The crowd caught them at the last moment and hauled them back to their feet.
Then the chanting began.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
At first it was a few of the more mischievous young boys, but it soon spread to the older men, then the women as well.
Even the vicar had joined in. The chanting grew louder, more insistent.
Astrid’s heart sank. She did not try to get to the Duke’s side any longer. She was frozen in place.
But she was close enough to hear him slur out: “WhaddayameanIhavedakisssommone?”
As this was explained to him repeatedly, Astrid began to move backwards. Then forwards. She couldn’t decide where she wanted to be any longer.
But it was apparent where every other female wanted to be. They were clawing their way to the front of the crowd, anxious to draw the Duke’s eye.
Astrid could see that this was not going to be an easy task. The Duke seemed to have trouble focusing his eyes at all. He shut one, then opened it and shut the other. He tried squinting through one, then the other, then both.
Astrid frowned. She couldn’t imagine any female in their right mind wanting to kiss him at the moment. His face was splotched in red, he was covered in sweat and breathing heavily, and he couldn’t seem to stand on his own.
She certainly didn’t want to kiss him. He looked …
Drunk. Frightful.
He grinned stupidly at no one in particular.
Her breath caught in her throat. She’d never seen him grin like that, with such genuine glee. It made him look all of five years old and entirely … delicious.
Astrid’s heart thudded against her ribs.
Oh, dear.
He swayed on his feet, turning in a half circle as if looking for something in the crowd, and his gaze fell onto her. He stopped. His grin faded, and his head bobbed up and down. He squinted at her and raised one of his arms. He extended his finger and pointed at her.
Well, not at her. Somewhere in her vicinity.
“You,” he said.
A collective groan of disappointment ran through all the females present. All eyes turned in her direction.
She looked around her, hoping he was not really pointing at her – dreading he was not really pointing at her – but the only other female in a good ten paces was Aunt Anabel, who was looking extremely amused by the spectacle.
Montford lurched forward, past Mr. Lightfoot, who stared at his back with narrowed eyes. The crowd parted, letting him stumble to his destination. He kept his arm extended, and every now and then he would hiccough and sway to the right or left.
Astrid braced herself for the inevitable. What could she do, she told herself? This was tradition. The winner of the race got to kiss the female of his choice, and if Montford chose her, then tradition demanded she accept her fate. She had to kiss him, there was no other choice. She had no wish to do so, in fact, she detested the very notion, but she would be the last person to break a custom her own family had begun.
She would take no pleasure in it.
None at all.
Her breathing ceased all together. Her cheeks burned. Anticipation bubbled up inside of her stomach.
Montford loomed above her for a second, then he staggered to the left, lost sight of her altogether, and fell atop Aunt Anabel. He pinned the aged woman to the earth, knocking off her wig, and planted his lips on the side of her mouth.
Aunt Anabel screamed, raised her cane above them, and brought it down across Montford’s back. He howled in pain and rolled onto the grass, his hand tangling in Aunt Anabel’s wig. He jerked back and tried to shake the wig off of his hand. This took several tries. Meanwhile, Aunt Anabel had climbed to her feet and continued to batter him with her cane.
Astrid managed to pull her aunt away, and someone helped the Duke to his feet. The crowd was ecstatic. Many were hunched over, laughing too hard to stand straight. A couple were crying with their mirth. It was without a doubt the most memorable festival Rylestone had seen in generations.
Astrid had to grudgingly agree. She was not at all disappointed, of course, that the Duke had been too drunk to kiss her, and had, in fact, mistaken her aunt for her. If indeed there had been a mistake at all. Surely he had not meant to kiss Aunt Anabel?
No, she was not disappointed, she told herself, as she watched several burly men heave Montford onto their shoulders and dance away with him into the crowd. Montford wore an expression of bemusement and surprisingly good cheer. He did not know where he was being taken – to the nearest keg – nor did he seem to care.
Not disappointed at all.
She turned and caught Mr. Lightfoot’s eye, and a cold chill crept up her spine. He smiled at her, but it was the most menacing smile she’d ever seen.
She turned away. She’d deal with him later.
She glanced in the direction of Sir Wesley and saw that Alice had him well in hand, then bent over to pick up Aunt Annabel’s wig, which now resembled a dead poodle. She fluffed it out and set it on top of her aunt’s faded red hair.
Aunt Anabel was flushed and very perplexed. “I do believe I’ve been molested, my dear,” she said. “Who was that oafish fellow?”
“The Duke of Montford.”
“What? A Duke? Where?” Aunt Anabel spun about, trying to find a Duke in the crowd.
She had no success.
Chapter Sixteen
IN WHICH THE DUKE SERENADES HIS LADYLOVE
THE DUKE of Montford cleared his throat, leaned into Sir Wesley’s embrace as they stumbled down the lane, and began his eleventh recitation of the evening:
“There was a young fellow from Kent,” he began in a stage whisper that was more accurately a near-shout.
“Whose anatomy was very bent–”
Roddy burst into giggles behind them, along with Flora. So did Montford. It took him several moments to compose himself so he could continue.
“When he thrust to go in/ He got stuck on her shin/ Back home to his wife he was sent.”
It took several moments for Wesley to comprehend what had been said, and when he did, his face turned scarlet, and he sniggered with laughter against his tattered sleeve.
“Oh, my!” Alice murmured next to Astrid. She was also noticeably wobbly on her feet, and kept glancing in Wesley’s direction in a coy manner that had the poor man so flummoxed he could not meet her eyes. He definitely could not meet Alice’s eyes after this last delightful obscenity. “That’s the worst one he’s done yet!”
Astrid could only nod, her ears burning. She had no words to describe the past half-hour’s journey from the village back towards the castle. They had been among the last to leave the festival. Wesley and Montford had to be picked up off the ground by Newcomb, who now trailed behind them with Roddy and Flora. All three of these stragglers looked as soused as Sir Wesley and Montford.
In fact, Astrid could safely say that she was the only one of their little company who was marginally sober. Even Alice, it seemed, had had considerably more. She had to prop her sister up. She’d been glad when Hiram, traitor that he was, had offered to let Antonia and Ardyce stay with his girls tonight, as she didn’t think she could have put up wrangling two more children back to the castle. She already had five on her hands as it was.
Someone had managed to replace the gentlemen’s discarded clothing, with little success. At least they had been shoved back into their boots. Their cravats were in tatters, and Wesley’s fine gray wool jacket was split up the back. They’d lost their hats entirely, and Montford’s cravat pin was sticking through a hole in his lapel as if it were a carnation, not a giant ruby.
She was surprised he’d managed to hold on to that precious commodity. She’d seen it fall into the dirt and the Duke trod upon it at least half a dozen times since he’d won the bloody footrace.
She was equally surprised to learn that Montford, apparently, was a poet. Since they’d begun the long journey home – the longest journey of her life – he’d recited at least ten of the
crudest, idiotic little bits of rhyming nonsense she’d ever heard.
She’d struggled not to laugh.
Everyone else was. Wesley was in hysterics on Montford’s arm. Montford was in hysterics as well. They had their heads together as they lurched down the lane, giggling like little boys.
It seemed Montford and Wesley were now bosom friends. He whispered another verse into Wesley’s ear, this time too softly for the others to hear – though Astrid managed to catch a couple of very naughty words – and Wesley stopped in his tracks and gaped at Montford.
Then he doubled over, clutching his middle, laughing like a lunatic. “You’re a devil, old boy,” Wesley declared, “a devil.”
Montford looked very pleased with himself.
Astrid found herself secretly wishing to know what he had said, even as she sniffed disdainfully as she passed them by.
Where had Montford learned all of these dreadful poems? She would have never dreamed he had it in him to be so … scandalously silly.
“Tell us another,” Wesley begged as they approached the back garden.
Montford gazed unsteadily towards the castle, craning his head left and right as if trying to puzzle something out. “Nuther?” he mumbled.
“One more, old fellow.”
“Yes, one more!” Alice seconded enthusiastically. Somehow she managed to disconnect from Astrid’s arm and attach herself to Wesley’s free one. Wesley glanced down at her with a startled expression that soon relaxed into something resembling a smile.
The Duke thought about it for a moment, tugging on one side of his head, then swung his gaze in Astrid’s direction.
She caught her breath but managed to scowl at him. “I think we’ve heard quite enough.”
“Have I offended your delicate sensibilities?” he asked her. Or at least that is what she thought he might have asked her. He was slurring his consonants and massacreing his vowels.
She harrumphed and crossed her arms over her chest. “You are behaving like an imbecile. All of you.”
Alice and Wesley ignored her and pestered the Duke to give them another rhyme.
Never taking his eyes off of her, he began.
“There was a Young Lady whose eyes/ Were unique as to colour and size/ When she opened them wide/ People all turned aside/ And started away in surprise.”
Wesley began to snicker. Alice laughed uneasily. Astrid felt her heart sink to her shoes. She would not let him upset her, she vowed to herself, even as her breath became shorter and shorter, and the garden became blurry. She was not tearing up. She was merely suffering from the roses blooming next to her.
Wesley finally realized he shouldn’t be laughing, as no one else was. “Hey, that ain’t dirty. Is it?”
“No, it isn’t. It’s just stupid,” Astrid retorted.
“Oh, I don’t think that was very nice, Montford,” Alice said quietly.
“What wasn’t very nice?” Wesley asked, lost.
Alice started to explain it to him, but Astrid had had quite enough. She abandoned them to their fates and stalked into the hedgerows. She’d enter through the back of the house and avoid another human being for the rest of the night.
She’d just reached the edge of her vegetable garden when she felt the hand on her sleeve. She knew who it was by the scent of him – ale, sweat, mud, and whatever musk he exuded that made him smell wonderful despite these other things. She attempted to jerk her arm away. He held on tenaciously. She stumbled against the wall of the garden. He stumbled with her, into her, a wall of heat against her back.
She shoved him away and attempted to side step him. He caught her shoulders and turned her around to face him. Now the wall of heat was against her front. The cold garden wall was against her back. His cravat pin was at eye level. It swam before her eyes. “Let go of me.”
“Hold on, now, wanted to ‘pologize,” he managed to get out.
“I don’t want your damned apologies. Get out of my way.”
“Th’poem. It wasn’t meant to hurt.”
She latched on to her anger, which was great at getting rid of her hurt. “Of course it was meant to hurt.”
“No … I don’t know why I said it. Just came out. Can’t seem to help myself round you, Astrid.”
She froze. He’d used her first name. He’d never used her first name before.
But it meant nothing. Just like the rhyme. Just like his kiss the night before.
She sank against the wall. “You’re supposed to be gone. Why aren’t you gone?”
He just stared down at her face, his brow furrowed, his jaw clenched.
“Can’t seem to help myself,” he repeated. “Astrid.”
He raised a hand to her cheek. She courageously batted it away. “Don’t call me that. Let me by.”
She attempted to push him away, but he only swayed back a little, then swayed forward, mashing her backside onto the wall’s cold ledge.
“Astrid,” he said again.
“You’re drunk.”
He nodded. “Very. Very drunk.” He paused. “I never get drunk. D’ya know it feels good? Say my name.”
“What?” she cried, pushing against his chest.
He grinned down at her. “Say my name. Y’know the one.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“C’mon, Astrid. Say m’name.”
She rolled her eyes. “Cyril.”
His grinned broadened. He closed his eyes as if she’d sung an aria.
“Quite the most ridiculous, stupid, idiotic name in the world,” she continued.
“I know,” he moaned. Then he opened his eyes and squinted down at her. “I like it when y’say it. I like your eyes, too. Th’don’t match, y’know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Like your hair, too. It’s red.”
He stated this fact as if it were of national importance.
“Yes, I know,” she said, irritated and disarmed and uncommonly aware of the heat and strength of him mashed against her.
He squinted down at her, as if trying to solve an equation in his head. “You’re wrong, Astrid.”
She bristled. “About what?”
“No,” he said, looking annoyed. “You’re wrong. You.”
She snorted. He was making absolutely no sense, but her pulse was racing, her palms were sweating, and her legs felt like jelly.
“Astrid.”
That was it. She’d had enough. She shoved at his chest. “For heaven’s sake, just let me go.”
“Can’t,” he said, his head swaying towards her.
“I swear if you don’t …” His mouth covered her own, forestalling further speech. She turned into a puddle in an instant. His lips were warm, smooth, gentle, and he tasted of Honeywell Ale. He stank of it, in fact, but she didn’t mind. He clutched her shoulders, pressing against her, his mouth working softly against hers, coaxing her lips apart, tasting, licking, nipping.
“Astrid,” he murmured against her lips. He brought the back of his hand against her cheek and caressed it tenderly. “Astrid,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t help but repeat her name endlessly, even as he kissed her endlessly. It was nothing like last night. She felt a similar heat rise up inside of her, but the white heat that had burned so out of control the night before was defracted, like light through a prism, distilled and sweetened by his gentle touch, the near-reverence of his mouth as it tasted her. Sampled her. Reveled in her.
Now, this was a kiss – or, rather, kisses – for his mouth would pull away, murmur her name, then come back for more. And more.
Then his kisses moved lower, down her throat, over her collarbone, each contact of his lips to her flesh leaving a burning wake. A million butterflies began fluttering about in her stomach. She wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing his head nearer, craving him, burning for him.
He arrived at the edge of her bosom and buried his head there. Her pulse leapt as she waited for what he would do next. But he didn’t move for the longest time, his full weight pressi
ng her against the wall. His arms fell from her shoulders, and he sighed into her bosom. The garden around them was quiet, still. All she could hear was the steady sound of his breathing and her pulse thundering in her ears.
After a minute or so passed, she grew uncomfortable and a little cold, her inner heat fading.
What was he doing down there?
A sound ripped from the back of his throat. It took her a moment to comprehend what it was. When she did, she went completely cold.
A snore.
The cad! The utter cad! He’d kissed her senseless, then buried his head in her breasts and fallen asleep!
“Oh, you … you beast!” she cried, shoving him away from her.
He didn’t wake up. He just slowly crumpled to the ground like a folding accordion and continued to snore with his cheek mashed up against the garden wall.
She stared down at him in incredulity. She kicked his shins and stepped over his body, storming towards the castle.
She hoped he froze to death.
NEWCOMB WAS congratulating himself on a job well done as he, Stevenage and Flora spied on their employers from behind a clump of shrubbery. Flora sighed wistfully as the Duke kissed Miss Honeywell, as if it was the sweetest thing she’d every seen.
Newcomb didn’t know about that. But he felt quite justified in his ploy to linger in Rylestone.
Who’d have thought the master could be such good company after a few pints? Well, more than a few. Himself had had enough to pickle the insides of ten soldiers, Newcomb reckoned. Not that Newcomb had had a doubt in his mind but that his master could hold his own against the heartiest of these Yorkshire bumpkins. Newcomb had won five quid on the race. He would have had ten, but His Grace had been too off his face to kiss the right chit.
The Duke didn’t seem to have trouble finding Miss Honeywell’s lips now – a feat Newcomb would have appreciated several hours earlier.
“If he tries it on with her,” Stevenage muttered at his side, “I’m not standing for it.”
Oh, Newcomb was sure the Duke was going to try it on with Miss Honeywell, or at least attempt to. The kissing changed course. Montford bent over until his head was stuck in the vicinity of Miss Honeywell’s chest.
The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy) Page 25