The Duke's Holiday Page 12

  “Thrice?” he replied doubtfully.

  “You do not believe me?”

  “I don’t believe a word that passes from your lips. And I cannot imagine how it is humanly possible to read that waddle three times without wanting to pull one’s hair out.”

  She wanted to pull someone’s hair out. “Waddle? You think More is waddle?”

  “He’s a dead bore. Tried reading it at school and fell asleep.”

  “Well, you would, wouldn’t you? What need have you of broadening your mind with revolutionary ideas? I’m sure you are quite pleased with the status quo.”

  “I am Montford,” he said, as if that explained everything. But his mouth curved at the edges mockingly as he said the words, as if he weren’t so satisfied with his place in the world as he would have her believe.

  She attempted to harden her heart against him, but it just simply wouldn’t turn entirely to stone. A small, stubborn pocket of pity and something else she didn’t want to examine too closely remained pulsing in the center of the brick in her chest. Why he inspired this conflict of emotions inside of her she would never understand. He was a beast. With nice hair, granted. But a beast nonetheless.

  Exasperated with herself and with him, she muttered a few well-needed curses as she descended the ladder.

  “Miss Honeywell?” His voice sounded dangerously close to her person.

  She froze near the bottom and looked through the slats of the ladder. Montford stood on the other side, at eye level to her now, only inches separating their faces. His omnipotent eyes scanned her face, and the furrow in his brow deepened. “You’ve been crying.”

  She blew the hair out of her face. “Absolutely not. The dust in here has made my eyes water.”

  “You are covered in dust,” he agreed. Before she could react, one of his index fingers touched her cheek and trailed its way down her face to her jaw, his eyes following its movements.

  His touch affected her like an electrical storm. And she couldn’t move. She knew she should finish climbing down the ladder and get as far from the Duke as possible, but she couldn’t make her legs work, and her hands seemed determined to grip the ladder, as if afraid of doing anything to make the Duke’s finger cease its movement across her face.

  “You’re filthy, Miss Honeywell,” he said in a soft voice that belied the accusation of his words. His eyes darkened. “You’re freckled.”

  He was insulting her, which would never do, but she could not seem to find her voice.

  His finger arrived at her chin and stopped.

  She forgot how to breathe.

  Then he began to lean towards her, and she began to lean towards him, feeling precisely the way she felt after one too many sips of Honeywell Ale. And she realized somewhere in the midst of all of their mutual leaning that he was going to kiss her. Or she was going to kiss him.

  Hell and damnation. They were going to kiss each other.

  Heat flashed through her veins and pooled low in her belly, shocking her. She had never been kissed. Opportunities had presented themselves in the past, and she had adroitly avoided every one of them. None of the men who had tried to kiss her had ever made her want to kiss them. She’d never felt the slightest stirrings of passion. Perhaps mild curiosity, but nothing to make her actually want to satisfy that curiosity. But now, staring at Montford’s lips – full, rather sensuous lips when they weren’t pinched with their usual disapproval – she felt positively ravenous.

  She licked her lips nervously, and something ticked in his jaw, his own mouth parting in surprise, as if she had dealt him a blow.

  Gads, she wanted this. She wanted him in that moment more than she had ever wanted anything. His lips on hers. Her hands in that marvelous hair. More than just his finger touching her jaw.

  How was this possible, she wondered? This was Montford, the villain she had loathed for years, her greatest adversary. Why, then, did he have to be so handsome? He didn’t look like a villain at all at the moment, what with those parted lips and those intense gray eyes.

  Her innards practically quivered in anticipation.

  Then her left foot chose to slip from its perch, and her ribs hit the slat in the ladder, knocking her back to her senses.

  She jerked from him, anticipation replaced by blind panic. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

  “What am I…? What are you doing?” he retorted, jumping away from her and hitting the shelf behind him. His shoulder dislodged a book, and it tumbled down his body, its heavy spine thudding against his toes. He grunted in pain and hobbled out from under the ladder.

  She finished descending and backed across the room, not taking her eyes from him, her heart thudding wildly.

  He growled in annoyance and bent down to retrieve the fallen tome. He scanned its spine, then turned to put it back on the shelf. His brow furrowed in vexation as he did so. “Your shelves are completely out of order,” he clipped out, tapping the spines of the books in front of him with enough force to bend them. “Donne next to Swift next to…” He let out a pained sigh. “Anonymous. Really, it is insupportable. How can you find anything in this chaos?”

  He pulled out one book, and then another and another, and Astrid realized he intended to try to order the shelves.

  She rushed forward, their near-kiss on the ladder a distant memory in the face of his latest outrage, and tugged one of the books from his hand.

  “There is an order,” she protested, stuffing the book back on the shelf.

  “D next to S. I don’t see how.”

  “They’re both British.”

  “They’re from different centuries.”

  “They’re both poets.”

  “Gulliver’s Travels is not poetry,” he ground out between clenched teeth. He waved one of the books in front of her face. “And this one is Anonymous.” He turned the front cover to the title page and squinted down with disgust. “And a novel. Pride and Prejudice: By The Author of Sense and Sensibility. A ladies’ novel. No doubt written by a woman.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He held up the book between the tips of his fingers as if it were soiled. “There is only one thing worse than an Anonymous novel writer. An Anonymous female novel writer.”

  She snatched the book from his hand and barely resisted the urge to cosh him with it. “You are a cretin.”

  He clenched his hands at his sides and watched her reshelve the book with something resembling pain in his eyes.

  “You really can’t bear it, can you?” she asked, turning back to him, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Hmm?” he mumbled, staring bleakly at the shelves.

  “The disorder. The chaos. Donne next to Swift. It is really upsetting your delicate sensibilities.”

  “You are upsetting my delicate sensi … Oh, devil take it, what am I saying?” He swung away from her. He raised his hand to rake his fingers through his hair, then checked himself, muttered an oath, and let his arm drop to his side. He flexed his fingers against his hip as if attempting to contain himself. “Miss Honeywell.”

  “You keep saying my name, but never get around to stating your business.”

  “You keep distracting me.”

  “Oh, good. Exactly part of my master plan.”

  He swung around to her, suspicion crowding his features. “Is it?”

  She laughed. “You think I have a master plan?”

  “Don’t you? Some devious scheme laid out that ends with me roasting on a spit?”

  “You give me much credit.”

  “Do you not think you deserve it, since you profess to be so clever?”

  “I have never professed…”

  “‘In case you are operating under some false delusions regarding my intelligence,’” he said, pitching his voice to imitate hers, but making it sound quite pedantic and smug – she did not sound like that, did she?— “‘I can inform you I have read Utopia thrice…’”

  She ended his little recitation by picking up a book and hurling it at his chest.

  It hit him squarely in the cravat and dropped to his toes.

  He broke off and glared at her incredulously. “If I were not a gentleman, Miss Honeywell, I’d take you over my knees and thrash you.”

  “I believe you are fond of making such threats. I heard the same one only this morning as you stared at my breasts.”

  “I did no such…”

  “Please. It would be ungentlemanly of you to become a liar as well as an ogler.”

  “An ogler.” His hands clenched his cravat, ruining the folds entirely, and his face began to grow increasingly red. “That’s not even a word.”

  “It should be.”

  “I think I am going to strangle you.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  He stepped forward as if intent on just that, and she backed away, suddenly realizing that he was quite serious and quite capable of following through with his threat. She had pushed him too far.

  But then his boot caught on the rather large book she had thrown at him, and he tripped, landing on his hands and knees with a grunt of pain. She caught her breath, and when she was sure he was not terribly injured, judging from the flurry of oaths that flew from his mouth, she began to laugh.

  He sat back on his haunches, startled and furious. He sent her a scathing look and pushed his fallen hair out of his eyes.

  Her laughter trailed off. Just as she suspected, his hair did look much better when disheveled. So much better that the annoying ache began pounding away in her stomach once again.

  He raised his fist in her direction. “You’ll not laugh at me when I get my hands on you, you little …” He broke off and reached under his backside, pulling out the book she had thrown at him earlier. He studied the cover, began to toss it aside to continue his rant, then paused and brought it back up to his eyes.

  “Oh, hell and the devil,” she muttered, her veins filling with ice. The estate ledgers! Of all the books in all the castle, she had to go and throw the one she least wanted him to find right into his clutches.

  Well, at his chest.

  But still, it was in his clutches now, and he was thumbing through the contents with a smug look dawning across his face.

  He held the book up over his head and waved it tauntingly. A victorious grin animated his lips, revealing a set of absurdly white, wolfish teeth. “What have we here, Miss Honeywell?”

  She groaned, her heart seizing in her chest. She could not let him see the accounts. She should have burned the book yesterday. What had she been thinking, entrusting it to Alice? If he discovered her creative bookkeeping, he was going to thrash her for sure. Or throw her in Newgate.

  Hell. Bloody triple hell! What was she to do now?

  There was only one solution that presented itself.

  Without hesitation, she launched herself forward, trying to grab the book from his hand. His eyes widened at her onslaught, and he jerked the book backwards, attempting to rise to his feet before she could reach him.

  He managed to get to his knees when she grabbed for the book again, her legs knocking against his shoulder. He muttered a curse into her skirts as she tumbled over his head, knocking them both flat against the carpet. The book flew from his hands, skidding across the floor, and she began to crawl towards it, digging her right knee into some part of his anatomy – hopefully his brainbox – that caused him to bellow a four letter oath so inelegantly foul – beginning with f, ending with k – even she didn’t use it. She strained out her hand to retrieve the book when she felt something hard clamp around her ankle and pull her back. Her arms failed beneath her, sending her stomach smashing against the floor, taking the very breath from her lungs.

  She glanced behind her and saw the Duke holding her foot and attempting to crawl around her. She kicked out with her other foot, landing her bootheel squarely against his shoulder.

  He gasped in pain and released her. She started forward once more, but so did he. They both grasped the book at the same time, she tugging one way, he the other. He had an unfair advantage, being several stone heavier than her and padded with muscle, so she felt rather like a sparrow attempting to pull a worm from the beak of an eagle. She had no choice but to level the odds and bring her knee back into the equation. It shot out, catching him in the ribs, and he fell back with a groan. Refusing to relinquish the book, she fell on top of him.

  Her forehead knocked against his chin so violently that she saw stars behind her eyes. She gasped in pain, and so did he.

  “Umph!”

  “Ouch!”

  She shifted her weight on top of him, and he gasped again, his grip on the book loosening just enough so that she snatched it free of him and rolled to one side, clutching it with both hands, her chest heaving with exertion.

  He sat up next to her, panting, his hair at sixes and sevens, his cravat dangling loosely from his shirtfront, his jacket torn open and missing several buttons. If looks could kill, she’d be a pillar of salt. “You devil’s spawn!” he breathed. “Do you really think you are going to win?”

  She hugged the book against her chest tightly and jutted her chin defiantly.

  “I could crush you, you know,” he intoned.

  “Haven’t done a very good job so far,” she sniffed.

  His jaw dropped incredulously, and he made a move as if to attack her.

  Astrid reacted on instinct. Nothing about their struggle had been in the least dignified, but she held out hope that at least some bounds of propriety could not be crossed even at this late juncture – though there was nothing proper in what she was about to do. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and she’d never been so desperate as this. Montford was sure to send her to the gaol if he saw what she’d done.

  She sat up quickly, lifted her skirts, and shoved the book into her drawers.

  The Duke froze.

  He stared at her as if he’d been hit by a load of bricks. Or every book in the library. At once.

  At length, he seemed to find his voice. “You didn’t just …” It wavered on the last word.

  She laid her hands over her lap protectively. “Oh, I did.” She arched her brow challengingly because she could not help herself.

  His jaw snapped shut, his lips thinned to a hard line, and his eyes narrowed.

  Her heart jumped in terror at the clear look of intent written on his cold features.

  He moved forward.

  She promptly moved backwards. A bookshelf stopped her progress abruptly. She clutched her stomach protectively, her pulse now racing furiously. “You wouldn’t…”

  He arched one of his perfect brows in fair imitation of her. “Wouldn’t I?” he practically growled, prowling towards her on all fours like some predatory beast stalking its prey.

  She kicked out her leg, but he caught her ankle in a hard grip and continued forward. He didn’t stop until he was straddling her and pinning in the sides of her head with both of his arms. His face hovered inches from her own. He was breathing as heavily as she was, his face flushed.

  She hadn’t until this moment realized how massive he was. He seemed to fill all the space around her and all of her senses with his imposing presence. His scent – clean male, sandalwood – invaded her nostrils, his heat crept into her bones. And though no part of her touched him, other than the sides of her legs entrapped by his knees, she could feel his strength. He was no featherweight beneath his fashionable wardrobe. No fake padding filled out his figure.

  She had the absurd desire to reach up to those broad shoulders and run her hands over his jacket, feel the ridges of the body beneath. She knew he would be hard and chiseled and…

  She let out a hysterical laugh. He was practically holding her hostage, and she was thinking about his shoulders.

  Better, she thought grimly, than to think about what he intended to do, which she still couldn’t quite believe. The idea of him reaching up her skirts made her body twinge, her pulse race, and her skin break out into a cold sweat of pure…

  Anticipation?

  That blow to the forehead must have disordered her mind.

  “You cannot be serious,” she breathed. “You will not … do what I think you are going to do…”

  He expelled a laugh every bit as hysterical as hers had been. A fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead, and his eyes went opaque. “If you didn’t want me to reach up your skirts, Miss Honeywell, you should not have put the book there.”

  “You are a gentleman, sirrah, I am a lady.”

  He barked out another laugh. “When in the last two days have you behaved like a lady, Miss Honeywell? Chasing a pig in trousers? Cursing like a Seven Dials pickpocket? Brawling with me like some common … common …” He trailed off in his harangue, astonishment and annoyance replacing his ire. “Miss Honeywell, don’t you dare cry.”

  “I’m not crying,” she sniffled, tears streaming down the sides of her face. She turned her head away from him and squeezed her eyes together. His words hit very close to Alice’s own earlier imprecations. She hated herself for dissolving into tears, but she could not help it. She was a lady, she was!

  No, she wasn’t. Alice was quite right. And so was Montford. She was a cursing, brawling, common strumpet. And she couldn’t help it. It was the way she was, the way she had to be to keep this family together. If she didn’t fight for the Honeywells, who else would? Aunt Anabel?

  “You’re crying, which is entirely unfair,” he growled.

  “Go ahead, take the bloody book,” she said, going limp underneath him.

  “Oh, no, you’re going to give it to me.”

  “Never. Take the book. Just like you’ll take everything else.”

  He sighed and rested his forehead on her fallen hair. The scent or touch of it seemed to rouse him to his senses, because he immediately jerked his head back up. “I didn’t think you a female who would use tears and guilt to have her way.”

  “Have my way? Do you think I want you to reach up my skirts and …” She broke off, her face flooding with heat, her tears drying abruptly. He stared down at her in that slack-jawed way he had developed since beginning their wrestling match, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a faint hint of color rose over the bridge of his nose.

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