The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy) Read online

  “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.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  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 sai
d.

  “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.

  Astrid dropped to his side and clung to his arm, her eyes filled with tears.

  He was furious with her. “Get away from me, or you’ll fall too!”

  “No, I’ll not let go!”

  “You’re not strong enough. I’ll drop down. If I gauge it right …”

  She tugged on his arm. “No! It’s too far. Come on, swing your leg up. I’ll pull you back.”

  “Damn it, Astrid, let go!”

  She shook her head, a stubborn expression passing over her face. He knew that look. A week in her company had taught him that there was no crossing her when such a look took up residence on her face.

  “Foolish woman!” he seethed, clawing his way over the edge. She tugged his arm, falling to her backside and digging her heels into the planking. He swung his leg up and heaved his weight forward.

  For a moment, he thought he’d failed. He listed precariously on the edge, but she seized his loosened cravat and jerked him forward. She cut off his air supply, but other than that the move was quite effective. He fell forward, right on top of her, knocking the air out of the both of them.

  She was all soft, warm curves beneath him, her spiraling hair tickling his face. She smelled of lavender, horses and hay. Only his near brush with death – or at the very least a good maiming – recalled his floundering senses. He lifted his head and peered over the edge of the loft.

  It was a long way to the bottom.

  She looked with him, grimacing.

  “You nearly killed me!” he breathed. He s
watted her hair away unsuccessfully. It floated back as if it couldn’t resist torturing him. “Do you really hate me so much?”

  Her features softened. The fight went out of her. “No, I don’t hate you,” she said in a quiet voice. “I want to, mind. I want to hate you.” She shifted beneath him and brought her hand up to the side of his face. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head away. He watched her heartbeat flicker wildly against the delicate skin of her throat. “It would be so much easier. But I can’t.”

  His own pulse pounded through his veins, but it was no longer on account of the danger he’d been in. He guided her hand down, over his waistcoat, and pressed it to his heart. It was beating frantically against his ribs, struggling to jump free of his body. “For you,” he said thickly.

  Her eyes opened wide, a mixture of fear and what he was certain was desire crowding her expression.

  He could restrain himself no longer. He bent his head down and brushed his mouth over hers.

  She sighed and for a moment went limp beneath him. Then in the next instant she sprang away from him, sliding back into the pile of hay behind her, trembling, her breath coming in gasps. Hay tangled through her fallen hair and drifted through the air between them, glinting in the sunlight that drifted in through the slats in the walls.

  He had lost his mind to think this was the happiest moment of his life, but it was. He could think of no finer moment in all of his years than the present one, aching, disheveled, and up a hayloft with no way down, in the middle of bloody Yorkshire.

  He came up on his knees and pulled off his cravat. Then he tore off his jacket and began on the buttons of his waistcoat. He yanked his arms free of that and fumbled with the ties of his lawnshirt.

  Her eyes were as wide as saucers. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Seducing you. What does it look like?”

  Her fingers tightened around clumps of hay, her jaw clenched. “Put your clothes back on.”

  “Make me,” he said mildly, flicking the buttons at his sleeves.

  “I’m warning you, I’ll push you over the edge yet, if you don’t stop this nonsense.”

  “You could try.”