The Duke's Holiday (8 page)

“Yes, well …”

“
Miss Honeywell
!”

Roddy froze, and so did she, at the sound of a booming
voice coming up from the path leading from the Hall.

“
Stevenage
!”

Roddy’s face drained of color, and he turned on his heels
and ran into the shrubbery, his courage once more fleeing in the presence of
his soon-to-be ex-employer.

“Coward,” she hissed.

“Miss Honeywell!” the Duke intoned, closer now, and
sounding even more displeased than usual.

She turned around and pasted a false smile on her face. The
Duke strode up to her side, outfitted in a gray cut-away jacket and fawn
breeches tucked into high Hessian boots, their glossy surface marred by the mud
from the path, the only aspect of his person not perfectly in order. She
marveled at the crisp, unwrinkled fabrics, the starch of his collar, the
spotless gleam of his top hat and silver-tipped walking cane.

She raised a hand unconsciously towards her head, and only
by great effort forestalled her fingers from attempting to put her hair to
order. She had, of course, forgotten her bonnet in her haste this morning, and
she could feel the damp, curling tendrils of her hair beginning to sag out of
its pins in the back.

She did not care what she looked like. Not one jot.

If only he did not look so blasted … perfect.

And if only Roddy had not told that blasted story. How was
she supposed to think straight about anything now?

“Miss Honeywell, was that Stevenage who just hied off into
the shrubbery?”

“What? Who? Oh, was there someone?” She glanced around her,
looking perplexed.

“Yes, there was … oh, for the love of … never mind.” He
stabbed his cane into the ground and glared at her.

She met his glare with one of her own and told herself not
to think of the last time she had been in his company. When he had stared at
her breasts.

Too late. She cursed inwardly as she felt the blush creep
over her cheeks. She hated being a redhead. “Your Grace. Did you want
something? Directions, perhaps, back to London?”

“I am not going anywhere.”

“I would have thought Ant and Art had quite convinced you
that it would be in your best interest.”

“Ant and Art.” Something twitched in his jaw. “Your
sisters
, I presume.”

“Yes. Antonia and Ardyce.”

“They shall not run me off.”

“Damn. I mean, fiddlesticks.”

His jaw twitched again.

“Nevertheless, if you deem it necessary to stay in the
area, you should be more comfortable at the Thirsty Boar,” she said breezily.

He looked at her as if she had grown a tail.

“The coaching inn in the village,” she elucidated.

His eyes grew as wide as saucers, and he blinked once,
twice. Apparently she had grown hooves, wings, and a snout to accompany her
tail, from the look on his face.

“Good God, no,” he breathed, as if she had suggested he dig
a hole to China. “I never stay at coaching inns.”

“Then is this your first time out of London?” she
persisted.

“Of course not.”

“Then how have you not had to put up at a coaching inn?”

“Madame,” he said in that haughty, condescending ducal tone
she had already grown to hate. “I own thirty seven properties in England alone.
I hardly need to stay at a coaching inn when I can sleep in my own bed.”

“How very convenient for you to have so many beds.” She
paused. “Have you thought that you might be inconveniencing
us
to stay at Rylestone Hall?”

“I am sure it is no inconvenience,” he said in that
superior tone.

She snorted. “Have you thought that we might not
want
you to stay at Rylestone,
Montford?”

“Of course. But that is beside the point. I own it.”

“Ha! Do you indeed?”

She picked up her skirts and started past him.

“Which is precisely why I am here,” he continued, falling
into step beside her.

“If you own thirty seven properties, what need do you have
for this one?”

“Again, beside the point. It is the principle of the
thing.”

She shot him a fierce glare. “Rylestone Hall is our home.
The Honeywells have managed this estate for centuries.”

“And made an appalling hash of it. The Hall is crooked,
madame, if you haven’t noticed.”

“The towers need some work, granted …”

“And I can’t imagine the state of the tenant farms. Or the
poor sods under your shoddy management.”

She stopped up short and turned to give him an earful. But
he was not expecting her sudden movement, so he kept on walking, right into
her. She collided with a solid pillar of manly and sartorial excellence, her
nose smashing against the ruffled perfection of his cravat. She inhaled the
scent of him – clean linen, a hint of sandalwood – and felt the
splendid heat emanating from his body. Something deep inside of her melted, turning
her insides to goo. She had the oddest desire to reach up and bury her fingers
in the folds of his jacket and push herself closer, ever closer, into his warm,
hard body.

She jumped away with an abruptness that left her teetering
dizzily on jelly-like legs.

He jumped away as well with a sharp intake of breath.

“Miss Honeywell …”

His voice was soft, as it had been this morning in the
corridor.

She looked up and met his startled glance. His brows were
arched, his mouth slacked, and his silver eyes bored into her own as if
divining her soul.

Her insides melted all over again. She licked her lips
unconsciously.

His gaze dropped briefly to her lips, and his eyes darkened
to an opaque, satiny gray. Then he glanced back to her eyes, looking as baffled
as she felt. “Miss Honeywell,” he repeated. “Your eyes …”

“Yes?”

“Your eyes …
don’t
match
.”

The last two words were little more than a pained whisper.

She crashed back to herself with a thud, her body suddenly
cold and rigid. His observation was a blatant accusation. He seemed disgusted
– horrified, really – by her eyes. And who could blame him? They
were uncanny and offputting to most people. Some even thought she was cursed.
But it was not as if she could help her hideous appearance, any more than he
could help being so damned beautiful.

She had thought herself beyond the point of being wounded
by comments about her looks. But her vanity was struck very low indeed in that
moment. “I am sorry to offend you, Your Grace,” she ground out, stalking ahead,
not wanting him to see how he had affected her.

She heard him groan behind her and lengthen his stride to
catch up with her. “Miss Honeywell, wait.”

He put a hand on her arm. She felt it as keenly as one felt
a bee-sting, even though his glove and the fabric of her dress stood between
their flesh. She tried to shrug him off, but he held on tenaciously until she
was forced to stop. But she didn’t look up at him. She couldn’t.

Her eyes felt hot and wet, and she tried to convince
herself it was an allergy.

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean …”

“I know exactly what you meant. You don’t have to explain.
I am quite used to rude comments from you,” she said in a surprisingly even
voice, considering her inner turmoil.

He was silent for a long while, and she was forced to
listen to the rhythm of his breathing above her. It was as uneven as her own.
He still held onto her arm, as if afraid she would slip away if he didn’t,
which was probably true.

“You make it very hard for a man, Miss Honeywell.”

She didn’t know what he meant, yet at the same time she
knew precisely what he meant, and she didn’t like the implication of that at
all. She wanted no insight into him, and she certainly didn’t want him to know
her at all.

“Please, let me go,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

His hand fell away. He backed up a pace or two. He began
smoothing out his cravat, tucking and folding with a nearly obsessive
intensity. “Miss Honeywell, this is ridiculous. I do not want to insult you.
Indeed, I do not even want to
be
here.”

“And yet you are. And yet you intend to stay.”

“I want to know what the bloody hell is going on. You’ve
already lied about your father …”

“I never lied. I simply forgot to inform you.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking smug. “Ah, so then it
was
you. You are
A.
Honeywell. You are the blasted letter writer who’s plagued me
for years.”

“Of course I am. Who did you think was in charge around
here?” she demanded.

He held up a hand in a gesture of pure defeat. “Madame, to
be perfectly honest, I’ve had a great deal to sort out in the past four days.
Carriages. Mud. Lame horses. Hysterical valets.
Mud
. Pigs. And you.
You
,
Miss Honeywell, are quite a lot to sort out. As you refuse to give me a
straight answer to anything, it is all I can do not to throttle you,” he said
in a dry, level voice. “I am … unused … to such treatment.”

“Clearly.”

“However, I promise to refrain from throttling you, if you
would start cooperating,” he finished, flicking invisible lint from his sleeves
and looking as if this offer of conciliation should solve all of their
problems.

And for some bizarre reason, all of her anger at him and
all of her hurt feelings over the incident with her eyes drained out of her in
that moment. He looked, facing her in the lane, wearing an expression of such
smug arrogance, precisely like a ten-year-old boy determined to have his way.

Which made the ten-year-old girl inside of her dig her
heels in.

Roddy had warned her not to grouse the Duke. But she was
already in too deep. She was now quite glad she had run into his chest rather
than contradict his assumption about the condition of the estate. For if he
discovered the truth – that it was flourishing, not languishing –
then he was bound to figure out that her family had been bilking the dukedom
for generations.

Or, at least, that was how
he
would see it. To Astrid’s mind and the minds of her forebears,
however, no laws were being broken.

Again, the Duke was bound to see things in a different
light, and Astrid did not want to spend the rest of her life in Newgate. Who
would take care of her sisters, or the brewery, or the tenants?

She would not panic. Not now.

She wasn’t any closer to figuring out what to do with the
Duke or the muddle between them, but she wasn’t about to let him have the upper
hand. The only thing to do at the moment was stall, evade, and so flummox the
Duke that he never had a chance to get his bearings long enough to discover the
truth.

And lord knew the Duke could use some flummoxing. She had
never seen such a stiff collar or rigid spine or tense jaw. She wondered how he
did not shatter under the weight of such self-importance. He was wound even
tighter than Roddy had been.

The most remote man
to walk the earth.

She raised her eyes to his and considered Roddy’s
assessment as she saw the Duke … no, actually saw
him
, for the first time. Not Montford. Not her loathed nemesis. Not
a stuffed shirt in shiny boots. But
him
,
the man beneath, the one who reminded her of a ten-year-old boy, the one who
had stolen a look at her breasts this morning and eaten one of her biscuits
last night with such an expression of surprised ecstasy Astrid had nearly
dropped her tea in her lap. The man who kept peeking out at the world behind
that dour, icy demeanor.

She realized Roddy was quite wrong. Montford was not the
most remote man to walk the earth. He was the loneliest man … no, the
saddest
man she had ever met, and he was
so coiled up in himself he didn’t even realize he was miserable.

Her heart swelled in her chest, and he was no longer a ten-year-old
bully, but a child of four, alone on the side of a highway, tears streaking
down a face covered in dirt and dried blood. She could picture him in her mind
as clearly as if she had been there. She wanted to reach out to him, take him
in her arms and soothe his hurt, take away his pain, kiss away his tears …

Damn Roddy for telling her such a heartrending tale. Damn
him for making Montford …
human
to
her.

But once Astrid’s heart swelled like that, there was no
turning back. She would never let anyone know the truth – that beneath
her prickly tongue and bluestocking tendencies she was a sentimental fool. She
had always been a sap when it came to wounded animals, teary-eyed little boys,
and lost causes. It never failed that she wanted to take broken creatures under
her wing and fix them, even though most of her projects eventually found a way
to, either literally or figuratively, bite the hand that fed them. But she
never stopped trying.

Montford, to her mind, fit all three categories, especially
the last one. If ever there was a lost cause, it was this perfect, odious man
standing before her now.

What was she thinking? She would be a fool to try to rescue
him from himself.

An utter fool.

But damned if she wasn’t going to try anyway.

His brow furrowed. “Why are you smiling like that, Miss
Honeywell?”

“Am I? Well, I suppose it is because you think I am going
to cooperate.”

“I take it you’re not.”

“No indeed, Lord Montford. For where would be the fun in
that?”

He looked as if she had spoken a foreign language, not made
a declaration of war, which, unbeknownst to him, she had.

She stuck out her tongue, turned, picked up her skirts, and
ran all the way back to the Hall.

IN WHICH
MONTFORD IS CONFRONTED BY A PASTORAL UTOPIA

MONTFORD
couldn’t quite believe what had happened moments ago. No one had ever done such
a thing to him. It was outrageous. Inexplicable.

The bloody woman had stuck her tongue out at him.

If she thought he was going to chase after her, thereby
losing what little dignity remained to him, she was quite mistaken. He would
not
run like some common swain in
pursuit of that red-haired virago.

Although that was what his legs itched to do, quite
regardless of his resolve.

Damn that woman to bloody hell, but she was a … a …

Handful.

A strumpet.

Worse. He suspected she was a bluestocking. The horror. He
couldn’t think of anything more tiresome than a woman who pretended to be a
man. As if he couldn’t see very well that she was female, what with all of that
hair. And the dress (she had foregone the trousers today, thank God). And the
breasts.

The very full, very round breasts he had had the misfortune
to glimpse in more or less full glory this morning. Yes, the nightrail had
covered at least half of those glorious mounds, but no, the night rail had
not
done its job properly, for the
hallway had been cold, and the early morning light drifting through the windows
had rendered the thin fabric a moot point at best. Those breasts were a … a…

Handful
.

And he had found himself struggling with the memory of them
the entire time he’d been attempting to converse with her just now. It had not
helped when he had run into her and the very same appendages he was trying so
hard not to think about had smashed up against his chest. Now he had not only
the memory of how they looked, but also how they felt – soft, nubile –
to plague him. Not to mention the scent of her rising up off her hair –
hay, lavender,
woman
– and
lingering in his nose long after the fact.

His body – a traitor to all Montfords past –
had quickened with an unmistakable animal lust.

He wanted her, he realized with alarm. He wanted this
woman, who was so wrong, so utterly
flawed
and
incorrect
, more than he’d ever
wanted a woman before. For a split second, when they had been body to body,
he’d imagined himself dragging her off the path, pinning her to the ground, and
taking her right there in the shrubbery, like some animal. He had more than
imagined it. He had
considered
it.

He had clearly gone insane.

Taking firm control of his wandering libido, Montford
managed to restrain himself from running after Miss Honeywell. Instead, he
walked in the direction of Rylestone Green in an effort to clear his head.
Despite the mud and the general disorder of the natural world, the walk into
the village was pleasant. The sky was as blue as Miss Honeywell’s right eye and
mild for early October in Yorkshire. Had he been any less of a prude, he would
have unbuttoned his jacket and loosened his cravat to accommodate the heat. But
he was not. And he was not any less disturbed by the mud on his Hessians than
he had been yesterday.

But he could not deny that the air was fresh and clean and
faintly sweet-smelling, a far cry from London’s polluted atmosphere. It was
amazing how good it felt to simply breathe in the pristine air. He could get
used to rural life – if something was done to eliminate the … well,
ruralness
.

He passed by a field of grazing sheep, and two of them
wandered into the road directly in front of him. Montford jumped back, catching
his hat in his hands before it could pop off his head. “Good God,” he muttered.

He detoured around the intruders, careful to let no part of
his clothing graze their puffy, dirty white wool. He nearly jumped out of his
skin when one of them
baaahed
in the
general direction of his privates.

At length, he reached the village. The sight of it filled
Montford with the same uncomfortably warm feeling he’d had when he’d first seen
the castle. It looked too perfect, the long, wide green that provided the
village with half its name leading up to the steps of the old Norman chapel.
The green was well tended and dominated by an ancient elm, under which
frolicked a handful of young children playing hoops and chasing their pets. The
main street was cobbled and bustling with local traffic, the shopfronts freshly
painted and immaculately polished. The citizens of the village looked as
prosperous and quaint as the village itself. A veritable pastoral idyll.

It was a far cry from the other shabby, rather
frighteningly uncivilized towns he had encountered on his journey through
Yorkshire. It was a far cry from what Montford expected to find, considering
the returns on the estate.

And it would bloody well never do.

Rylestone Green was
supposed
to be a ruin.

Which made
someone
a liar and a thief.

Without entering the village, he spun around and stalked
back to the castle, more disgruntled than ever. From the moment he had received
Mr. Lightfoot’s letter, he had felt the same way he did when he found a book
shelved out of order in his library, or when Coombes lined up his boots with
the outer edges facing inward. Except the feeling had been magnified a hundred
times over as the days wore on and Stevenage remained silent, no doubt because
of Miss Honeywell’s machinations. With the added stress of his upcoming
nuptials and the bedamned restlessness that had lately plagued him, Montford had
grown, in short, hysterical. It was the only explanation he had for undertaking
a journey he would have never considered otherwise.

And now that he was here, now that he’d seen Rylestone’s
prosperity, he was more certain than ever the Honeywells had been cheating him
for years. He had no idea what to do to fix things. This was not a situation
easily resolved by changing the order of his boots or reshelving a book in its
proper location.

How, he wondered, did one reshelve a family?

Well, at least one thing was clear to him. Until he got a
straight answer out of Miss Honeywell, he was not going to get anywhere. She
held the key to this muddle. If only she were not so … so insufferable.
Insolent. Flip. If only just the mere sight of her didn’t make him want to howl
in outrage.

He’d have more luck capturing the moon and hauling it to
earth than having a rational conversation with Miss Honeywell. But the angrier
he got and the more hopeless it all seemed, the more he wanted to do just that
– not necessarily have a rational conversation with the woman.
That
would never happen. But he
did
want to defeat her. Not very noble
of him, but there it was.

By the time he returned to the castle, the only thing he
knew for certain was that he was
not
going
to allow Miss Honeywell to hoodwink him.

How to do that was another matter entirely.

As it seemed she was determined to avoid his company
– no doubt in order to hatch some nefarious scheme against him – he
supposed he was going to have to avoid her avoidance.

In other words, he was going to have to attach himself to
her hip.

He shuddered in revulsion. Or at least he attempted
revulsion. Otherwise he would have to acknowledge to himself that his shudder
had another cause, which had also inspired a tightening of his loins and an
image of bounteous breasts flashing behind his eyelids. He had never been
impressed by women’s bosoms before. Bosoms were bovine. Bosoms were coarse, so
very plebeian. Why could he not get Miss Honeywell’s out of his mind?

He shook his head and tried to breathe deeply as he entered
the castle keep.

Follow her
, he
told himself.
Plague her. But do not
touch her again. And do
not,
for
Christ’s sake, look below her neck.

It had been too long since he had given up his last
mistress and asked for Araminta’s hand, and that must be the source of his
problem with Miss Honeywell. He needed a woman.

His spirits fell as he realized how little a chance there
was of
that
in the near future. He
supposed that the next woman he bedded would be his wife.

An arctic breeze crept up his spine at the thought of
Araminta, and he welcomed it, for as he watched Miss Honeywell descend from the
stairwell in the front hall, he felt no return of his former unruly feelings
regarding her bosom, even though it bounced with each little hopping step she
took.

From the speed with which she moved, she was still
obviously trying to evade him. But he stood at the bottom, effectively cutting
off her escape route. She came to a halt a few steps above. She held a bonnet
and a pair of gloves in her hand as if prepared to dash outside once more. Her
face was pinkened with exertion and her eyes flashed with vexation.

Her ire pleased him. He was glad to know his company piqued
her as much as it did him.

 
“Miss
Honeywell. On your way out?”

She studied him with suspicion. “Yes, I was on my way out.”

“In that case, I should like a look at the books while
you’re conducting your business.”

A flicker of exasperation crossed her features. “Of course,
Your Grace. We have an excellent library.”

“The estate books, madame.”

He did not think he imagined the way she paled at his
statement. Oh, the little strumpet definitely had something to hide.

“I do not think that will be necessary –” she said.

“Oh, but I do, Miss Honeywell.”

“There is nothing to interest you in that quarter –”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

She moved across the front hall and peered outside. Her
expression changed from hunted to devious. He followed her glance. A curricle
had pulled up the front drive.

“Besides which,” Miss Honeywell said, “I don’t think it’s
any of your business.”

“How do you figure that?”

She threw him a look over her shoulder that was pure smug
victory. “Because my brother has arrived.”