The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy)

by Maggie Fenton

  “Right,” he said, more firmly now, and feeling quite assured he was doing the right thing in light of this reminder.

  “Good man. That will be all.”

  Charlie Weeks nodded, put his crumbled hat back into place, and left his new employer, resolved to the work ahead, whether he liked it or not.

  Mr. Lightfoot returned to sit behind his desk and considered what he had just learned. Miss Honeywell wouldn’t dare refuse him now, he thought grimly. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of single malt he kept for special occasions and poured himself a hefty dose into a tumbler. He sat back and sipped the amber liquid, feeling quite satisfied with himself.

  Miss Honeywell would be his wife in a matter of days, one way or another. He almost hoped she would refuse him tomorrow, just so he would have the pleasure of seeing the look on her face when he had her trussed and gagged and on her way to Gretna Green the day after that. He loved a woman with a bit of fight in her. And, oh, how she would fight him!

  Mr. Lightfoot chuckled into his whiskey, aroused by the mere thought of that strumpet writhing beneath him. He could hardly wait for his wedding night.

  He chuckled again and toasted himself. “Who’s to say I have to wait?” he muttered. He’d have her long before they reached Scotland. Just to show her who her lord and master was. That proud bitch had toyed with him for too long, and it was about time she got what was coming to her.

  As he finished his drink and poured himself another, the sun began to set outside, casting the room into strange shadows. And just in case the heavens had not made their point, the clear skies began to darken and the sound of thunder rolled in the distance.

  Miss Alice Honeywell would have known exactly what these signs portended. Indeed, they would have given even the recently departed Mr. Weeks, possessed of a wife and four and a half babes, significant cause for concern.

  Chapter Twelve

  IN WHICH MISS HONEYWELL HOSTS A DINNERPARTY

  ASTRID DECIDED to wear her best frock to the evening’s entertainments not out of any misplaced notions of pleasing her aunt, but rather because she was not going to give the old bag the satisfaction of calling her out for not dressing for the occasion.

  The occasion being the chance for Aunt Emily and Davina to lick the Duke’s bootheels.

  Furthermore, she did not want her aunt to think she could not play the part of a genteel hostess when she put her mind to it. She was going to be the perfect lady tonight. Contrary to what Aunt Emily might think, Astrid was not raised in a barn.

  In a brewery, maybe, but not a barn.

  And if she wished to look her best partly because she knew Davina was going to look her best, then that was her feminine prerogative. Not that she had anything to worry about. Davina would doubtless show up in some awful bowed concoction Aunt Emily chose for the poor, vicious creature.

  And not that Astrid cared what certain persons of the male persuasion might think, either. That was not why she was wearing her best dress.

  Astrid’s best dress was a simple round gown made of striped green silk taffeta. One of Alice’s cast-offs that had been hemmed at the ankles and let out at the bust. It was not in the first height of fashion, but neither was it too dated. It had capped sleeves and a bit of fichu peeking out of the bodice. The color and cut suited Astrid, and together with her mother’s pearls and a pair of Alice’s gloves, she looked quite elegant indeed. Flora had even managed to tame the riot of her hair into some semblance of order on top of her head, only a few sprigs escaping their pins and curling over her neck.

  She would never be a beauty like Alice, what with her unfortunate eyes. And hair and freckles and height. But she had never aspired to beauty.

  And in the candlelight, no one could remark upon her eyes anyway.

  Alice accompanied her downstairs, and they greeted their Aunt and cousins at the door, followed by the vicar, who nearly fell over himself in his haste to kiss Astrid’s hand and stutter out his greeting. “M-may I say, Miss H-H-Honeywell, w-what an h-h-honor it is to be invited to d-d-dinner tonight. Simply an h-honor, and a d-d-delight. Y-you look smashing. Oh, dear, can I say that?”

  The vicar was a stutterer. It made Sunday mornings a true test of Christian fortitude.

  “Of course you may, Mr. Fawkes. It was my intent to look smashing,” she said, as she led the party into the drawing room.

  Aunt Anabel, who was dozing by the fire, perked up a bit and lifted her cane. When she saw Lady Emily, her eyes widened in alarm, and she promptly fell back into a suspiciously deep sleep.

  Lady Emily arranged herself in the biggest chair in the room. She made Davina sit on the settee next to her and would not allow Mr. Robert Benwick, Wesley’s insufferable younger brother, to take the spot next to his sister. Robert muttered something under his breath and crossed to the decanter. He swallowed his first port of the evening in one gulp.

  Astrid sat next to Davina, just to make her aunt scowl. She knew her aunt was attempting to manage things so Montford would have to take up the seat when he arrived, and though she didn’t like the Duke, she liked giving her aunt any sort of satisfaction even less.

  She smiled unpleasantly at her aunt and turned to her cousin. She only just refrained from shielding her eyeballs against the glare cast off Davina’s gown. It was hideous, just as she had expected, done up in some sort of color that hovered between green and purple, and embellished quite liberally with bows. Bows on her shoulders, bows on her bosom. Bows encircling her waist and hem.

  “How lovely you look tonight, Davina,” she said. “Is that a new gown?”

  Davina smoothed her hands over one of the bows. “It is. I had it made in London. It’s all the rage.”

  Astrid was once more thankful she had never had the honor of visiting the city. “That color is very … unique.”

  “Puce is quite fashionable this Season. Not that you would know.”

  “Of course not. You are so very lucky to be so fashionable. That gown is quite … singular. Only you could wear something so … utterly one of a kind.”

  Davina’s eyes narrowed, as if she suspected she was being insulted in some way – which she was – but was uncertain quite how.

  “So where is he?” Aunt Emily demanded.

  “Where is who, Aunt?”

  “You know very well.”

  The gentlemen fled en masse to the sideboard at Aunt Emily’s tone.

  “You mean His Grace. I do not know what could be keeping him. Shall I check the garderobes?” she retorted breezily.

  Aunt Emily glared at her.

  She smiled back. “He is no doubt wishing to make a grand entrance. You know how Dukes are.”

  Davina sighed dreamily next to her, as if she wished she knew how Dukes were.

  After a few minutes with no sign of the Duke, Aunt Emily began to fidget. “He’s lost. You should really keep a proper butler, Astrid. His Grace is not used to having to enter a room unannounced. Nor am I,” she added.

  At that moment, the door pushed open, and Montford strode into the room, groomed and polished to a high gloss. He wore an evening suit and waistcost of unrelieved black, his cravat of snowy white linen spilling gracefully over his collar and pinned with a large black opal. Save for the small cut above his right eye, he looked even more imposing than he had the first time Astrid had seen him.

  Everyone rose to their feet simultaneously, and dropped into low bows and curtsies. Even Astrid found herself following her aunt’s lead.

  As she rose to her full height, she found the Duke’s dry gaze settled on her.

  Then he came to her side and did the most surprising thing. He took her hand in his own and kissed her fingertips. “Miss Honeywell, you look a vision.”

  She did not blush. She was too startled to do that. “Thank you, Your Grace. So do you.”

  He arched his brow as if to say, touché, and turned towards the other ladies.

  Aunt Emily simpered – actually simpered! – under Montford’s scrutiny
. “Your Grace, how nice of you to join us at our little family gathering. We were not properly introduced before …”

  “You are Lady Emily. I remember from the gardens,” he said, giving her a perfunctory bow.

  Aunt Emily looked chagrined.

  The Duke turned to Davina and did a double take when he saw her gown. “You must be Miss Davina Benwick,” he said unenthusiastically. He bowed shortly again, and strode to Alice’s side and took up her hand. He kissed it as well. “You look stunning, Miss Alice. An absolute picture.”

  “Th-thank you, Your Grace,” Alice said haltingly. She threw Astrid a veiled look of satisfaction.

  Aunt Emily’s face was red from the obvious snub. Davina looked as if she wanted to hide behind her bows. For once, Astrid was immensely pleased with Montford’s behavior.

  “Montford,” Sir Wesley called from the sideboard. “Care for a tipple?”

  “No, thank you, Mr. Honeywell. I rarely indulge,” he said, moving over to Aunt Anabel.

  All the guests, who had not been informed of his recent adoption, looked puzzled by Montford’s address to Sir Wesley. Sir Wesley flushed and busied himself with pouring his port.

  Unaware of the ripple he’d caused – or perhaps very aware, Astrid couldn’t be sure which – the Duke reached Aunt Anabel’s side. The old woman roused herself long enough to recognize her attacker and waved her cane in his direction. “Young man, if you make love to my hand, I’ll thwack you with my cane. Now, make yourself useful and fetch me a sherry.”

  Aunt Emily groaned.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said smoothly, changing his direction and walking towards the decanter. He fetched a sherry from a visibly nervous Sir Wesley and returned to Aunt Anabel’s side. After handing her the glass, he took the seat beside her.

  Having recovered from the Duke’s initial slight, Aunt Emily resumed her seat with stiff dignity. She shot Astrid a quelling look, as if it were somehow her fault the Duke preferred Aunt Anabel’s company to Davina’s.

  Finally before they could grow any more uncomfortable – except for the Duke, who was looking quite satisfied with himself, and Aunt Anabel, who wouldn’t care if she was sitting next to the devil himself – Flora came in and announced dinner.

  The Duke offered Aunt Emily his arm, since she was the highest-ranking female, and Aunt Emily took it with less enthusiasm than she had displayed earlier in orchestrating this party. She had been caught off guard by the Duke’s formidable intractability and was doubtless reconfiguring her campaign. The rest followed behind in awkward silence, Astrid on the arm of Robert, who clutched his port in his other hand and muttered something about missing another engagement for “this bloody farce”.

  When they were all seated, Aunt Emily glanced first at her daughter, looking satisfied by her placement next to the Duke. When she saw Alice, however, on the Duke’s left, her eyes narrowed. They narrowed even further at the two empty settings near the end.

  “You have laid the table for too many, Astrid.”

  Astrid smiled. “No, I haven’t. I told Antonia and Ardyce they could join us. It is so rare you join us at Rylestone Hall that they wanted to be in attendance. They are so fond of you, Aunt.”

  Aunt Emily clutched the side of the table and shut her eyes in silent prayer.

  On cue, the two children in question appeared at the door, looking deceptively innocent in their dresses. They bobbed curtsies to their aunt and the Duke and made their way to their seats. Everyone seemed relieved when they were seated without incident.

  The first course came out, a pot-au-feu, as her Aunt called it. Astrid called it soup, but not the sort of soup they normally enjoyed at the Hall. It was green, brothy and very French.

  “I have loaned my French chef, Monsieur Roualt, to my cousins, Your Grace,” Lady Emily began when the course was laid out, seeing that Davina was having no luck starting a conversation with her partner.

  “How kind of you,” the Duke murmured.

  Astrid saw Lady Emily surreptitiously nudge her daughter under the table. Davina jumped and cleared her throat. “Do you have a French chef, Your Grace?”

  The Duke, who was in the middle of his first taste of soup, paused and lowered his spoon. He turned to Davina. “I do.”

  “He must be an excellent chef. Has he any particular specialties?”

  “Ham sandwiches and meat pies,” he said flatly.

  Astrid nearly blew her soup out of her nose.

  “Oh!” Davina said, startled. “How … er, unusual in a French chef. I had the pleasure of attending many elegant tables when I was in London these past months.”

  “My daughter made her debut last Season,” Lady Emily explained.

  The Duke returned to his soup.

  “I am surprised we did not cross paths at the Devonshire Ball last month,” Lady Emily continued to name-drop, undeterred.

  “I was not in attendance. I see very little of the Season,” he said shortly.

  Davina looked crestfallen.

  “His Grace is active in Lords, my dear. He hasn’t the time for balls,” Wesley chimed in helpfully.

  “No, I simply do not like balls. Or routs. Or parties in general,” the Duke said. “I find society terribly dull.”

  Davina looked gutted.

  Astrid smiled into her pot-au-feu.

  Lady Emily stared at the Duke through pursed lips, immensely displeased by his contrariness.

  The vicar, seated across from the Duke, found courage enough to break the tense silence that had descended over the party. He leaned forward into his soup bowl. “Such an h-honor, Y-your Grace. It really is serendipitous, q-quite serendipitous indeed, for I was just remarking to m-m-my Lady Emily how p-p-pleasant it is to h-have someone of y-y-y-your exalted station in our little h-hamlet. As you are our landlord, m-m-m-may I welcome you at church services tomorrow m-m-myself.”

  The Duke set aside his spoon and smiled mildly at the vicar. “Thank you, no. I don’t attend services as a general rule.”

  Astrid exchanged knowing glances with Alice. This just kept getting better and better.

  Mr. Fawkes blinked behind his spectacles. “Oh, oh, that is…”

  “I am indifferent on matters of religion,” the Duke announced to the table, as if daring anyone to contradict him.

  “I-i-indifferent? Why, h-how …” Mr. Fawkes blanched at the Duke’s dour expression. “H-how interesting.”

  “Surely, Your Grace, that is not so,” Aunt Emily said after a moment from the head of the table with a little laugh of disbelief.

  The Duke, having resumed holding his spoon, set it down once more and turned towards Lady Emily. “What isn’t so?” he asked evenly.

  “Why, your being indifferent. Surely you jest.”

  “I rarely jest.” He turned to Astrid. “Miss Honeywell, am I the jesting sort?”

  She smiled at him. “You are the least amusing man of my acquaintance.”

  He nodded as if receiving a compliment and took up his spoon.

  Aunt Emily continued to watch the Duke with a mixture of awe for his station and disgust for his lack of faith. Despite being the most uncharitable person of Astrid’s acquaintance, Aunt Emily was a devout church attendee.

  Aunt Emily laughed. “But how could someone of your station be indifferent? What sort of public example do you set? And with all that you have been blessed with…”

  The Duke’s stare intensified, and Astrid was enough acquainted with him to know he was growing very agitated. “I? Blessed?” He laughed without humor. “But surely, madam, you do not consider material wealth to be a sign of God’s grace? Christ was scripted as a pauper, was he not, vicar?”

  “I, er, scripted? That is …” Mr. Fawkes stuttered, looking severely uncomfortable at the turn of conversation.

  “He was reported to have walked about the desert in sandals and rags. No doubt he begged in the streets. If, in fact, he existed,” the Duke continued.

  Lady Emily gasped and covered her mouth with
her napkin.

  “He was very p-p-poor, granted …” Mr Fawkes looked as if he might weep.

  “There you have it,” the Duke intoned. “Good Christians eschew vulgar displays of wealth. Thank heavens I am not a good Christian, or I would be in serious trouble. I have so very much wealth, you see.” He smiled coldly. “Although I am never vulgar.”

  “Unless talking of your great estate,” Astrid cut in. “Or nonconformism at the dinner table.”

  His smile deepened. “You are so very astute, Miss Honeywell.” He turned to Aunt Emily. “Is she not astute, my lady?”

  Aunt Emily glared at Astrid, as if the Duke’s intractability were her fault.

  “What a serious discussion to be having,” Sir Wesley said next to her. “I avow I haven’t heard the like since Cambridge. Everyone at Cambridge are atheists. It is the fashion these days.”

  “I ain’t an atheist,” muttered Robert, who ignored his soup and was well into his third glass of port.

  “I should hope not,” Aunt Emily huffed. She gave one final look at the Duke, then sat back against her chair with a huff.

  Astrid was immensely grateful to the Duke for having rendered her aunt speechless.

  He took up his spoon to finally begin his course – he had only managed one or two sips since it was set in front of him – but he set the spoon aside once more after tasting it. “It’s cold,” he declared, pushing away his bowl.

  The courses passed amid a trickle of conversation. The vicar and Sir Wesley attempted to stir up safe subjects for discussion, but the Duke usually managed to stall these discussions with some non sequitur or other. Around the fifth course, Lady Emily and Davina had both given up on garnering the Duke’s notice after a short exchange over the color of Davina’s gown, in which the Duke had stated that he had curtains of that exact shade in his London retiring room.

  At this pronouncement, Davina’s face turned puce.

  Astrid was immensely entertained by the Duke’s manner. He might be her adversary in general, but tonight she thought he made a fine ally. His contempt for her aunt was quite in line with her own feelings. She was rather jealous of him for handling Lady Emily so well. Astrid was not free to be as honest in her feelings towards her aunt as he was.