The Duke's Holiday (16 page)

He sighed and rubbed his sore neck. What the blazes was he
doing? “My name. My given name, that is. It’s Cyril.”

She looked at him as if he were a lunatic. “Oh.”

“But no one calls me that.”

“Really?”

“I hate it. Hate all my names. People just call me by my
title.”

Now she looked faintly amused, which was irritating. He was
going for gratitude, or a show of understanding on her part, not amusement. But
he supposed it was better than tears. He expelled a breath and resumed walking.
“Just forget it.”

“Cyril.”

“Don’t call me that. I told you because of your roan, and I
don’t know why, but I thought it would help.”

He felt a hand covering his own, stopping him. He looked
down and saw Miss Honeywell’s dirty, snotty fingers covering his palm, and for
a moment he could not breathe from the wall of heat that bombarded him. He
dared to look at her and saw she was staring up at him, her eyes glossy with
unshed tears, a tremulous smile hovering on her rosy lips.

His heart stopped beating.

“Thank you, Montford. It did help.”

There was the gratitude he was aiming for. But beneath that
gratitude and those shining tears lurked a layer of mischief that made him
quite apprehensive. As if she knew precisely the value of the weapon he had
given her in his weakness. Namely his given name, and the fact that he hated
it.

She
would
use
these facts against him, the strumpet.

But for the moment, he was safe.

No, not safe, because he was drowning in her eyes. Drowning
in
her
, bit by bit. She touched his
hand – his hand! – and he wanted to sink into her flesh, wrap
himself in her limbs, kiss away her tears.

“Miss Honeywell,” he began. “I think I hit my head harder
than I thought.”

“I think so too. You are looking quite odd.”

And thus they resumed their walk back to the castle.

IN WHICH THE
CURSE OF THE BLACK CRINOLINE CASTS A PALL OVER RYLESTONE HALL

ASTRID
WAS concerned by the Duke’s strange manner in the lane. Although he appeared to
be uninjured by the tumble he’d taken, he had a nasty cut above one eye that
continued to bleed despite her attempts to staunch it, and kept looking at her
in a peculiar manner that made her alternate from hot to cold and back again.

Then
he’d begun
babbling about his name. Or names. He seemed to have a lot of them, and he
didn’t seem to like any of them. Except for his title.

As Astrid couldn’t imagine him as a Cyril, she had to agree
with him. He was Montford. Less a real person than a title.

Though at the moment, he was looking all too human, covered
in blood and rumpled beyond repair, his face pale and his eyes slightly
discombobulated. She felt sorry for him, and a little apprehensive about his
brainbox. It had taken quite a coshing. The last thing she needed at this
juncture was a concussed Duke staggering about and attempting to be nice to
her.

Which was what he had been attempting when he’d told her
his name. Cyril. He’d been trying to make her feel better in his own lame way.
And she was surprised to find that he had succeeded. She did feel better after
his admission. Not because he had told her his name, but rather because he had
been so sheepish about it. He clearly thought his name was ridiculous, and he
had regretted telling her almost immediately. She had found this endearing.

Poor fellow. It
was
a rather ridiculous name.

She was fully prepared to throw it back in his face at some
point, but at the moment, she was in sympathy with him. He’d been amazingly
understanding about the whole shooting incident, and she didn’t want to push
her luck. Besides which, she was embarrassed to have displayed such grief in
his presence. He’d seen her cry not once, not twice, but thrice in the space of
two days, and probably thought she was a ninnyhammer.

But she had good cause on all three occasions. Just
thinking about her poor Cyril, lying broken and bleeding in that ditch, made
her tear up.

Who could have done such a thing?

She was not lying when she had told the Duke none of her
people would have shot him. But she had her enemies. And everyone knew that if
anything happened to Montford while he was visiting, she would be blamed.

There was only one person she could think of who had it in
him to arrange such a dastardly plot. But how could Mr. Lightfoot even know of
the Duke’s surprise visit? And how could murdering the Duke further that man’s
own designs? He didn’t want her swinging from a hangman’s noose, did he?

No, she thought grimly. He wanted her under his thumb or
worse.

They reached the stables and handed Princess Buttercup off
to Mick. When she related the news of Cyril’s fate, Mick’s face went pale, and
he crossed himself. He was a Roman Catholic, and quite religious, and Cyril had
been his special charge.

They had made it across the yard and into the gardens, when
a flurry of black crinoline caught her eye through the hedgerows.

Astrid reacted on instinct, knowing exactly what was
attached to the crinoline. She tugged Montford’s arm towards a row of rose
bushes.

“Where are we going?” he demanded.

“Shhh!” she said, crouching down, signaling for him to do
the same.

He was having none of it, and stood above her, hands on his
hips. “Miss Honeywell, what is going on?” he intoned.

“I am attempting to save your neck,” she muttered.

But it was too late. They were discovered.

A tall, robust woman appeared at the entrance to their
hiding place, dressed in an elaborately ruched and gusseted black crinoline
gown a decade out of fashion. Her neck was encircled in an ornate gold necklace
set with rubies, and her gray hair was topped by a silk turban. She was
handsome and middle-aged, with dark blue eyes that were never anything but
vexed.

They were very vexed now.

In her considerable wake followed Alice, who was looking
distraught, and a young woman dressed to the nines in pink silk taffeta with a
dizzying array of bows and flounces. Astrid thought uncharitably that the gown
was a very unbecoming color and made her cousin Davina’s pale skin look sallow.
The profusion of bows and flounces were just downright absurd and did nothing
to ease the girl’s haughty, pinched features. Davina was only slightly less dreadful
than Lady Emily.

She knew exactly why this pair had deigned to call on them,
and the reason was standing stiffly at her side. Astrid sighed and rose to her
feet to greet her Aunt Emily and Cousin Davina, but before a word could escape
her lips, her aunt began to talk. And talk.

“Astrid! What in heavens’ name are you doing, skulking
about the roses? You look a disgrace. As usual. Stand up straight, gel.” Aunt
Emily lifted her lorgnette and peered at Astrid and Montford with a mighty
frown. “My son has just informed me that you’ve been
racing
in the lanes again. Disgraceful, disgraceful. And that some
ill had befallen you. But you seem to be in one piece.” She didn’t look
relieved at this discovery. In fact, she looked extremely disappointed. “Racing
like a common ruffian! If your mother was alive … and now to find you thusly,
crouching in the gardens with this … this …
swain
…” She indicated the Duke with a dismissive cut of her bejeweled hand. “It is
just like you to have no regard for your reputation.” She paused, raised her
lorgnette again, and peered at the Duke’s shirtfront. “Good God, is that
blood?”

“It is…” Astrid began.

Aunt Emily raised her hand dramatically to her brow. “This
is beyond the pale. Cavorting in the roses with this … this
person
in such a state. And with a Duke
under your roof. Have you no sense of propriety? What must he think of us all?
I swear, you shall be the death of me.” She fixed the Duke with a look of icy
contempt. “Now off with you now, young man, and repair yourself. I shall
overlook this …
contretemps
this
time, since I am sure it is not your fault she has led you to such a pass.”

“Madam,” the Duke began in a chilling tone that could not
bode well.

“Dare you speak to me, sirrah!” Aunt Emily gasped, all
astonishment at his audacity, as she seemed to be under the impression the Duke
was a servant.

She could feel the Duke turning to stone at her side.

Astrid exchanged looks with Alice, who had clasped her hand
over her mouth to hide her smile. This was not going to be pleasant for her
aunt, and Astrid planned on enjoying every minute of it. She stepped aside a
few paces to allow herself a better view of the proceedings.

Even rumpled and bloody, the Duke was a sight to behold in
his ire. His silver eyes glinted with fire, his perfect features set in stone. “Dare
you
speak to me, madam?” he said in a
deceptively cool voice. “May I have your name?”

“Of all the…” her Aunt spluttered.

“Your name, madam,” the Duke interrupted. He turned to
Astrid. “Miss Honeywell, who is this person?”

Astrid hated to enter such an amusing scene, but it
appeared she had no choice. “This is my aunt, Lady Emily Benwick, and her
daughter, Miss Davina.” She indicated the vision in pink scowling in her
direction. She turned to her aunt. “Aunt, may I present His Grace, the Duke of
Montford.”

Aunt Emily’s face went white beneath her paint. Her haughty
features screwed up first in disbelief, then with alarm when the truth finally
hit her. Her lorgnette fell out of her hands and hit the earth. Miss Davina had
a similar reaction, but not being in the possession of her mother’s backbone,
she swayed on her feet and looked seconds away from a full-fledged swoon.

Alice coughed into her hand. Astrid didn’t bother to hide
her smile of satisfaction.

Aunt Emily recovered herself and proceeded to grace His
Grace with a curtsy that would have rivaled any at court. She tugged on her
daughter’s arm, and Miss Davina was forced to do the same. The hems of their
gowns, Astrid thought uncharitably, would be quite ruined in the mud.

“Your Grace, it is an honor. Indeed…”

Montford looked at Astrid and rolled his eyes.

It was apparent Aunt Emily and Davina weren’t going to rise
without a direct order. But it was equally apparent that Montford was not going
to give one.

So they remained squatting low to the earth, with Montford
glowering above them. Astrid had not witnessed such a pleasing spectacle since
Montford had fallen in the mud two days before, and she didn’t feel the least
bit of pity for her relatives. They were horrible people, and she was quite
happy to see them grovel.

“Miss Honeywell,” the Duke intoned. “It appears you have callers.
Don’t let me detain you.”

He gave her a stiff bow and strode off, leaving Astrid and
Alice to pull their relations out of the ground.

“YOU
COULD have had the sense, gel, to tell me who that man was before you let me
make such a dreadful
faux pas
,” Aunt
Emily said to her, applying the smelling salts to her daughter’s nose.

Astrid and Alice had managed to help the baroness and
daughter to their feet and lead them into the parlor, where Miss Davina
promptly fainted, quite elegantly, against the divan. Astrid wanted to tell her
cousin that the Duke was no longer present to witness such a charming display
of feminine sensibility, but she bit her tongue and ordered tea to be brought
around while her aunt attempted to revive her daughter.

“But I suppose that would be too much to ask of you,” Aunt
Emily continued, scowling at her niece. “No doubt you enjoyed seeing me
humiliated.”

I reveled in it
,
she wanted to retort, but she held her tongue and attempted to look contrite.

“It is surely a reasonable mistake to have made,” Alice
interjected, ever the peacemaker between the two women. “He was covered in
blood and looked a fright.”

“Indeed,” Aunt Emily inclined her head, somewhat mollified.

“I believe it was the Duke who took a tumble today,” Alice
continued. She looked at Astrid with some concern. “He is uninjured?”

“Yes, but Cyril was not so lucky. He’s dead.”

“Cyril? Who is Cyril?” demanded the baroness.

Astrid sighed and clenched her fists in her lap. “The horse
His Grace was riding.”

“I’m so sorry, Astrid,” Alice cried.

Astrid nodded and looked at her hands, willing her mind
away from the afternoon’s tragic turn. She could not think of her horse right
now, or she would cry in front of her aunt, something she’d vowed never to do.

“It was the
Duke
who was racing you in the lanes?” Aunt Emily cut in. “What folly have you led
the poor man into, gel? I should have known you’d have no respect for his
station. Racing indeed! Lucky for you it was only his mount who suffered the
consequences of your impetuous display.”

Astrid gritted her teeth. She found anger an amazing remedy
for her sorrows.

Aunt Emily had fallen out of patience with her daughter,
who still refused to be roused. She shook her by the shoulder. “Pull yourself
together, Davina, and sit up. There’s no one here to appreciate your
theatrics.”

Davina sat up and arranged her skirts fussily. She stared
daggers at Astrid through narrowed eyes. Astrid, quite used to her cousin’s
petty jealousies, arched an eyebrow.

“It was a good thing I learned from my staff of the Duke’s
arrival,” Aunt Emily continued, after Flora had come in with the tea. Flora
rolled her eyes behind the baroness’ back as she departed, which raised
Astrid’s spirits considerably. “Someone must be here to show His Grace that not
everyone in the county is without manners or sense.”

“I am sure that is what you meant to show him in the
garden,” Astrid could not help but mutter.

“What did you say, gel? Speak up. Don’t mumble like a
half-wit.”

“I said, it was very kind of you, Aunt, to think of such a
thing,” she lied.

The door to the parlor cracked open, and Astrid saw Aunt
Anabel poke her head into the room. When she spied their callers, however, she
shut the door without entering.

Astrid couldn’t blame her.

Aunt Emily waved away Alice and began to pour the tea for
them all, not bothering to ask how they liked it. In Aunt Emily’s world,
everyone liked their tea precisely how Aunt Emily said they liked it.
Sugarless, and swimming in cream.

 
“You will
invite me and Davina to dinner tonight,” Aunt Emily said some minutes later. It
was an order, not a suggestion.

Astrid gripped her teacup until she was certain it would
shatter. “I had not thought to host a formal dinner tonight, aunt,” she ground
out.

“Nonsense. Of course you will. And I have taken it upon
myself to invite the vicar. To round out the numbers.”

“How kind of you, Aunt Emily,” Alice said with a remarkable
dearth of sarcasm. “You have thought of everything.”

“You shall instruct your kitchens to prepare game hen for
the main course. I shall send Monsieur Roualt over later to oversee the
preparations. I’ll not have the Duke of Montford believe that we are incapable of
decent cuisine in Yorkshire,” Aunt Emily continued.

“We wouldn’t want that,” Astrid murmured.

“And you shall sit the Duke next to my Davina,” Aunt Emily
intoned, patting her daughter’s hand. “She’s had a Season, and knows just the
sort of conversation to please His Grace.”

Davina bowed her head demurely, though her face looked
smug.

Astrid felt a surge of rage towards her aunt and cousin.
She knew exactly what they were up to. It couldn’t have been clearer had they
shouted it from the rooftops. Aunt Emily meant to put Davina into the Duke’s
path. As if her cousin stood a chance of garnering that man’s regard! Why, he
couldn’t be expected to locate Davina’s face amid all of those ruffles. And as
for her brain, her cousin didn’t have one.