It did not take much brainpower to deduct that those two had been rolling around in a haystack together. Which was scandalous. And very interesting.
Things had, apparently, not ended well between the lovers, however, for when Montford attempted to comfort Miss Honeywell, the chit jerked her arm away and kicked him in the shin. Then she turned her attention back to the castle, falling to her knees in the muck, looking devastated.
The Duke looked equally devastated, but he was staring at Miss Honeywell, not the castle.
For some unfathomable reason, Katherine found herself glancing at Mr. Sherbrook, who’d made his way to her side with no sign of a pig in pursuit He was wiping the soot off his face with a lacy handkerchief, to little effect. When the resources of that bit of fabric were exhausted, Katherine offered him her handkerchief.
After a moment’s hesitation, he took it.
There was nothing to smile about, but she found herself giving him a wry grin. She couldn’t help herself. “Is your life always like this?”
His eyes went wide. The barest ghost of a smile twisted his beautiful, ash-coated lips, but he didn’t look at her. “Disastrous? Of course.”
“I thought so.”
“I THINK it’s burning out,” Flora said, half an hour later, touching Astrid’s shoulder, her face grim and worried. Astrid had been sitting in the mud, watching the castle burn, oblivious to the rest of the world. Oblivious to him.
Montford stood behind, watching Astrid and feeling helpless. He could offer her no comfort or do anything to stop the fire. He suspected she would end up blaming him for everything.
“It hardly matters now,” Astrid murmured. “There’s nothing left.”
“The castle’s walls are still standing … somewhat,” Montford said dubiously. “We can renovate it.”
Astrid didn’t even look up at him. She picked up a clump of mud and lobbed it at his knees.
She was mourning the loss of her home, he told himself. He would not be angry.
He heard the sound of a carriage rolling up behind them. He turned and groaned. It was the baroness’ barouche. She’d returned. With the stuttering vicar. Oh, this was all they needed.
The vicar gaped at the smoking castle as he descended the barouche. Lady Emily eyed the ruin through her quizzing glass. She was looking smug, and Montford had the urge to plant her a facer, female or not.
She turned her quizzing glass on him. He scowled blackly at her, and her smug smile faded.
“Oh, d-d-d-dear h-h-hea-heavens!” the vicar cried, rushing to Astrid’s side, helping her to her feet with Flora’s assistance.
Astrid looked pale and weak and utterly forlorn, and Montford’s heart cried out. He wanted to go to her, comfort her, take her in his arms and make all of this go away, but he knew she would never allow it.
“What happened here?” Lady Emily demanded as she descended from the barouche. “What has she done now?”
Sebastian and Marlowe stepped forward, inserting themselves between Montford and the old bag, as if sensing how close he was to murder.
“How nice of you to return, madame,” Sebastian said charmingly, his smile all the more potent from the soot dusting his skin. “We need extra hands hauling buckets. You look a stout sort, madam. I’m sure you won’t mind.”
Lady Emily sniffed contemptuously at Sherbrook’s needling and turned her attention to Astrid. “I knew one day something of the sort would happen. You are careless, gel. Don’t expect me to pick up the pieces of this latest disaster. It is justice, as far as I’m concerned, for leading my boy to ruin.”
“M-m-my l-l-lady! P-p-p-please reconsider your h-h-harsh words!” the vicar exhorted.
“Yes, do stop acting an ass,” Sebastian drawled. “Before my friend here calls you out.”
Lady Emily was outraged. “Really!”
Sebastian turned to Montford. “Shall I stand second for you, old boy?”
“I’m obliged, but no. Should I feel the need, I’ll inform you.” He continued to glare at Lady Emily. She had the good sense to back up a few paces, out of his reach. “If you speak one more unkind word against Miss Honeywell, I shall put you in the stocks. Do I make myself clear?”
“You have a great deal of concern for my niece,” she said, studying the hay on his person through her quizzing glass.
“You take no concern. I suppose you won’t wish to receive her any longer after this.”
“Certainly not. It is plain to anyone with eyes what you and she have been up to. No one of good breeding could possibly receive her now.”
“I am glad to hear your decision. Of course you must understand, under such circumstances, that we shall not be able to receive you. No one with such a low opinion of my wife shall be welcome under my roof!” he said with all of his most chilling ducal austerity.
It took a moment for his words to sink in. Lady Emily’s quizzing glass dropped from her eye, and her jaw went slack.
Astrid pushed her way free from her helpers and stalked forward, trembling with rage. “I…I am not marrying you!” she hissed.
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not!” She thrust her hand in the direction of Araminta, who was standing next to her sister, rumpled and distraught. “She’s marrying you. In a week.”
The Marchioness patted her sister’s arm and gave them all a serene smile. “I’m sure some arrangement can be reached. In fact, now that you mention the subject, Montford, it is one of the purposes of our visit. Well, tell them, Minta, for heaven’s sake.”
Araminta’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. The events of the last few hours had stricken her dumb, apparently. Montford squinted at her, wondering what he had been thinking to have engaged himself to such a … boring specimen.
The Marchioness rolled her eyes when Araminta remained speechless beside her and barreled on herself. “My sister does not wish to marry you, Montford. She never did. She is running away with a Mr. Morton. You don’t know him, but he fancies himself a poet and is quite the romantic. He’s wooed my sister with his verses quite effectively. I am told poetry is a fine way into a lady’s affections. It seems to work much better than ordering them about and telling them what they are going to do without waiting for their agreement.” She gave him an arch look and glanced Astrid’s way as if to emphasize her point. Canny woman. “I am sure Minta shall be quite happy with Mr. Morton. He is not quite as rich as you, but then who is? Have you any objections?”
Montford shook his head mutely.
Marlowe chortled, another cheroot plummeting to its hasty demise. “By gad, that’s what I call a coup. Why didn’t you just say so in the first place, Lady K? Wouldn’t’ve been so churlish to you about you coming up here, would we, eh, Sherry?”
Sebastian just stared at his step-aunt with an inscrutable expression.
“Araminta, is this true?” Montford demanded.
The chit finally found her voice. “Er … yes. Quite. It was father’s idea for us to wed. But I’d rather not. Though I’d like to be a Duchess, I think having a husband who loves me shall be much better. At least, that is what Katie says. She’s usually right.”
The Marchioness nodded and patted her sister’s arm. “Of course I’m right, dear.”
Astrid snorted. “Well, this changes nothing. I’m still not marrying you.” She gestured towards the castle. “Look at what you’ve done!”
He’d known it was coming. “Me?” he cried. “I did not burn the damned castle down!”
“You kept me away, when I might have done something.”
“That is the most absurd reasoning I’ve ever heard,” he said contemptuously.
“Well, it’s all your fault. Somehow,” she returned.
They stared each other down, oblivious to the discomfort of their companions.
The vicar broke the silence by gasping and gesturingly wildly towards the castle. He tried to force some words out, but his mouth could not reach past the first syllable.
Everyone swiv
eled towards the castle, and Marlowe and Sebastian began cursing indiscriminately. So did Montford. The north tower, already on its last legs, had succumbed at last to gravity, one stone, followed by another, tumbling down onto the castle keep. The impact sounded like cannon blasts, sending puffs of smoke and debris up into the sky.
The falling stones ceased, and for a moment all was quiet. They breathed a collective sigh of relief. But then a great groaning sound rent the air, like the bellow of a newly-awakened dragon. The tower began to stagger about, then pitched over in a dead faint, right into the center of the castle.
Montford stopped his ears against the terrible sound. The ground beneath them quaked as the entire castle collapsed in on itself in a chaos of fire, smoke, splitting oak and rubble.
Araminta fainted. The Marchioness rolled her eyes and bent over her sister, fanning her face.
Marlowe’s new cheroot dropped, unlit, to the ground.
Astrid looked at him briefly, her mismatched eyes filled with shock … and desolation. Damned pile of rocks. She cared more for that bloody castle than for him.
Not that he could blame her, precisely. He’d behaved like a total arse from the moment he’d clamped eyes on her, rutting around in a muddy garden with a pig.
His heart ached. It was as if a surgeon had cut him open, sliced off a piece of it, then sewn him back up and expected him to muck on. He couldn’t muck on. Not without Astrid. She owned that piece of his heart.
He breathed out at last, but it was a hoarse, ragged sound, as he waited on tenterhooks for what she would do next.
But as usual, it was nothing he could have predicted. She began to laugh, her cheeks pinkening and her eyes overflowing with tears. She laughed so hard her body shook all over, until she was forced to lean against his chest for support. He didn’t mind this one bit, enjoying the feel of her in his arms once more and relieved she’d not resorted to hysterics, as most sane people would have done at the loss of their home. But then Astrid wasn’t sane, was she? She was delightfully cracked in the head.
Soon everyone was laughing – aside from Aunt Emily, of course – because what else could they do?
“I told you that damned north tower was crooked,” Montford said through a chuckle.
She lifted her head, and her eyes flashed with heat. “Shut up, Cyril. This is all your faul—”
He stopped her mouth with a kiss before she could say one more ridiculous thing. Somewhere in the background he heard Lady Emily gasp, the vicar sputter, and Marlowe and Sherbrook whistle, but he was beyond caring. He was not going to let the virago in his arms get away from him so easily, now that he’d made up his mind to keep her.
He’d never know another moment’s peace without her. He’d never know a moment’s peace with her, either, but he longed for the delicious, madcap tangles she plunged him into. The arguments – God, the arguments were thrilling, arousing! He even longed for her to throw things at him. And the very sight of her made his blood sizzle and his body burn. She was so very wrong, what with her corkscrew hair and mismatched eyes and convoluted scheming, but she was utterly perfect to him.
And as he came up for air and gazed dazedly around him at the small throng of onlookers who’d turned their focus from the imploding castle to his rather bold display of passion, he caught sight of Lady Emily’s vacant barouche and had a brilliant idea.
A way to bind this woman to him forever. And as quickly as possible before she could come to her senses.
He took advantage of her kiss-induced disorientation, bent down, heaved her over his shoulder, and made for the barouche.
Chapter Twenty Seven
IN WHICH THE DUKE AND MISS HONEYWELL NEGOTIATE A TRUCE
IT TOOK Astrid a moment to figure out what had happened to her after being kissed into incoherency and then unceremoniously thrown over a hard shoulder. A tumult of emotions bombarded her, what with her entire life in literal ruins, but foremost among them at the moment was indignation. She’d had enough of the Duke’s high-handed behavior.
“Put me down this instant, you beast!” she roared, balling her fists and thumping them against his back. She squirmed on his shoulder, but he only tightened his hold with one arm then thwacked her on the backside with the other.
The thwack left her at sea. It infuriated her, but at the same time she felt warm all over. Dear heavens. He’d spanked her like a child, and she had been…
Aroused.
“How … how dare you…” she sputtered, a bit less emphatically than before. “Let me down.”
“Not on your life,” Montford said next to her hip.
“Beast! Churl!” she snarled.
When she realized his destination was Lady Emily’s empty barouche, her stomach sank. What the hell was he about? She lifted her head and glared at the crowd who gawked at them yet made no move to intercede. Even Lady Emily seemed too shocked to raise the hue and cry.
Truly, it was distressing to have so many obliging accomplices to her kidnapping.
“Help!” she cried. “You must help me!”
“Ignore her,” Montford said tersely. “Miss Honeywell and I have matters to attend to. We shall return in … well, a fortnight or so.”
A fortnight?
He climbed inside and hauled her onto the front seat before she had time to properly digest his last statement. She guffawed with indignation when he began to bind her wrists with his soot-stained cravat. Of all the high-handed, unmitigated gall! Tying her up like some piece of livestock! As if she could go anywhere. If she tried to run away, she had a feeling the unsympathetic onlookers gathered outside would simply thrust her back into Montford’s keeping.
He glowered at her, took her trussed hands and secured the ends of the cravat to the driver’s seat. This hindered her movement even more, but she still managed to kick him in the shin. He wrangled with her for a few more seconds, as she was determined to cause him as much bother as possible. Finally, he took her feet and sat on them so she could do no more damage, then took up the reins and flicked the team of horses forward.
And still no one made a damned move to stop him.
“Good luck, Your Grace!” Flora called, beaming at them, one arm wrapped around Roddy, her other arm hugging Ant and Art close.
Mr. Sherbrook and the Viscount just smirked at each other and gave Montford a jaunty salute of approval.
As they put the castle and all of its chaos behind them and once again set off along the North Road, she turned to glare at her kidnapper, who handled the reins of the barouche like the rank amateur he was. He clearly had as little grip on the proceedings as she did. All of Montford’s legendary composure was gone, stripped away, revealing the man beneath. And that man was a dangerous beast in need of a good shave and a good meal, judging from the wild, hungry look in his eyes.
That, or he was in need of some other sustenance only she could provide.
Oh, he looked like the very devil, with his glinting silver eyes and grim-set jaw.
Or at least, he would if he hadn’t been covered in hay.
“Well, that was bang out of order,” she muttered. She wriggled her torso in an attempt to rearrange her top, which had twisted during her kidnapping. But it was hard to do with her hands tied.
His eyes followed her every movement, she noticed with some satisfaction, when they weren’t focused on the road. But his intent, predatory gaze made her satisfaction melt away into the sudden inferno of lust. She tried to keep her head. She tried to resist the lure of those eyes, the promise of pleasure hidden within those depths. “What do you plan to do with me now?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m abducting you. To Gretna Green.”
Well, it was about bloody time! Her heart sang with joy at his threat.
But she would settle for nothing less than all of him. It was the only way she could see being married to the Duke of Bloody Montford. She needed some leverage, and his heart seemed like a good place to start.
And, damn and blast it all, she so ver
y much wanted him to love her as much as she loved him.
“You cannot be serious!” she said haughtily.
“Oh, but I am. Very. Serious. You’re not leaving this carriage until I get what I want.”
She laughed. “Then I’ll stay here forever. And make you very sorry for it.”
He turned from the road and grinned broadly at her. And it wasn’t in the least mocking. She was very worried and very, very aroused. He’d smiled like that on one other occasion. Right before he had chased her up the hayloft.
“Oh, I doubt that, Miss Honeywell. I could never be sorry for that.”
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
She gasped out loud as he leaned in closer to her face. There were stray bits of hay, she noted, caught in his eyelashes. She leaned in towards him involuntarily. If she could just flick out her tongue…
“I said,” his lips said, not an inch from her mouth, “I should not be sorry if you stayed here forever. Tied up in the barouche. In fact, it would please me very much.”
She sucked in a shocked breath, just for show. A little tremor of pleasure shot through her spine. “You’d never get away with it.”
His grin deepened. “Won’t I? It seems I already have.”
“You’re cracked in the head, Montford,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut to distract herself from his eyelashes. And lips. Damn, he was making it very difficult to think straight. “It really was not well done of you to kidnap me. There is much to sort out about the castle. Not to mention running Lightfoot to ground. And Aunt Emily will dine out on this tale for years, the old goat. You’ve ruined my reputation, you know.”
“I know.” He grinned. “I may have finally succeeded in ruining mine as well.”
“Piffle. You’re Montford, remember?”
He smiled again, that predatory smile that made her burst into flames. “Thank you for reminding me.”
“As if you could ever forget,” she grumbled.
“Oh, but I do. Every time I think of you. Every time I touch you.” He brought his free arm behind her back and pressed her against his hard chest, nuzzling into her neck.
The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy) Page 40