The Duke's Holiday

by Maggie Fenton

  He found a magical spot with his thumb, rubbing it until she was quivering in his arms. She struggled to breathe, drowning in sensation. She was hot all over and restless, a heretofore unfathomable sensation growing between her legs, seeking a release. Then he shifted her somehow, spreading her legs further, and she had to clutch the threadbare lapels of his jacket with both hands to anchor herself, afraid that if she didn’t do so, she’d float away. His head lowered, his mouth seeking out the delicate skin above her bodice, licking her, nipping her flesh between his teeth.

  “You feel so good,” he murmured. “I want you so much.”

  He stroked her harder, faster, and the sensation of weightlessness grew, the ache became almost unbearable. She strained against his hand, seeking to end the exquisite torture, not knowing how to make it go away.

  “Feel me,” he urged in a hoarse whisper. “Touch me. Feel how much I want you.”

  Her hand was shaking, but she lowered it again, felt the rock-hard length of him. She didn’t know what to do. All she could manage was to press her hand against him, but it seemed to be enough. He gasped against her throat and thrust himself against her thigh.

  She felt a jolt of liquid pleasure burn through her belly. Her vision blurred, her body shuddered, as wave after wave of ecstasy shot from her loins to the tips of her fingers and toes. She cried out in wonder.

  He clutched her hard against him and ground his body against her thigh. She felt his hardness swell beneath her hand and a moist warmth seep through the fabric of his breeches. All the furious tension in his body seemed to leave him, a guttural moan ripped from his throat, and he slumped forward, his head buried in the crook of her shoulder, his lungs taking in air with ragged inefficiency.

  Astrid felt the approximate consistency of half-melted butter. He didn’t seem to be faring any better, his hand falling away from her, and both his arms dropping to his sides.

  She came back to the world slowly, her vision refocusing, her mind reeling.

  What had just happened?

  She wasn’t quite sure, but she had never felt so wonderful, her hunger forgotten, the aches and pains of the last few days completely obliterated. Her body was burning hot, still quivering with the aftershocks of pleasure.

  She had a thousand questions to ask him – what had he done? What did it mean? – but she couldn’t bring herself to utter a word. Somewhere along the way, her emotions had become engaged in a new and unsettling way. He was no longer simply the heartless Duke bent on crushing her to his will, if he’d ever been. He was the quixotic man who couldn’t let different foods touch on his plate, and who’d run in a drunken foot race because she’d dared him. The man who was a veritable lexicon of dirty limericks. The man who had nearly killed himself trying to rescue her. The man who kissed her senseless because he couldn’t seem to help himself. The man who’d once worn the finest silk, but was now reduced to an ill-fitting, moth eaten wool jacket that made him look like a scarecrow.

  But he was her scarecrow.

  And he had the power to hurt her more than anyone else in the world.

  Why? How could she be so certain of this? She’d known him barely a week, so it hardly seemed likely that she should be so certain of anything involving Montford. But it had been a very, very, very long week.

  They shared a physical attraction, yes, but it ran deeper. She’d known handsome men before, but she’d not even think of letting one of them touch her as Montford had done. With him, there was no thought involved. She couldn’t not let him touch her. Her will demanded her to respond. Even now she craved more of him. He had awakened something inside of her, and it was not going to go away until it was fed again and again. By him. Only him.

  She had fallen in love with him.

  It was like a blow to the gut, knocking the wind out of her lungs.

  What else could this strange disease of hers be, except the irrationality of love? There was certainly nothing easy or joyful at all about being in love. The poets had lied. It was a torture. A complete nightmare. How could she have been so foolish as to fall in love with Montford, of all people?

  She was done for. Utterly.

  Then she felt Montford’s head nudging her neck from behind, and her heart lurched. She knew that eventually she would have to face him, but not now, not yet. And if he thought he was going to … again…

  Had he no self-control?

  But then suddenly he wasn’t nudging her anymore. He wasn’t even behind her. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

  She heard a faint thud.

  The horse continued to lope onwards, the reins trailing in the dust of the road. She spun around in the saddle and searched for Monford. She spied him lying in the lane several yards behind them. He was still, too still. What in the devil had happened now?

  She managed to stop the horse and jumped from the saddle. “Montford!” she cried. She fell into the dirt beside him and seized his shoulders.

  He let out a yelp of pain, jerked away, and clutched his shoulder where she had grabbed it.

  “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, propping his weight on his elbows, looking dazed. He finally met her eyes. “I fell asleep,” he said helplessly.

  She stared at his dust-covered face. He looked like he’d been beaten by a sack of flour.

  “I swear, if I fall off a horse one more time,” he said, attempting to wipe the grit from his mouth, “I am going to … damn it, I don’t know what I’m going to do!” he finished. He pounded his fists into the dirt of the road like a child in a temper.

  “You fell asleep?”

  “I’ve had a rough few days.”

  “You fell asleep after … after you …” She couldn’t even complete that thought, for she had no idea what to even call what had passed between them just moments earlier.

  He blushed through the grime on his face, obviously recalling the same thing. “Astrid …”

  She punched him in his wounded shoulder. Hard.

  His mouth quivered, and for a horrible moment she was afraid he was going to burst into tears. But then he did something even worse. He began to laugh, horrid, wretched creature that he was. His shoulders shook from his mirth, and he lay back on the road, giggling like a schoolgirl.

  “It’s not funny,” she insisted, the corners of her mouth flickering.

  “Yes it is,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes.

  And because she couldn’t help herself, she found herself laughing along with him, laughing so hard tears leaked from her eyes. She was in shock. There was no other explanation for it.

  It was a long, long time before either of their wits returned. Her stomach muscles were sore from laughing so hard, her throat scratchy. She wiped the last of her tears away and glanced down at him. He had grown still, staring at her with a pensive expression.

  She set herself on guard. The moment now threatened to descend into awkwardness. Or worse: earnestness. She had no intention of mentioning what had passed on top of the horse ever again.

  She looked down the road to locate the horse. It was in the undergrowth munching grass, as had become its habit when its riders did something foolish, and threw them admonishing glances in their direction in between bites.

  “Do you know, I’ve laughed more in the past two days than I have in years?” he said suddenly.

  She turned back to him, flustered. “Nerves.”

  “That must be it,” he murmured, still studying her so gravely. “Astrid, I …”

  She cut him off by standing and holding out her hand to help him up. “We’re not far now,” she urged. “Come on.” She didn’t want to hear what he might say next. He sat up, glanced down at her palm, then back up at her face. His silvery eyes had gone opaque. A bad sign.

  In a flash, he’d seized her hand, tugged her off her feet, and into his arms, kissing her madly.

  As was usual when such a thing occurred, she immediately lost all of her resolve and melted into
his embrace, twining her hands around his neck and pulling herself closer. He leaned back against the road, cupping her face with his hands as his lips explored her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, even her eyelids. And though he was passionate, he was tender this time, as he had been that night in the garden, which now seemed another lifetime ago. And he did nothing more than simply kiss her, over and over again.

  It was more stirring to her spirit than all the other times he had touched her.

  Her stupid, mutinous heart didn’t stand a chance. She was in love, damn it. And there was no accounting for her taste.

  “I could kiss you for an age, Astrid Honeywell,” he murmured against her lips.

  “I could let you.” There. She had admitted it.

  She felt the smile curving his lips. His fingers sank into her hair. “Good.”

  “Not good. We really should stop,” she said. It was a half-hearted suggestion.

  He did not take it. He seized her mouth with his own, drugging her with its warmth. “Witch,” he breathed.

  “Idiot man.”

  He chuckled, turned her head in his hands, and poked his tongue into her ear. She sighed in delight. She liked his tongue precisely where it was.

  They were so lost to the world that they did not know they were no longer alone until a throat was cleared.

  Astrid raised her head with great reluctance and saw two riders gawking at them. She froze and jumped to her feet.

  Montford did the same, seizing her by her arm and thrusting her behind him as if to shield her from attack.

  She collected her wits enough to take in the intruders, both of whom were strangers to her but quite remarkable. The one on the left was more than remarkable: he was off-putting. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, slim and dark and slightly foreign-looking, with stunning blue eyes. As if to make a mockery of his beauty, he wore an outrageous pink silk waistcoat, lace spilling out of his collar and sleeves, and a profusion of jewels encrusting his fingers. His eyes were wide, betraying his surprise, but his beautiful face was otherwise unreadable, save for a small, sly smile bending the corners of his lips.

  The other man, no less intimidating than the other man, was dressed like – well, she wasn’t quite sure what he was dressed like. He seemed to be wearing his dressing gown. He was not as handsome as his companion – who was? – but he would have been halfway attractive save for the bloat of dissipation that seemed to hover around his chin and stomach. His eyes were dark and presently bugging out of his face. A thin cigarillo dangled between his lips, which were parted in astonishment.

  The cigarillo dropped, completely forgotten, to the road. “Monty?” the portly man inquired in a querulous voice.

  Montford groaned and looked up at the heavens, as if he wished they would open up and swallow him whole.

  “WHAT ARE you doing here?” Montford demanded of the two idiots mounted in front of him.

  Marlowe couldn’t manage another word. He looked too stunned. Sherbrook’s eyes danced with amusement between Montford and Astrid. “What are you doing?”

  “None of your business. And I asked you first,” he growled.

  Sherbrook tsked and narrowed his clever eyes. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Sherbrook inquired silkily, smiling at Astrid.

  Montford’s blood boiled. How dare the rogue smile at her! He tried to tuck Astrid further behind him, but she shook him off and stepped beside him. “Yes, Monty, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

  “No.”

  Sherbrook arched an eyebrow and, ignoring Montford’s glare, turned back to Astrid. “Sebastian Sherbrook, at your service. And my colleague is the esteemed Viscount Marlowe. You are…?”

  “Astrid Honeywell.”

  “Ah. Honeywell.” Sherbrook’s gaze settled on Montford, then he exchanged a knowing glance with Marlowe. “How very nice to meet you, Miss Honeywell. We are Montford’s friends, up from London.”

  “I see.”

  Marlowe couldn’t contain himself any longer. “Good God, Montford, what the devil is going on? Been searching everywhere for you. Out of our minds with worry!”

  “I’m sure you were,” he said between his teeth.

  “Well?” Marlowe prompted.

  “Well what?”

  “What the devil is going on?”

  “None of your …”

  Astrid rolled her eyes and stepped in front of him. “I was abducted by a madman. He shot my driver and attempted to carry me off to Gretna Green. Montford came to my assistance. We are now on our way back to Rylestone Hall.”

  “What?!” Marlowe screeched.

  “Indeed,” Sherbrook replied conversationally. “Sounds perfectly exciting.”

  “Exciting is not the word I would use,” Montford bit out. “And there’s a bit more to the tale than that.”

  “I should say!” Marlowe cried, giving Astrid a significant glance.

  Astrid blushed, and so did he. Sherbrook and Marlowe would pick the most inopportune time to show up. But then again, they were on a public road, and he should have known better than to loll about in the dirt kissing Astrid Honeywell.

  “Now what are you doing here?” he demanded gruffly.

  Sherbrook smiled. “Saving your hide. Though perhaps the point is moot. I must say, I am thoroughly confused.” He cleared his throat. “We came to warn you. Elaine is knocked up again.”

  “Sherry, please! Language!” Marlowe breathed, looking pained.

  “You came all of this way to tell me that the Countess is breeding?” Montford roared.

  “Who’s breeding?” Astrid demanded.

  “M’sister,” Marlowe explained.

  “Oh, I see,” she said, though it was clear that she didn’t.

  “The long and short of it is, she fobbed off your little request on my dear Lady Aunt,” Sherbrook continued with obvious revulsion. “and she’s taken it into her head to travel up here. With her sister. They are already at Rylestone Hall, awaiting your return.”

  It took a moment for the news to sink in. When it did, he felt as if someone had dropped a boulder on his head. He’d forgotten these people existed. And Araminta!

  This was icing on the cake of the most disastrous week of his life. “What?” he said stupidly, with a voice that cracked.

  Sherbrook lips thinned with impatience. “Lady Katherine and Lady Araminta. They are at Rylestone Hall,” he repeated.

  “Who is Lady Katherine?” Astrid demanded. “And who is Lady Araminta?”

  Sherbrook opened his mouth to answer, then thought better of it. He stared at Montford with an eyebrow cocked.

  Astrid turned to Montford. “Who are they?”

  He couldn’t look at her. He stared over her head, because he was a coward. “Lady Araminta is my fiancée.” They were the hardest words he’d ever spoken.

  Astrid was silent for a long time. He finally worked up the courage to look at her face and he wished he hadn’t. She was ashen, and all the light had drained from her mismatched eyes. “Oh,” she said, very softly.

  “Wedding’s in a week. Allegedly,” Marlowe added, unhelpfully.

  “Thank you, Marlowe,” Montford bit out, never taking his eyes off Astrid’s face. He could read nothing in her expression beyond her pale cheeks, her clenched jaw. What was she thinking? Feeling?

  And what was he feeling?

  Nothing. He was utterly numb.

  Astrid turned away from him and started walking towards the horse. “Then we should get back. And make ourselves presentable for our guests.” With stiff dignity, Astrid mounted the horse astride and took off down the road.

  He watched her go, his heart shriveling the further she went from him.

  “Well, you might have told her about your bride before mauling her on the road,” Marlowe commented drily.

  Montford looked up at his two soon-to-be-ex-friends. Sherbrook looked equal parts amused and concerned. Marlowe looked indignant. Apparently he’d taken it upon himself to be offended on Astrid
’s behalf. When had that one developed compassion?

  “Looks like you’re walking back, old chap,” Sherbrook drawled.

  Marlowe sniffed. “And it’s no less than you deserve. Really, Monty. Don’t know what’s come over you. But even I don’t tup a wench in the middle of the King’s Highway. It’s just bad form.”

  “I was not tupping her!”

  Neither believed him.

  “And if you ever speak about her in such terms again, I’ll tear out your tongue and stuff it up your arse,” he growled.

  Marlowe’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Sherbrook. They shared a private smirk that made Montford’s blood boil, and turned their horses to return to Rylestone. Without him.

  “Do try to catch up, dear boy,” Sherbrook tossed over his shoulder. “And I’d fire your tailor if I were you. You look dreadful.”

  He stared at their backs until they were lost to sight, then sat down in the road and spent the next few minutes hoping he’d be hit by a runaway carriage.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  IN WHICH RYLESTONE HALL GOES TO THE PIGS

  ASTRID flung the reins of her stolen horse into Mick’s hands and strode towards the back entrace of the castle, ignoring the shock on her stablehand’s face at the sight of her. She had no time for explanations and no thought for anything except getting to her room without further incident.

  She was about two seconds away from bursting into tears.

  It was exhaustion, and the emotion of being home at last. It had nothing to do with Montford. Or his two devilish-looking friends. Or two titled ladies besieging the castle.

  She nearly did cry when the kitchen door opened and Ant and Art spilled out into the yard, calling out to her, their own little eyes wet with tears. Her heart wrenched as she gathered them in her arms and held them close while they alternately sniffled and demanded to know where she had been all this time. She couldn’t explain, and she couldn’t let them see her break down, so she stifled her tears and patted their heads. “Don’t worry, I’m here now, and I’m not ever leaving you again.”