. Every time I
touch you.” He brought his free arm behind her back and pressed her against his
hard chest, nuzzling into her neck.

 
She moaned and
struggled against her bonds. She wanted to touch him, to run her hands down his
shoulders, underneath his clothing. “Untie me.”

“No. I rather like this. I can do exactly what I want to
you.”

Her entire body vibrated with wicked delight, and she groaned
in frustration. How very little it took him to make her lose her mind!

He leaned his forehead against hers, his breath catching.
The last of Astrid’s good sense fled her as she snuggled against him as best
she chould.
He
was the impossible
one, to make her burn so despite her intentions otherwise. To make her love
him, even when he had her tied up in a moving conveyance.

She tilted her head so that her lips touched his, and
kissed him, tasted him. He went still, then surged forward, devouring her
mouth, thrusting his tongue inside as if he couldn’t get enough of her. He
finally broke from her with a gasp. “Stop that, or I shall pull this vehicle
over and take you now,” he murmured against her temple.

“Were you planning on waiting?”

He laughed hoarsely. “You shall kill me yet. You make me
lose all sense of propriety.”

“I think it is safe to say propriety parted ways with us
around the time we entered the stables this afternoon.”

He cupped her face and stared down at her with a serious
expression. “You deserve a bed. My bed. Our bed.”

She snorted. “I’ve not agreed to anything that would lead
to us sharing a bed.”

His eyes went wide. He pulled back. “I swear, Astrid, if we
drive all the way to Scotland and you
don’t
marry me, I think I might internally combust.”

Her heart jumped out of her chest in fierce joy. It was
exactly what she had wanted to hear from him – sort of.

“But I can’t marry you!” she breathed.

He looked so angry and hurt, for once not bothering to hide
his emotions, her whole body ached for him. He led the team over to the side of
the road and pulled them to a stop before turning back to her. “Why the bloody
hell not?” he demanded.

“You are a Duke, a very rich, important Duke. I could never
be a proper Duchess.”

“I don’t want a Duchess!” he roared. “I want a wife. I want
you.”

“You say that now because … for some reason you desire me
…”

He barked out an incredulous laugh. “I love you, Astrid!”

Her heart began to beat wildly with hope. Her wheedling, it
seemed, had paid off. “Really?”

“Yes, really. Really, truly, utterly. I don’t think I was
alive until I met you. You make me so damnably happy! And miserable. And
irritated. And insane. You drive me to distraction, but it is the loveliest
sort of distraction I’ve ever known. I love you, I love you. Shall I say it
again?”

“Yes,” she said.

He kissed her madly, then drew away, his expression stern. “I
love you.” His stern expression slowly faded into a smile. “I love you.” He
kissed her cheeks, her eyelids, her chin. “I love you.”

“I think I get the idea,” she said with a dreamy sigh. A
warm glow spread through her at his words.

He gave her a sheepish look between kisses. “Do you love
me
, Astrid?”

She decided not to let him have such an easy victory. She
didn’t want their marriage to get off on the wrong foot and have him think he
could just make her capitulate with a few declarations of love all the time. “Does
it matter? It seems you’ll have your way, whether I like it or not,” she
sniffed.

“
Do you love me
,
you little monster?” he growled, tightening his arms around her.

“I might,” she hedged.

“Well, do you?”

He’d begun to sound genuinely worried, so she decided to put
him out of his misery. She wasn’t
that
cruel. “Of course I love you. Even if you
are
Montford.”

He glared at her without heat, having seen through her ruse.
“I’m afraid I’m stuck with the bloody title, Astrid. Much good it has done me.
And I’m not going to give away my wealth, if that is what you want.
And
we must spend at least a few months
in London every year. I have a country to run, you know. I’m sorry, Astrid, but
we cannot be poor or common. You must be a Duchess.”

Well, when he put it like that…

“Can my sisters live with us?”

He looked at her in exasperation. “Of course. How could you
think otherwise?”

“And Aunt Anabel?”

“If she keeps her wigs out of my way.”

“I want to rebuild the castle and live there.”

He grinned. “Done.”

She had not expected such an easy concession. She tried her
best to contain her shock and pushed him for more while his defenses were down.
“I want to continue to run the brewery. My way.”

His grin slipped a little. “Fine,” he said rather
grudgingly.

“I want you to submit a bill to the House to give women the
vote.”

His mouth flattened out. “We’ll see.”

She beamed at him. She knew by that noncommittal answer
that she had conquered him utterly. He would have
never
so much as entertained such a radical thought a week ago. Oh,
she was going to have such fun with this man.

His mouth turned down in a frown at her glee. “You’re
trying to provoke me.”

“Is it working?”

He shook his head. “Damn it, Astrid, are you going to marry
me or not?”

“You have hay in your eyelashes.”

“Do I?”

“All over your clothes, in fact.”

His eyes turned opaque, his expression made her blood
simmer. “What are you going to do about it, then?” He inched closer to her,
until she had only to crane her neck forward to reach his lips. He pulled his
head back abruptly and regarded her severely. She cried out in frustration.
“Not until you agree to marry me.”

She pouted. “You are cruel. Are you going to be such an
ogre all the time?”

“Not all. Most.”

“Well, then, I suppose I
must
marry you. Someone must protect the rest of the country from
your black moods.”

“Is that a yes?” he demanded gruffly.

“Yes.”

He hesitated. “You aren’t going to change your mind, are
you?”

She scowled at him. “Never.”

“Good.” His expression softened. He grinned at her like a
giddy schoolboy. Then he lowered his head and kissed her and kissed her, until
they both forgot everything outside the circle of their hot, frantic embrace.
Or rather,
his
hot, frantic embrace,
since she was trussed up like a sacrificial offering.

Which she didn’t mind in the least.

“God, how I want you,” he murmured, then he proceeded to
show her just how much, propriety be damned. His mouth was on her neck, then her
throat, and his hands were everywhere, caressing her until she was certain she
would die from unfulfilled need.

She couldn’t use her hands, but she used the rest of her
body to urge him on, arching against him, legs wrapping around him greedily as
he settled his weight atop her. His hands encircled her upper thighs, just as
he had that day in the library when he’d seduced a book out of her pantaloons.
He didn’t find a book this time, but something infinitely sweeter.

Her senses fractured. So did his, apparently, until a
sudden, inconvenient realization intruded into this perfect moment, and she
went still beneath him, staring up at him in amazement.