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

  It took her a moment to realize she had tumbled off her bed onto the floor. She stared at the ceiling, where the early morning light was beginning to chase away the shadows, and tried to figure out what was wrong. Aside from the fact that the Duke of Montford had spent the night two doors down from her. And aside from the fact that she had not murdered him in his sleep as she had originally planned to do.

  Then the scream came again. High-pitched and very human. Astrid bolted to her feet and pulled on her dressing gown, then flew out of her door. She skidded to a halt at the scene before her. The peacock – Coombes – stood in the corridor two doors down in a nightshirt and head stocking, covered in the contents of the slop bucket intended for Petunia. Flora was attempting to dislodge a root vegetable of some kind from behind his ear as the man spluttered unintelligibly, spitting out bits of last night’s stew.

  Astrid knew immediately from the upturned bucket rolling at their feet and the giggles drifting from the bedroom across the hall what had happened. It was a standard trick in Ant and Art’s repertoire, balancing a bucket on top of the door of an unsuspecting mark.

  “I presume they missed their intended target,” came a dry voice beyond Coombes.

  The Duke stood in the doorway to his bedroom, trussed up in a rich velvet robe the color of brandy, arms crossed, an eyebrow arched.

  “Your Grace,” spluttered Coombes, blinking bits of carrots out of his eyes, “this is insupportable. Unholy.”

  “Quite,” he agreed, his mouth set in a grim line.

  It was not at all appropriate for Astrid to laugh. She covered her mouth with her fist to keep the giggles contained.

  “Antonia, Ardyce!” she managed to bite out behind her hand. “Come out here at once.”

  “But you said …”

  “At once,” she repeated, hoping she sounded convincingly stern.

  After a moment, the two criminals reluctantly dragged their feet into the corridor, heads bowed.

  She faced them, hands on her hips. “You heard Mr. Coombes. Your little trick is insupportable and unholy.”

  “Don’t forget misdirected,” inserted the Duke dryly.

  “Yes, that too. Montford was not even hit by residual … er, splatter. Now go down to the kitchens and fetch something to clean up the mess you’ve caused.”

  “But Astrid, you said …” Ardyce began.

  She raised an eyebrow, silencing the girl. “Go now. Later you can apologize to our guests.”

  “Yes, Astrid,” they said in unison, looking suitably cowed.

  As they passed by her, she winked at them. She couldn’t resist. Their spirits rose considerably, and they took off at a dash.

  She turned to Coombes, wondering what to do with the poor man.

  “I think I’d best take him out in the yard, miss,” Flora said. “Throw a couple of buckets from the well over him.”

  Coombes looked even more horrified.

  “Yes, I think that’s probably the only thing for it,” Astrid said. “I am sorry, Mr. Coombes.”

  “No, she’s not,” the Duke observed casually from his place by the door.

  “Well, come on, Mr. Coombes. We’ll have you sorted soon enough,” Flora said, taking him by the sleeve and pulling him down the hall.

  Coombes was too stunned to do anything but follow, casting wild looks towards his employer.

  When they were gone, Astrid tiptoed around the spill and picked up the empty bucket.

  “Am I to expect this every morning?” came the Duke’s voice over her shoulder.

  She straightened and turned towards him. “Certainly not. As you are leaving today anyway,” she said lightly.

  “No, I am not.”

  “Then I cannot say for sure what you can expect in the future.”

  “Those brats should be thrashed,” he intoned.

  Her blood began to boil. She put her fists on her hips in order to emphasize the set down she was about to deliver. “Why, you arrogant, insufferable…”

  “You, Miss Honeywell,” he interrupted, “should be thrashed.” At the end, his words slowed, his voice lowered, and so did his gaze. “Thoroughly,” he added in an undertone.

  Something shifted on his stony countenance, barely perceptible. A flex of his rigid jaw, a slight darkening in his eyes that turned them from silver to something approaching a storm cloud. His gaze seemed frozen on her body. More precisely, her chest. She glanced down and saw that her dressing gown had come completely open, and that her nightrail was unbuttoned, revealing an amount of cleavage that would have been indecent even in a brothel.

  It had been an unusually hot night.

  She felt the blush rise from her toes and swiftly reach her hairline.

  She slowly looked back up at the Duke, whose grim lips had parted slightly and whose eyes had grown heavy-lidded. For the first time, with his hair still mussed from sleep, his features imperceptibly softened, he appeared almost human. And very much a man. An extremely handsome, tall, powerful … handsome man.

  Something strange and warm and entirely unrelated to the blush unfurled like a summer bloom in the vicinity of her abdomen, and her heart began to hammer against her ribcage. She began to pant as if she had run a mile.

  She snatched her dressing gown together and scowled at him.

  He seemed to snap out of whatever spell her breasts wove, and stepped back.

  “You, sir, are no gentleman,” she said in a breathless rush.

  “You, madame, are no lady,” he retorted in kind. He slammed the door to the bedroom in her face.

  Astrid stood a moment staring at it.

  Then she ran to her bedroom and slammed her door. She opened it and slammed it again, just to emphasize her point.

  AFTER HER morning ablutions and a quick conference with Flora and the house staff concerning what to do with their guests (coddle and stall, for the moment), Astrid grabbed a crust of bread and a hunk of cheese and stole out of the castle to meet with the estate manager down at the brewery to discuss this latest wrench in their plans.

  The brewery was located closer to the fields on the banks of the Ryle, about a quarter mile’s walk from the castle. Her grandfather, considered quite industrious for a Honeywell, had moved the brewery away from the main house a half a century ago and renovated the grist mill next door, doubling the output of grain and ale for the estate.

  Alyosius Honeywell, however, had been less of a businessman than his father and more of a run-of-the-mill Honeywell (i.e. idealistic and valuing things like beauty and truth over profit margins). He had concerned himself more with the romance of being a brewer. Which meant he spent a great deal of time tasting Honeywell Ale. Alyosius had not been precisely a drunkard … well, perhaps that was exactly what he had been. But he’d had his uses. It was generally acknowledged that Alyosius had done for the taste of Honeywell Ale what his father had done for the business of selling it.

  Thankfully, Astrid had inherited her work ethic from her grandfather, and she had spent the past ten years turning the estate around. She was not about to let the Duke stick his nose into her business or have her tenants begin to panic, especially now, during harvest. But Astrid was extremely worried, now that the initial shock of the Duke’s appearance had faded, for one false move on her part could spell certain doom to not only her family but also to the rest of the tenants, the farm, and the brewery. For she knew it was in the Duke’s power to throw them all out on their heads if he so chose, no matter how much she wanted to believe otherwise.

  She walked inside the granary just as a group of workmen were leaving for the fields to take in the last of the wheat. She could tell from the way they avoided meeting her eye that they knew about the Duke’s visit.

  Hiram McConnell, the estate manager, greeted her grimly in his small office, puffing on his pipe and pushing away his ledgers. He was a large, brawny Scot approaching middle age, who had been hired by her father many years ago, and who was as much responsible for keeping the estate afloat and flourishing
as Astrid.

  He didn’t even have to speak for Astrid to know what he was thinking. Astrid had known him all of her life, and in many ways he had been more a father to her than Alyosius. He was a plainspoken ex-Presbyterian, whose moral compass never needed recalibration. He believed first and foremost in the power of truth-telling. Such a practice had worked out well in his own life, and nothing exasperated him more than the Honeywell tendency to skirt around, evade, pick apart and remake the truth.

  He had certainly not approved when Astrid had decided to “forget” to tell Montford about her father’s death. He had thought it best for Astrid to come clean with the Duke and attempt to reach some sort of rational compromise with him. Hiram couldn’t believe the Duke would simply kick her and her family off the land.

  Then again, Hiram tended to believe that all people were inherently good. He had been certain, for instance, that Napoleon must have had someone’s best interest at heart when he turned Europe on its head.

  Astrid did not want to disillusion the poor man, but she could have told him that not telling the Duke about her father’s death was hardly the worst of her sins when it came to Montford.

  “Well, lass, what are we to do?” Hiram said, getting straight to the point.

  “Proceed as if nothing is amiss,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “It is harvest time, and we cannot think of anything but getting in the crop.”

  “Aye, we’ll see to the crop, and the business. But to my mind, ye must start thinking about what ye will do. And yer family. Ye’ve the wee ones to think of.”

  “Hiram …”

  “Alyosius is dead, lass. Yer ten times the manager yer da was, but that doesn’t make ye a man, now does it?”

  “Which is an unfair, ridiculous …”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But it is the way of the world. According to the law of the land, the Duke of Montford has the right to put ye out on the street if he so chooses, and there is nary a court what could change that.”

  “Rylestone hall belongs to the Honeywells, Hiram,” she retorted.

  “It belongs to the Duke, lass. It always has. Yer family’s been there on sufferance, far as I can tell.”

  She looked at him askance, for Hiram had never been so harsh with her before. “And to think I came here this morning for a bit of sympathy. You can’t imagine the sort of pig-headed, arrogant, preening stuffed-shirt the Duke is.”

  Hiram crossed his arms and shook his head in that stoic way of his that always presaged a lecture. “I’ll not sugar-coat it for ye, Astrid. Not now. Ye bought yerself some time with yer little omission – he could prosecute ye for that, by the way.”

  She huffed.

  Hiram raised an eyebrow. “Indeed he could. And I only pray ye haven’t been a party to any more half-cocked swindles…”

  “Swindles! Hiram!” she scoffed, attempting outrage when what she felt like doing was squirming. She was once again glad Hiram had never learned that, owing to creative Honeywell bookkeeping, the tithe given to Montford was not exactly what it was supposed to be. He probably would have turned back to his Presbyterian roots had he known what sinners he worked for. And if this decades-old practice was found out by the Duke, she was glad that none of the blame would fall on Hiram’s shoulders.

  It would all fall on hers.

  Which was a sobering thought. Nearly as sobering as Hiram’s admonishing look at the moment. He did have a way of making her feel about ten years old. “Don’t forget, I’ve known yer family for longer than ye’ve been alive. What ye need to start doing is thinking about Ardyce and Antonia.”

  “Don’t you dare say I should … I should what, Hiram?” she cried, feeling even worse than when she had started from the house.

  “To my mind ye’ve three options, and ye’re not going to like any of them.”

  She sighed and slumped against a wooden bench, covering her face with her hands. “I suppose you better tell me,” she muttered.

  “One, ye can march back up to the Hall, fall on bended knee, and beg the Duke’s pardon for all of the faffing about and see if he might be agreeable to letting ye stay on. Tis yer home, after all, an it’s not as if he needs another castle. I’m sure he already has one or two.”

  She guffawed. “Sooner would pigs fly than a Honeywell would beg a Montford for anything!”

  Hiram gave her a droll look. “I figured that. The next option is for ye to marry Sir Wesley.”

  “Cousin Wesley! Have you gone quite insane?” she cried.“You know that is impossible.”

  “He’s in love with ye,” Hiram pointed out.

  “Blech. Don’t make me throw up. I have no intention of marrying anyone, especially cousin Wesley. I’d sooner marry Aunt Anabel’s pompadour.”

  “He’s considered a good catch, and handsome enough.”

  “He’s silly –”

  “He’s a baron.” Hiram’s brows wiggled comically.

  “An insolvent, silly baron with a fishwife of a mother – ”

  “Your aunt –”

  “Who hates me,” she groaned. In truth she was hardly surprised by Hiram’s suggestion. Marriage to her cousin would be an easy solution to most of her problems, for at least then she and the girls would not be homeless, if it came to being tossed out of Rylestone. And they could still live nearby, at Benwick Grange.

  But it was quite impossible.

  “Besides which, Alice is in love with him,” she murmured.

  Hiram sighed. “There is that. It would be helpful if the lad figured that one out and started courting the correct lass.”

  “He’s never been the brightest half penny, has he?”

  Hiram chuckled. They sat in companionable silence while Hiram tapped the end of his pipe and loaded it with fresh tobacco.

  “Well, and what’s the third choice?” she demanded.

  “Yer auntie.”

  “Lady Emily?” she sniffed. Wesley’s odious mother. Pompous, arrogant windbag who had always despised her sister’s family.

  “She has a responsibility to ye, whether she likes it or not. Ye should go to her. Yer a lady, Astrid, and so are yer sisters. The missus and I would take ye all in if it come to that, but I think ye and I both know that ain’t what best.”

  “I’m not a lady,” she argued, though, ironically, it was the exact opposite of what she had argued last night. “I mean … you know what I mean.”

  Hiram shook his head. “Ye’re educated, lass, and got blue in yer veins. Ye know that means something, much ye try and pretend ye’re one of us.”

  “But I am one of you!” she cried.

  Hiram just stared at her with a faintly wistful expression and puffed on his pipe. “An idealist, just like yer da.”

  “Hardly,” she snorted.

  He leaned forward, and his countenance hardened. He took his pipe out of his mouth and pointed it at her. “Yer da was allowed his funny ways because of his last name, lass. Don’t think it’s any different with you. The way ye run the business, the way ye act and dress and spout your opinions. The lads listen to ye and put up with yer ways because ye’re a Honeywell, and the last of the lot at that. If ye weren’t, do ye know what ye’d be called?”

  “A common tart, I suppose,” she retorted.

  Hiram’s brow darkened. “Nay, worse than that,” he said in a low voice. “And so ye see ye ain’t one of us and never will be. You’ll go to Lady Emily, and have her do right by ye, find some fine gentleman for you and yer sisters to marry. And don’t tell me she won’t, if only to get rid of the lot of ye. I think she’d wrestle the moon if it meant keeping ye from marrying her son.”

  She stood up, quite at the end of her tether. “Thank you very much for ruining my morning.”

  Hiram inclined his head as if accepting a compliment.

  “I see you’re going to be no help.”

  “I’ll always help ye lass, but only if ye start helping yerself.”

  “That is exactly what I am trying to do,” she bit off in exaspe
ration.

  She scowled at him for a moment longer, turned on her heel, and left the room.

  “Please refrain from murdering the Duke, lass,” Hiram called. “I wouldn’t want to see ye hanged.”

  “They’re more likely to throw me a parade,” she retorted.

  “I can’t wait to meet him. Oh, and lass?”

  “What?”

  “If ye see that weasel Roddy around abouts, send him here, won’t ye?”

  “Certainly.”

  Astrid stalked out of the granary and began tearing down the path leading back to the Hall, fuming. Of course, he had the good sense to give her the dose of cold, hard reality that she needed, but she did not want to listen to him. She did not want to acknowledge that things were so hopeless. That she must face the fact – fact? Fact? – that she was going to lose Rylestone Hall. That she was going to have to give up the reins of the estate, the farm, the brewery. It was just too horrifying to accept.

  Marriage? To Wesley? Unconscionable. And the mere thought of turning to Aunt Emily for anything, even a table scrap, left her innards in knots.

  But Hiram was, of course, right. He was always right. The Honeywells were gentry, and no matter how much she wanted to believe otherwise, the country they lived in was defined by class hierarchies.

  She had Antonia and Ardyce to think of. And even Alice, if Wesley didn’t come to his senses and realize he was in love with the girl.

  What were they going to do?

  She picked up a stick alongside the path and began thwacking the weeds off to the sides in angry, bitter strokes.

  At least Hiram had left unspoken the other alternative that was even more unpalatable, which was marriage to Mr. Lightfoot. He had proposed, and she had rejected him now, twice. She was certain he had written to the Duke in retaliation for her continued stubbornness. Mr. Lightfoot couldn’t grasp how she could possibly refuse his suit.

  Aside from the fact that she loathed him.

  Aside from the fact that he had cheated her father in order to start his company.

  Aside from the fact that he wanted to marry her only because of some vendetta he still carried against her family. Either that or he was just insane, as Astrid had long suspected.