The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy)

by Maggie Fenton

  “What, do you think, was the point?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, shrugging insouciantly. “Perhaps that there are consequences to leading certain gentlemen on. That, perhaps, it would behoove a certain lady to reconsider an offer that was made not once, but twice.”

  She laughed, though she felt like crying. “Do you know, that is the second attempt to blackmail me in as many days? It would be amusing, if it were not so pathetic.”

  She shoved past him, not caring if he touched her, just that she had to escape him. But he caught her by the arm. Ale splashed all over her sleeve. “You’ll reconsider, Miss Honeywell,” he snarled in her ear. His breath smelled like old boots. Her stomach churned.

  She yanked her arm away from him. “I’ll not reconsider, you odious man. Kill the bloody Duke. He’s no friend of mine.”

  He grabbed for her again, but she sped forward, out of his reach, her heart pounding with fear and rage.

  “You’ll be mine, one way or another,” she heard him call behind her.

  She gritted her teeth and lengthened her stride. She didn’t slow until the general throng once more surrounded her. She needed to find Hiram. She had to tell him about Lightfoot, though there was precious little to be done. He’d not exactly confessed, and there was little proof of his involvement.

  She felt a pang of worry. Was the Duke truly in danger? Would he be accosted on the road by one of Lightfoot’s agents? Surely not. Surely Lightfoot would not be so foolish!

  But he would. He was … well, insane. He must be, to be going through such lengths to marry her. Her!

  She had to warn the Duke. She had to find Hiram. She had to do something.

  Astrid pushed her way through the crowd, who was thrumming with excitement and heading towards the start of the much-anticipated foot-and-ale race, many of the contestants already there and doing odd stretching exercises to limber up their legs. The young men of the village and surrounding district saw the foot-and-ale race, instituted a century ago by one of Astrid’s more harebrained ancestors, as a rite-of-passage. The race covered a two-mile circuit around the village and its surrounding environs, with booths holding pints of ale set up at intervals along the way. The young men ran barefoot over the course as fast as they could, and were required to guzzle down a pint at each of the stations before continuing on.

  Many started the race. Only a handful crossed the finish line, and only one or two managed to do so still standing. The first one of these was declared the victor, crowned King for a day, and allowed to claim for himself a Queen by kissing her in front of the entire assemblage. The King rarely made it to this point in the proceedings until much later, as sprinting for two miles and drinking eight pints at the same time did not mix well.

  It was quite the most ridiculous spectacle Astrid had ever seen.

  Astrid began to notice that not all were moving towards the course. In fact, a good portion of the throng was milling about at the edge of the green, casting curious glances toward something out of Astrid’s line of vision, and whispering behind their hands.

  She spied her Aunt Anabel adjusting her wig at the corner of this crowd, and decided she’d go assist her before the thing leapt off her head and ran away. When she reached her aunt’s side and completed her task, she felt an odd tingling on the back of her neck, a heightened awareness, as if she felt someone’s eyes watching her. She looked around and wished she hadn’t, for now she saw what everyone was making such a fuss about. Or rather, whom.

  Montford. Damnation!

  What was he doing here?

  And looking like an alien species in his expensive, fussy clothes, amid the rustic woolens of most of the villagers. There was no mistaking who he was or the effect he had on the crowd. If an elephant had been planted next to him covered in pink paint, he would without a doubt be considered the greater curiosity.

  He seemed oblivious to the scrutiny, however, his eyes locked in on her, like a bird of prey’s on a field mouse.

  Her heart leapt up into her throat, then thudded to her feet and stayed there, an aching, miserable mound.

  What the bloody blue blazes was Montford doing here? He was supposed to be on the road back to London, being attacked by highwaymen.

  Alice came up beside her with a worried expression. She tugged on Astrid’s arm to get her attention. “What did you do to Wesley?” Alice demanded.

  Astrid tore her attention from the Duke. “What?”

  “He’s acting very peculiar. I think he might be ill or something. He can’t seem to speak.”

  And that was a bad thing? Astrid wanted to retort. Clearly Wesley had yet to work up his courage to speak to Alice.

  Alice frowned. “And he’s entering the foot race. Perhaps he’s had too much ale.”

  Astrid could imagine why Wesley was entering the race – to make Alice his queen. But that was if he won, which was unlikely. Gentlemen did not participate in the race, not just because it was considered de trop. It was an issue of pride, as gentlemen had no wish to be bested by the common lads who made their living through physical labor. Gentlemen were not generally a hearty lot.

  When Lady Emily discovered her son’s disgraceful behavior, Astrid wished she could be a fly on the wall when that happened. But she didn’t have time to deal with Wesley. She had a mission to complete …

  A mission she had totally forgotten. What was she on her way to do? Montford’s appearance had knocked it clear out of her head.

  Alice was similarly distracted from her train of thought by something she saw over Astrid’s shoulder. Astrid didn’t need to see Alice’s round eyes and slack mouth to know what had caught her attention. Astrid’s arms broke out into gooseflesh. She could feel the Duke drawing near.

  “What’s he doing here?” Alice whispered.

  Astrid shrugged and raised the mug to her mouth. She drank the entire pint in one gulp for fortification. She choked at the end, and someone thumped her on the back. It was Roddy, grinning and already a bit wobbly. “All right?”

  She shook her head. Then Roddy saw the Duke and gave her a commiserating look. “Oh bloody hell. He doesn’t look pleased,” he muttered and turned to flee.

  “Don’t you dare run away from me, Stevenage!” boomed the Duke.

  Roddy blanched in defeat and spun back around, dropping the Duke a remarkably steady bow.

  Astrid glanced around and saw that everyone in the vicinity was attempting some sort of bow or curtsy, to varying degrees of success. Now that word had spread – like a bloody wildfire – that the Duke would not be chopping off anyone’s head, he was no longer persona non grata. In fact, it looked as if Rylestone’s denizens were more than happy to start currying his favor.

  Astrid’s blood boiled.

  He ignored everyone around him and addressed his former man-of-affairs. “I need a mount,” he said.

  “A … mount? A horse?” Roddy was clearly in no state to deal with the Duke’s problem.

  “Yes, a horse, you idiot.”

  “Why do you need a horse, Your Grace?” Sir Wesley asked, coming up to join them, avoiding Alice’s eyes.

  “So I can leave,” the Duke said with impatience.

  Wesley looked baffled. “What about your coach? Fine piece of equipment.”

  “It’s broken.”

  “Broken? Oh dear, that is a problem.” Wesley’s brow bunched up. “Rode my high-stepper over here, so can’t help you there. Got plenty of good stock back at the grange if you want one of ‘em.”

  “Fine,” the Duke bit off. “Shall we go?”

  Wesley was taken aback. “You mean now? Can’t leave now. The grange’s a good hour away, and the race is about to start.”

  The Duke looked irritated. “Race?”

  “The foot-and-ale race.”

  “The foot and what?”

  “Foot-and-ale,” Wesley said slowly. He explained what this entailed, to the Duke’s growing incredulity.

  “What nonsense,” he said with utter disdai
n.

  “It ain’t,” Wesley protested. He puffed out his chest. “I’m running this year, and I mean to win it and claim my kiss.” At this last vow, Wesley’s face turned scarlet as he glanced in Astrid and Alice’s direction.

  The Duke’s expression grew thunderous. “You expect me to wait until you run barefoot and drunk around the village so that you might make a spectacle of your cousins and yourself? I think you must forget who I am, Sir Wesley,” the Duke growled.

  Wesley looked mortified. He glanced to Astrid for support.

  “Surely you cannot deny Sir Wesley a chance to win his lady love, Your Grace,” she said with a forced smile. “To win the foot-and-ale race is a great honor.”

  “I don’t give a damn,” he snarled.

  From Wesley’s abashed look, the Duke was going to have his way, and this was not something Astrid was willing to allow on principle alone. Montford could wait an hour for Wesley to run his silly race. Astrid certainly had no desire for Montford to stay another minute, much less another hour. But if anything could be done to inconvenience him further, then Astrid was all in favor of that.

  “Not many gentlemen have the courage to enter the foot-and-ale race, Your Grace. Sir Wesley has bravely entered the fray. To pull out now, after he has already given notice, would make him lose face. You would not have him dishonor himself, would you?” she asked sweetly.

  He settled his attention on her – or on the space right next to her head, as he couldn’t seem to meet her eye. “He could only be dishonored if he were competing against others of his own class,” he said stiffly.

  Bastard.

  Astrid gasped in a horrified way that was not entirely an act. “Why, you utter snob! It is just this kind of feudal thinking that drove the French to chop off their rulers’ heads.”

  “Oh, dear,” Roddy repeated, smelling trouble and backing away.

  She glanced around her and noticed that everyone – even Alice – had taken a few steps back from the two of them. A crowd of curious onlookers had formed around them, but at a safe distance, as if everyone sensed the electricity in the air. Only Aunt Anabel, who was dotty anyway, remained at Astrid’s side, nodding her head as if she’d fallen asleep standing up.

  Montford stood before her, fists on his hips, his face hewn from granite, his silver eyes nearly translucent with rage.

  She gave him her mildest smile. “Do you know, I have often thought that the reason gentlemen refuse to engage in a fair fight with a member of the lower orders has more to do with fear than pomposity,” she continued conversationally.

  His expression hardened even more. “Oh?”

  “Yes. It wouldn’t do for a gentleman … oh, say an aristocrat of your similar station … to be bested by a mere field hand in a … oh, say, a footrace. How can one rule when one is shown to be weaker than his subjects?”

  “Weaker,” he repeated.

  “Yes. Soft. Effete. Vestigial.”

  “Vestigial?” His voice was soft, but every syllable was spoken with knife-edged precision.

  “As in, no longer necessary to the body as a whole, like one’s appendix. But in this case, it is the body politic, and the atrophied organ is the aristocracy –”

  “Some would call your statements seditious, Miss Honeywell.”

  “I would have thought all, not just some. But I only meant to point out the general difference in physical strength between the upper orders and the common man. The higher one is born, it seems, the less one is required to … well, move. Have you found this to be true, Your Grace?”

  He was quiet for a long time. At last, he spoke in an undertone. “You think I can’t see what you’re doing? You’re trying to goad me into running this blasted race.”

  She feigned affront. “I would never do such a thing. I was only suggesting that Sir Wesley is a very brave gentleman, to risk losing to a mere field hand. Few gentlemen would have the nerve to put themselves in such a position. You should let him race.”

  “You think I can’t win this ridiculous race,” he insisted.

  “I never suggested anything of the sort.” She smiled at him.

  “You think I can’t even finish this race.”

  “Absolutely not.” It was an ambiguous statement at best.

  He stared and stared at her until something seemed to explode inside of him, and then he turned on his heel abruptly and began striding across the green, catching Wesley by the arm and pulling him along.

  “Wh … what’s happening?” Wesley asked.

  “We’re going to race,” the Duke practically roared.

  Astrid stared at the Duke’s retreating back, dumbstruck, as did the rest of the crowd who had overheard his declaration. Then a rumble of anxious chatter swelled louder as the news spread, and the crowd began to follow the two noblemen down towards the start of the racecourse.

  She honestly hadn’t meant to provoke the Duke this far. But things, as usual, had gotten out of hand quicker than she could have anticipated, once her tongue got the best of her.

  Someone really must pass a law forbidding herself and the Duke of Montford from coming within a hundred miles of each other. They made fools out of each other. In this case, however, Montford alone would be the fool.

  A Duke running in the foot-and-ale race? Stranger things might have happened in Rylestone, but not in Astrid’s lifetime.

  Once her initial shock faded, her heart lifted in anticipation of his defeat, for surely he would lose. She doubted if Montford had ever run anywhere in his life, and she knew for a fact that he was quite abstemious in his drinking habits. Combining the two seldom-enjoyed activities could only end in a rather splendidly ignoble thrashing at the hands – or rather, feet – of Rylestone’s farm boys.

  Or at least that was what she hoped.

  She hurried to catch up with the rest of the crowd.

  Only when she reached the starting line did three worrying thoughts intrude. Number one: what if – and surely she was merely being paranoid – what if Montford actually won? Number two: if number one happened, would Montford choose a Queen? Which brought her to number three: if number two happened, would he choose her?

  Would he kiss her again? That was her concern. Would he kiss her again, in public? Or … Oh, God! She’d just thought of something even worse. What if he should kiss someone else?

  And then she thought of something even worse than that. Why did she care if he kissed someone else?

  Astrid was so caught up in these pressing worries that she totally forgot about Mr. Lightfoot and that gentleman’s poorly veiled threats until much, much later.

  By then, of course, it was too late.

  Chapter Fifteen

  IN WHICH THE DUKE ENTERS HIS SECOND RACE OF THE WEEK

  THE WAGERS started flying as soon as word spread that the Duke of Montford, Rylestone’s erstwhile landlord, was going to run in the foot-and-ale race. The assembly was buzzing with excitement, gossiping about Miss Honeywell’s challenge, and calling out bets as the contestants gathered at the edge of the green, giving a wide berth to their liege, who was staring at the starting line, looking as if he’d like to murder them all.

  Or one in particular, and everyone knew who that was.

  It was on account of Miss Honeywell calling Himself a vestigious organ, the butcher said to the milliner, who had not been close enough to hear the already legendary conversation. As far as the butcher could figure, being called vestigious was a terrible insult, and Himself had no choice but to defend his Honor. Miss Honeywell, answered the milliner over his pint, may have overstepped her bounds this time, as one just didn’t go around calling a man’s organs vestigious, especially if the organs were belonging to a Duke.

  The butcher agreed with this assessment and eyed the Duke appraisingly as the Duke began to take off his jacket and loosen his cravat. Himself was a well-set-up fellow, beneath all of the fluff he wore, and the butcher liked the look of his long legs. The butcher also figured that Miss Honeywell had made the Duke
’s blood boil so hot – as she tended to do to most men – that the fellow would carry himself through the race on steam power alone. He promptly laid out a sovereign on the Duke. The milliner, who enjoyed quite a lot of business from the Honeywell girls, remembered where his loyalties lay (and the exact shade of Alice Honeywell’s eyes) and bet a sovereign against the interloper.

  Transactions of this sort were made throughout the crowd, and it was noted even the vicar had thrown down a few shillings on the Duke – for the poor box should he win, he assured everyone. And while the men bet on the outcome, the women speculated on what the Duke would do afterwards if he won. Furious primping and preening began in every unmarried female under the age of one hundred, excluding, of course, the Misses Honeywells.

  Although, one observer, who shall remain nameless, but who had a vested concern for Miss Honeywell’s person, and who was lurking at the back of the crowd in a particularly ominous manner, noted that Miss Honeywell tucked back her hair not once, not twice, but thrice, behind her ears, an act of vanity heretofore unrecorded, and never took her eyes from the Duke of Montford as he stripped down to his waistcoat. These were troubling signs to the observer, who began to wish the Duke had indeed tumbled to his death along with his mount on the previous day.

  Unaware of the upheaval he had caused in the surrounding crowd and the enemy he made, Montford glared at the small group of young men who loitered around him, looking severely uncomfortable in his presence. Sir Wesley was half-bent over, trying to pull off his stockings, blushing furiously. A few of the other fellows were stretching out their legs and contorting their bodies in a fashion that looked extremely painful to Montford’s eyes.

  What the devil had he done?

  He didn’t dare turn to find Miss Honeywell. He feared that just seeing her again would drive him to do something even more outrageous. Although what could be more outrageous than what he was about to do?

  Nothing.

  If any of his acquaintances back in London ever heard that he participated in a drunken foot race, he would be laughed out of the House of Lords. Or locked in Bedlam on suspicion of insanity.