She tended to insult in a very direct manner.
Seeing him interact with her relations, she finally saw how very formidable he could be. In three counties that she knew of, no one dared to cross her Aunt Emily. Though only a baroness, she was the daughter of a very powerful Earl and never let anyone forget it. But she was no match for Montford. He couldn’t give a jot what Lady Emily thought of him, as his manner made abundantly clear. He knew – and Lady Emily knew – that he was so far above her and everyone else at the table he might as well have been sitting on a cloud staring down at them all. In all of England, he was said to wield even more clout than the Prince Regent himself.
It must be very useful to be Montford, having most everyone, even the likes of Lady Emily, currying his favor. And it must be most vexing to encounter people like Astrid herself, who didn’t give a toss about his rank. No wonder his trip to Rylestone had undone him so, as no one deferred to him.
Still, he had his own peculiarities. She’d never seen someone so particular about his toilette, and she’d seen Aunt Anabel’s snuffbox collection and suspected he was behind its rearrangement. And with every course that came out, she watched him arrange his food on the plate so that none of the items touched – no small feat. He even made the servant drizzle the sauce for the game hen, normally poured over the bird, into a puddle on one side of his dish.
He must have sensed her scrutiny, because he turned to her, looking rather defensive, as if he knew precisely how odd his plate looked. “Is there something amiss, Miss Honeywell?”
She tore her gaze away from his plate and cut into her hen, which was swimming in sauce. She took a lusty bite and smiled at him. He frowned disapprovingly but watched as she devoured the rest of her bird, as if fascinated by it.
The downside to having the Duke deflect her Aunt was that Lady Emily turned her attention to Astrid and proceeded to vent all of her frustrations by pointing out everything that was wrong with Astrid, Astrid’s sisters, Astrid’s behavior, the castle, the estate, and anything untoward that could be laid at Astrid’s feet.
Astrid nodded at intervals and pushed the food around on her plate, having lost her appetite as soon as her aunt started in. She was quite used to such litanies and knew it was best not to try and defend herself. That never ended well with her aunt. She did not think anyone would appreciate a screaming contest over dessert, and she had promised herself to be on her best behavior for Alice’s sake. The dinner was already dismal enough anyway.
Once, she caught the Duke staring at her, and it was as if she could read his thoughts behind his droll expression. What, he seemed to say, are you not going to fight back?
By the pudding, Aunt Emily arrived at the subject of Astrid’s riding habits, which was a particularly sore one given today’s events.
“I heard it from Mrs. Regina Thurgood, who heard it from Mrs. Bourke that certain of my cousins have been seen riding through Rylestone astride,” Aunt Emily said with severe disapproval.
At the end of this announcement, one of the servants – very loyal to Astrid – plopped Aunt Emily’s portion of syllabub – dyed an improbable red color – in front of her with a thud. The gelatinous substance leaned towards the lady’s bosom, nearly touching it, then wobbled in the opposite direction, as if distancing itself from an unpleasant association.
“Indeed, ma’am?” Astrid said smoothly. “And did Mrs. Bourke see this cousin of yours with or without the use of her spectacles?” Not that it mattered. Mrs. Bourke was blind as a bat even with her spectacles.
Aunt Emily narrowed her gaze. “Irresponsible behavior like that reflects poorly upon the whole family. How am I to explain to my friends and the many people who look to me for guidance the reason for such behavior? I call you eccentric and remind them of my dear sister’s premature death. But how am I to continue to defend you, niece, when you persist in such misguided acts? It is a good thing we have so little truly good society in the district, or your reputation would most surely be unsalvageable.”
“Yet I thought you said just this afternoon how blessed we were with a surplus of truly good society in the district,” Astrid replied sweetly.
“Don’t presume to tell me what I have said. I said nothing of the sort.”
“Then we have no good society in the district?”
“Don’t be difficult, Astrid.”
Astrid stabbed her spoon into her dessert and watched it slither in half.
“If your mother were alive…”
Astrid rolled her eyes.
“… she’d never let you go tearing across the countryside in such a manner.”
“Ah, but she’s not.”
“Driven to an early grave by that man.”
Astrid stiffened at the allusion.
“My father, god rest his soul, was right to cut her off when she defied his dictates and married so very beneath her station,” Aunt Emily murmured.
That does it, Astrid thought grimly, letting her spoon clatter rudely against her plate. It was one thing for Lady Emily to malign her, but to malign her parents was quite another. Aunt Emily had gone beyond all bounds of propriety by airing the family’s dirty laundry over dinner anyway, and so Astrid felt not the least bothered by loosening her tongue and answering her aunt in kind.
“My father was a gentleman, and of a family far older than the Earl of Carlisle,” she retorted.
Someone choked across the table at the mention of the Earl. Astrid looked up and saw the Duke coughing into his napkin, a look of astonishment plainly writ upon his face.
She dismissed him – what was his problem? – and turned back to her aunt.
“’Twas only after the Restoration that the earldom was even created. I believe the first Earl was a favorite haberdasher to the King.”
Lady Emily turned as red as her dessert.
Astrid turned to the Duke and smiled. “Charles the Second was fond of hats.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ah, indeed.”
“Do not insult your ancestors, gel.”
“As your family has chosen not to acknowledge us – excepting, of course, for you, Aunt – I don’t very well see how they are my ancestors. And is it an insult merely to recount history?”
“Insolence. Forwardness. It is no wonder you shall never find a husband.”
“But I don’t want a husband, aunt.”
“Nonsense. Everyone wants a husband.”
“I don’t,” Robert murmured at her side.
Astrid burst out laughing. It was either that or scream.
Aunt Emily glared at her youngest son, then glared at Astrid. “And what of your sisters? What’s to become of them?”
Alice sank in her seat.
“That is a good question, my lady,” the Duke cut in drolly. “What indeed is to become of the Misses Honeywells?”
Lady Emily inclined her head towards the Duke in gracious acknowledgment.
“It is a shame, madam,” continued the Duke, “that these poor orphaned creatures had no sympathetic relations willing to do their Christian duty and see them properly settled. The granddaughters of so esteemed a peer as the Earl of Carlisle should have taken their place in society, do you not think?”
Lady Emily’s eyes narrowed as she realized the Duke’s subtle criticism.
Astrid’s eyes narrowed as well. Just what was Montford about now?
The Duke, who had not deigned to touch his syllabub, sat back in his chair and settled a glacial gaze on Lady Emily. “Tell me, Lady Emily, when Miss Honeywell and her sister came of age, should they not have been brought out? Isn’t that what one does with females of a certain breeding? I profess myself most ignorant in such matters, as I have no family of my own.”
“In most cases, that would be the course of things,” Aunt Emily replied carefully.
“You were perhaps not in a position to offer such assistance?”
Lady Emily pursed her lips.
Aunt Anabel, who had fallen into a doze in her dessert, brought her h
ead up. Her wig was noticeably embellished with a dollop of syllabub. “I told her, put the gels up on the auction block, see if there’s any takers. Sure to be some young buck who’d come up to scratch for our Alice. When I was a young thing, gadding about Versailles, I seen the Queen herself, but she hadn’t a patch on our Alice’s beauty. I told her –” This punctuated by a shake of her wig in Aunt Emily’s direction – “one Season, down in our capitol, for each of my girls, as she well had the blunt for it.”
Alice blushed and sank even lower in her seat. Lady Emily looked as if she wanted to do the same.
“Thank you, Miss Honeywell,” the Duke said. “You have been most enlightening, as usual.”
Aunt Anabel nodded, and so did her wig. She drifted off once more.
“Since Rylestone Hall has come into my possession, so, it seems, do the Misses Honeywells,” the Duke continued.
“What?” Astrid burst out.
“What?” cried Aunt Emily.
“I am your cousin, Miss Honeywell, or shall we have another recounting of history?” he said grimly. “My great-great-great aunt wed your great-great grandfather, or something of that sort, is this not so? That makes you quite possibly my nearest relation. Aside, of course, from my odious second cousin Rupert, who seems to think he’s my heir. But that’s neither here nor there. We’re talking about you and your future.”
“Are we?” she ground out.
The Duke smiled mildly. “It is clear you and your sisters have been sadly neglected. With no other relations willing to do their duty by you, it falls onto my shoulders to see that you take your place in society. Mr. McConnell was most eager to point this out to me earlier tonight.”
“Hiram!” Astrid half-rose from her seat.
“He seems to think it would behoove all parties involved if you were to be given a Season.”
“A Season?” Astrid cried, incredulous.
“A Season!” Aunt Emily and Davina burst out, equally incredulous.
Alice looked dumbfounded, and Sir Wesley and the vicar looked as if they might burst into tears. Only Sir Robert, Aunt Anabel and the twins seemed entirely immune to the pronouncement.
The Duke’s smile was brittle. His eyes glinted with self-congratulation. “As I have no sisters or cousins to chaperone you, I have taken it upon myself to write to a good friend of mine, the Countess of Brinderley, and ask that she accommodate you during your stay in London. She is quite the best ton, and shall find you husbands.”
“Husbands!” Astrid cried.
“The Countess of Brinderley!” Aunt Emily and Davina cried.
The Duke turned towards the pair. “Do you know the Countess?”
“We have … heard of her,” Aunt Emily said in a choked voice.
“Then you shall agree there is no better patroness in London.”
“Indeed.” Lady Emily looked as if she might choke on her jealousy.
The Duke turned his attention to Sir Wesley, whose head kept snapping between Astrid, the Duke, and Alice in confusion. “And you, Mr. Honeywell, have you any objections to turning your sisters over into my keeping? You must be as anxious to see them off your hands as I am.”
Wesley sputtered his response.
“Mr. Honeywell? Sisters?” Lady Emily barked. “Benwick, why is he calling you Mr. Honeywell? What deviltry is going on here?”
“I … I couldn’t say, moth – Lady Emily – er, mother. That is … I can say, with all honesty, that I’ve quite lost the thread of the proceedings,” Wesley finished resignedly.
“Of course you have,” the Duke said indulgently. He turned to Lady Emily. “Thank you, madam, for providing me with such a detailed accounting of your niece’s wayward behavior. I was undecided, before I sat down at this table, whether to pursue my course of action. But you have made it so abundantly clear how dire the situation is. I thank you for making up my mind.”
“Yes, well …” Lady Emily trailed off, clearly defeated.
He threw down his napkin and rose.
Everyone at the table was obliged to do the same, except for Aunt Anabel, who was still asleep in her pudding. “Commend me to your chef, madam. Now that it is all settled, I think I shall have that glass of port, Mr. Honeywell.”
“Certainly,” Wesley blustered.
Lady Emily knew when she had been dismissed. With a sniff, she turned and walked stiffly out of the dining room, followed by Davina. Alice trailed behind reluctantly, throwing a despairing glance at Astrid.
Astrid remained where she was, eyes locked with the Duke. He seemed as determined as she not to break the stare.
His lips slowly lifted at the edges. He was well-pleased with himself, having managed to simultaneously slay two dragons this evening. He had routed Aunt Emily, but he had trampled Astrid in the process.
She did not feel at all guilty when she took a spoonful of her syllabub and flicked it across the table at him. It landed with a plop against his cravat.
His smile only deepened as the viscous substance slithered down his waistcoat.
She hadn’t needed Ant and Art after all. She turned to her younger siblings, who were looking quite confused at having to leave their puddings – which they had combined together to form a bulbous-looking figure of a man – and bid them to accompany her to the drawing room.
They left Aunt Anabel to her own fate.
AN HOUR later, Astrid found herself blessedly alone in the drawing room. She poured herself a sherry and sat back in her seat. She found no enjoyment in the liquor, only a slight easing of tension in her muscles after a very trying day.
Aunt Emily had left the castle in high dudgeon after dinner, Davina huffing along at her side, the vicar stuttering apologies at everyone, as if he had ruined the evening. Astrid had been spared having to endure sitting with them in the drawing room, which was a small mercy, but she knew that one day her aunt would make her pay for tonight’s insults. It was not a comforting thought.
However, at present, her Lady Aunt was the least of her problems. The Duke had been quite serious over dinner, of that she hadn’t a doubt, yet she still couldn’t quite believe her ears. A Season!
She would have rather gone to the gaol.
What the devil could he mean by sponsoring a Season for them?
Well, perhaps in Alice’s case, it was welcome news. It was what Alice had always wanted, acquiring a little Town Bronze, as they called it. As the Duke had implied, Lady Emily had been too hateful and greedy to ever give them a come-out. Astrid had never minded for herself, but she had always thought it had not been well done of her aunt to slight Alice when she had come of age. Astrid knew that this was partly on account of Alice’s beauty, of which her aunt and cousin were jealous. Davina showed to disadvantage next to her cousin.
Anyone showed to disadvantage next to Alice.
Astrid was not against the idea of sending Alice to London, if it was what her sister wanted. But as for herself, it was out of the question. She was six and twenty. She was unattractive, sharp-tongued, and firmly set against matrimony. If the Duke thought he was going to make her leave Rylestone, he had quite another thing coming. He’d have to physically subdue her. Which meant he’d have to catch her first, hog-tie her for transport to London, and put a gun to her head, before she’d agree to step foot in a London drawing room.
She was not going to do it, and it was as simple as that.
But as she sipped her sherry, tentacles of dread worked up her spine. No amount of alcohol was going to banish them, for the fact of the matter was the Duke held all of the cards, and he knew it. There were other ways of hog-tying a person other than with rope. There were subtler means of exerting his will. He could snap his fingers and have the whole Yorkshire constabulary – minus Hiram, of course – descend upon Rylestone to arrest her, for one.
She sighed and leaned her head wearily against the chair back.
She’d known it was always going to end in defeat. She only wished she’d had just a little more time.
“Astrid! There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. We must talk!”
Astrid lifted her head and wearily surveyed the intruder. Sir Wesley, flushed, rumpled, and agitated. Astrid barely contained a groan.
“Was His Grace serious about taking you and Alice to London?” he demanded.
“It seems so.”
Wesley looked astonished, vexed. “When were you going to tell me?”
“I did not know there was anything to tell until tonight.”
Astrid rose and went to refill her empty glass. Two sherries were bordering on indecent, but she felt she required extra fortification.
Wesley paced in front of her, pulling at his hair. “But this is ridiculous! Utterly mad!”
“Isn’t it?” she asked between deep gulps.
“You have no need for a Season, nor Alice.”
Astrid grunted her agreement and decided to top off her glass one more time before returning to her seat.
“If the Duke wants you wed so much, then we’ll just have to push up the date of our nuptials.”
Astrid choked on her drink so badly it went up and out of her nose. She glanced at Wesley in shock. “Excuse me?”
“Our wedding,” he said as if she were daft. “We’ll just have to do it sooner rather than later.”
“Wesley, I never agreed to marry you.”
Wesley brushed aside this fact with a wave of his hand. “Of course you’re going to marry me, Astrid. We’ve been practically betrothed since the cradle.”
“I was unaware of this betrothal.”
Wesley looked at her beseechingly. He grabbed her hand. “Come now, we’ve always known we would wed. I never pressed it before in the past, because I knew you weren’t ready, and there was my mother…”
“Wesley …”
“But now the Duke has come and threatened such an … absurd … proposition as to send you to London, I can see no solution but our marriage. It is logical, and it is prudent.”
Astrid could see neither logic nor prudence in the plan. She loved her cousin, but she would not marry him. No one would benefit from such an arrangement.
The Duke's Holiday Page 19
