The Duke's Holiday

by Maggie Fenton

  The drawing room door burst open, and Lady Emily barreled through, her skirts swishing, her furious gaze locking immediately on her prey. She hardly seemed to notice the other occupants of the room.

  “Astrid Honeywell, you’ve a lot of explaining to do. Where have you been? Aiding and abetting your sister’s shameful scheme, no doubt! I demand answers, gel. My son shall not entangle himself with this dreadful family. How dare Alice lead him into such scandal! How dare you let your sister behave so … so disgracefully! And I know you are behind it. Where are they? I demand you produce them.”

  Mr. Sherbrook stepped between Astrid and her Aunt, his expression one of intense disdain. The Viscount had risen from his seat to join his friend, looking as if he were spoiling for a fight. It appeared they were coming to Astrid’s rescue, as unlikely as that seemed. She wasn’t sure if she wanted them to.

  Lady Emily blinked between the men, then glanced at the Marchioness and her sister. She was noticeably taken aback.

  “Madam, I ask you to rethink your manner with Miss Honeywell,” Sherbrook said in a silky voice underlaid with iron. “You are causing a most disagreeable scene.”

  Lady Emily’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “And who are you?”

  Mr. Sherbrook grinned and gave her a leg. His smile was an utterly frightening sight to behold. He looked as beautiful and as wicked as Lucifer. “Sebastian Sherbrook, at your service.”

  Lady Emily’s face paled, her lips pursed. It seemed she knew precisely who Mr. Sherbrook was. Astrid wished that she did as well, if only to know the cause of her aunt’s discomfiture.

  Lady Emily’s eyes flashed daggers at Astrid. “What company you keep! Bringing the devil himself into your household! Have you no sense of decency, gel?”

  “Here, now,” the Viscount interjected, his face red with rage. “Who the hell are you to insult my mate? The bloody Queen?”

  “Last time I checked, we didn’t have a queen, old boy,” Sherbrook said mildly. “But thanks all the same.”

  Aunt Emily turned her rage on the Marchioness, flicking her quizzing glass to her eye. “And who is this? One of these scoundrels’ tarts, I reckon. You have brought the worst libertines in all of England under your roof. Sebastian Sherbrook and … ” she flicked a contemptuous glance at the Viscount. “The wicked Viscount Marlowe! Really, Astrid, you are beyond the pale.”

  She had gone too far. Mr. Sherbrook’s smile was gone, and nothing was left of his easy manner. His beautiful face was thunderous, his body tense. He looked as if he wanted to strike Lady Emily and was only barely restraining himself.

  “Apologize!” he roared, towering over her, nostrils flared.

  “What?” Aunt Emily breathed, indignant and a little frightened by his threatening manner.

  “I said, apologize, madame,” he enunciated in an overloud voice. He thrust a hand towards the Marchioness. “You have insulted the Marchioness of Manwaring. I demand you apologize to her, before I have you horsewhipped.”

  Aunt Emily’s eyes popped out of her head as she stared at the Marchioness.

  “The Marchioness of Manwaring!” she breathed, mortified. “Oh dear, I do apologize. I am most sorry for confusing you with … er …”

  “A prostitute,” Sherbrook supplied in a deadly voice.

  “Yes, er, ever so sorry.” And Lady Emily executed an overzealous curtsy.

  The Marchioness looked down the end of her nose with stiff dignity and did not so much as nod. Her pinkened cheeks betrayed her emotions, but nothing else.

  When Lady Emily came back up, her manner had changed completely. She forgot Astrid entirely and focused a brittle smile upon the Marchioness. “You are Carlisle’s daughter. I am your great aunt, Lady Emily Benwick.”

  The Marchioness was dismayed. Her lips pursed. She glanced towards her sister, who was still standing by the tea service, looking very unhappy.

  “Great aunt!” the Viscount exclaimed. “Egad, it’s bloody family reunion, Sherry, and I’m the only one here who ain’t related,” he said disgustedly. “Need another drink. Top you off?”

  Sherbrook nodded grimly, never taking his blazing eyes off Lady Emily.

  “You have caught us at a most inopportune time,” Lady Emily continued. “I fear I am dreadfully out of sorts at the moment. Family crisis.”

  “I gathered,” the Marchioness said in a dry tone.

  “I must speak to my niece alone,” she said, making a move to snatch Astrid’s arm.

  “Hardly necessary,” Sherbrook interceded, snatching Astrid’s arm back. “You were speaking to her well enough before.”

  Lady Emily gave him a thunderous look. “Astrid, you shall come with me at once.”

  “No she won’t,” Sherbrook said smoothly.

  “Yes, I don’t believe she will,” the Marchioness added.

  Lady Emily huffed, grabbed Astrid’s arm, and jerked her towards the door. The Marchioness reacted swiftly and jerked her back. Astrid felt pulled apart at the seams.

  “What the devil is going on?”

  The voice came from the doorway. The two ladies tugging her arms froze. Astrid, arms stretched out from her sides, turned her head and saw Montford striding into the room. He’d made some effort to repair himself, having washed and changed into his usual regalia, though his cravat was crooked and he had not shaved the scruff off his face. He was staring directly at her, his eyes scanning her person, his expression a mixture of confusion, irritation, and longing.

  Though she might have imagined the latter.

  Lady Araminta spoke for the first time. “Good lord, Montford, is that you?” she drawled, incredulous.

  He glanced away from Astrid to his fiancée. His brow furrowed. He cleared his throat. So did Araminta.

  The Marchioness dropped Astrid’s arm, and so did her aunt. It was an absurd moment to remember proprieties, but curtsies and bows were exchanged all around. Astrid tried not to look at Araminta’s expression, or Montford’s, as he came up to his fiancée and raised her lovely gloved hand to his lips, sketching a kiss.

  Instead, she took the opportunity and backed up until she was safely shielded by Aunt Anabel’s chair, holding on to the top for support. She felt faint and miserable and two clicks away from total collapse.

  “Was I interrupting something?” Montford continued, his gaze flickering to Lady Emily, then to Astrid.

  The Marchioness replied. “This lady seems to have misplaced her son, and she thinks Miss Honeywell has him,” she said flatly. Astrid could not tell if she were amused or irritated by the situation. She wished she could remain so cool.

  Montford looked startled. “What is she talking about, Astrid?” he demanded in an accusatory tone.

  Astrid bristled. Really, he had no right to be angry with her! Or to use her first name in front of all these people as if he’d the right. He didn’t. He never would. “It seems Sir Wesley has absconded with my sister. They have eloped.”

  Lady Emily pulled out her handkerchief and covered her mouth to stifle her cry of dismay. “For heaven’s sake, gel, must you be so blatant?”

  Sherbrook and the Viscount snorted simultaneously.

  “Well, good for her!” Montford stated.

  Lady Emily looked thunderstruck.

  “And good for that idiot son of yours,” he continued, giving Lady Emily his most contemptuous look. “He’ll not be sorry for it. Alice Honeywell is one of the finest females I have ever met.” He glanced towards his friends Sherbrook and Marlowe as if to impart a revelation. “She’s surprisingly lovely.”

  Sherbrook had recovered his good humor. He smiled in Astrid’s direction, as if they shared a joke.

  Which they most certainly did not. Astrid had never felt less like joking in her life. What did Montford mean, surprisingly? What sort of qualification was that to make?

  “He shall most certainly be sorry,” Lady Emily continued. “He has married against my wishes, and his wife shall not be welcome under my roof. She has betrayed me, after all the kin
dnesses I have done to her!”

  Montford, despite his beard and general dishabille, managed to pull off one of his infamous ducal glowers. “We have already established the reach of your kindnesses, madam. And if you are speaking of Benwick Grange’s roof, you are mistaken. It is Sir Wesley’s roof. I shall be sure to remind him when I see him again. I’ll not have that fool installing his wife in the same household as his mother. Alice does not deserve it. Now good day to you.”

  Lady Emily sniffed with indignation and disbelief. She stared around the room at all the unsmiling faces fixed upon her. She turned to Astrid, her eyes widened with entreaty. “You shall not let this man treat me so insolently!”

  Astrid dug her nails into the seat back and smiled bitterly at her aunt. “He does as he pleases, aunt. He’s the Duke of Montford. I’ve no control over him.”

  Her aunt’s eyes narrowed. “That is not what I hear. You’ve been off with him!” She pointed with her handkerchief in Montford’s direction. “Ruining yourself and this family!”

  “I thought Alice had done that,” she retorted, not daring to look up from her hands. Her pulse had begun to race. What had her aunt heard? How much was she simply improvising to bait her? “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Yes, she’s done nothing wrong,” the Marchioness confirmed. “Unless you find my company scandalous? Miss Honeywell has been with us. We have been making a tour of Yorkshire.”

  Astrid had no idea why the Marchioness insisted on interfering, but she was grateful.

  Lady Emily looked confused.

  So did Aunt Anabel. “No she hasn’t,” she said, looking at the Marchioness as if she were mad. “She’s been on holiday with that young man over there. Constantinople, I think.”

  Sherbrook and the Viscount stifled laughter.

  Astrid gritted her teeth, not knowing whether to kill her aunt or kiss her. “Thank you, Aunt Anabel. Yes. We’ve been in Constantinople. Fighting Saracens. We flew there.”

  “Did you?” Aunt Anabel sounded intrigued.

  Astrid couldn’t help but laugh in hysteria. “Oh, yes. In a hot air balloon. They’re all the rage, you know.”

  “This is ridiculous!” Lady Emily cried. She jabbed her handkerchief in Aunt Anabel’s direction. “She’s insane! She belongs in Bedlam!”

  “I most certainly do not,” Aunt Anabel said haughtily, tossing her head, her wig flapping up and down. “I’ve more wit than you, Emily. If I say she were in Constantinople, that’s where she were. And if she says she were in a balloon, then by damn she were in a balloon. I ain’t having you in here spreading vicious gossip about my girls. It’s none of your business, and it never were, you interfering old bag!”

  “Hear hear,” Sherbrook murmured, toasting Aunt Anabel with his port. The Viscount followed suit.

  Astrid stared at Aunt Anabel in utter shock as the old woman hefted her cane and swatted it at Lady Emily, nearly catching her in the stomach.

  Lady Emily gasped and jumped back. “Well, I never …! Of all the gall …!” Lady Emily breathed.

  “I’ll show you gall!” Aunt Anabel muttered, climbing to her feet unsteadily and poking her cane at Lady Emily.

  Astrid came to Aunt Anabel’s side and took her by the arm to keep her from tumbling. “Thank you, Aunt. You have done enough.”

  “Not hardly. She’s still breathing.”

  They were all interrupted by the sound of a loud bang in some distant part of the castle, followed by the piercing scream of a woman. Astrid recognized Flora’s voice, and her heart caught in her throat. The room fell silent, as if expecting to hear more. They didn’t for several moments. An eerie silence descended.

  “What was that?” Aunt Emily finally demanded. “What’s happening now?”

  “I’m not sure,” Astrid murmured.

  The banging noise began again, as if someone were shifting furniture around. Then it seemed to grow closer. With it came the patter of feet and the squeal of two children.

  Ant and Art.

  Oh, hell.

  “What is that?” the Marchioness asked, returning to her sister’s side, taking her hand, as if fortifying themselves for something dreadful.

  “Sounds like a cyclone,” Sherbrook commented, looking intrigued.

  Then Astrid heard another squeal and Flora’s scream, this time nearly right outside the door.

  Astrid glanced at Montford automatically. Their eyes met. “Petunia,” she said.

  Montford’s brow lifted in surprise, then understanding. He did the sensible thing and moved away from the door.

  “Who is Petunia? Is she another sister?” Lady Araminta inquired.

  “No. Petunia is a he, not a she. And he’s a pig,” Montford explained.

  “Oh. What has he done?”

  “No, he’s a pig. A real pig,” Montford insisted.

  This didn’t have time to sink in for Araminta – Astrid thought uncharitably she wasn’t the brightest of creatures – before the door was thrown open, and Ant and Art ran into the room shrieking with a mixture of glee and terror, dressed in their makeshift togas. Petunia followed closely behind, grunting in fury, his hooves slipping across the flagstones, sending his considerable bulk slamming against walls, tables, and chairs, toppling them and anything upon them. And he was completely covered in mud. Wet mud. He left giant brown streaks in his wake, upon the fabric of the couch, the Turkish carpet, and the bottom of an ancient wall hanging.

  Mayhem ensued. Ant and Art flew over the sofa towards the pianoforte, and Petunia followed, knocking the staid Marchioness straight into Sherbrook’s arms, their heads slamming together with a painful thwack. Petunia got caught underneath the pianoforte, panicked, and bucked up with his backside, jangling the frame, squealing at the top of his lungs. Then he exited, catching the elegant, dainty leg of the pianoforte with his hoof. The wood fractured and the pianoforte crashed to the floor, several keys popping off, a discordant, funereal scream of strings reverberating from inside the ruined instrument.

  Sherbrook set the Marchioness on top of the sofa and moved to do the same to Araminta, who was shrieking in horror.

  He was too late. Ant and Art scooted underneath the Viscount’s glass of port, followed by the pig, who snagged the bottom of the snifter with his snout, sending the glass flying through the air, straight for Araminta. Tawny port splashed over her face and bosom. She had no time to do more than spit a few droplets of port out of her mouth before Petunia had trundled by her, slamming his shoulder against her, knocking her on her arse.

  Araminta let out a wail.

  Petunia continued his path of destruction straight in Aunt Emily’s direction. Aunt Emily had no choice but to flee the room, slamming the door behind her, leaving them all at the pig’s mercy.

  “Why, that selfish old bag!” the Viscount roared. “She’s trapped us inside!”

  Montford dodged around Ant and Art to reach Arminta’s side and haul her to her feet.

  “Well, someone do something!” Montford cried, heaving the weeping Araminta onto the couch beside her sister. He turned to Astrid, his silver eyes blazing. “Astrid, do something!”

  “What do you expect me to do?” she snapped.

  “He’s your pig! Your sisters!”

  Astrid clenched her hands at her sides, rage coursing through her veins. Petunia continued to circle the room, laying waste to everything he touched. He brought down a table with two vases. He trampled Aunt Anabel’s snuffbox collection and overturned a brass bucket full of ashes from the fireplace. He then proceeded to wallow in them.

  In the sudden lull, the Viscount – the most unlikely candidate for heroics, in Astrid’s opinion – sprang into action. He caught first Ant, then Art, by the scruffs of their necks, and hauled them off their feet.

  “Caught you, you little brats!”

  Ant and Art stared up at their captor, wild-eyed, their amusement turning to deep wariness. The Viscount was a frightening enough sight for adult eyes. He carried them towards the door, swung it
open with his foot, and deposited them in the hallway.

  Petunia, locating his quarry, sprang from the ashes and bolted towards the door. Ant and Art recovered their squealing and ran down the hall.

  Astrid cringed when she heard something made of glass shatter in the next room.

  “That creature is going to destroy the whole castle,” the Marchioness remarked in a surprisingly steady voice. She patted her sobbing sister on the back absently. If Astrid wasn’t mistaken, a ghost of a smile hovered about the Marchioness’ lips.

  And if Astrid had any sense of humor left, she’d be smiling as well.

  But she didn’t. And she wouldn’t.

  Astrid raised her eyes to Montford. He stared at her angrily, as if this was all her fault.

  She helped Aunt Anabel back to her chair, brushed past the Duke, the Viscount, and Mr. Sherbrook, and came to the ruins of the pianoforte, which was still reverberating with sound. She drew back her foot and kicked the side of it as hard as she could, so hard she was convinced she’d broken a toe. But it was worth it. She felt much better.

  The pianoforte gasped its last, dying breath.

  “I say, what did it ever do to you?” Mr. Sherbrook drawled.

  Astrid snapped. She spun around and faced the rest of the room, dizzy with rage and exhaustion. Tears leaked out of the corner of her eyes. She couldn’t help it. Her attention snapped to Montford, whose anger had faded, an unguarded, tender look taking its place. It was unbearable. “Satisfied?”

  He stepped towards her. “Astrid…”

  “I’m not going to London. I’m not doing a damned thing you say. Show the books to the authorities. Throw me in the gaol. I don’t care. Just get away from me. All of you.”

  “You are overwrought …” Montford said.

  “Of course I’m overwrought, you idiot!” She picked up a fallen snuffbox and hurled it at him. “Go back to London, marry your … your person over there.” She indicated a stunned and indignant Araminta by jabbing her finger towards the sofa. “I’m sure you are quite suited.”

  “No they’re not,” Sherbrook and the Viscount interjected simultaneously.

  She glared at them, daring them to say another word. They fidgeted under her scrutiny.