“This is a damned nightmare!” Montford roared, pointing at the broken carriage. “How am I supposed to stand another day in this godforsaken place?”
“Reckon you’ll survive,” Newcomb muttered.
Montford glared hard at his driver. Newcomb shrugged and stared at the ceiling.
Why did Montford have the feeling Newcomb knew more than he was telling?
“Damn and blast!” he exploded, turning on his heel and stalking outside. “I’m going to the village. I’m going to find a damned mount and get the hell out of this damned bloody backwater today, if it damn well kills me!”
Newcomb fell into step beside him. “Let’s hope it won’t come to that, sir,” he said, too cheerily for Montford’s liking.
THE SKY was clear, the air crisp but not uncomfortably chilly for October, the fall foliage vibrant hued and at its peak, a pleasing, picturesque backdrop for today’s revelries. Sunday was usually a day of reverence, but not when the annual Harvest Festival arrived. Only the highest sticklers – few and far between in Rylestone, thank God – eschewed the festivities.
The vicar himself was not among this pious vanguard, however. His sermons on the day of the festival were always the liveliest and most stutter-free sermons he delivered all year. And under the pretense of shepherding his flock, he joined in the day’s events with enthusiasm every year, and every year, this enthusiasm culminated in a noticeably wobbly retreat to the vicarage, often aided by one or two favored parishioners.
Farmers and businessmen from all around the district had driven into the village in the early morning hours to set up their stalls, where all manner of food and sundries could be bought. Honeywell Ale, donated to the Festival, flowed freely from the personal tankards of Rylestone’s citizenry, both men and women.
Owing to the carnival atmosphere, the normal laws governing conduct between men and women were loosened, leading to many public embraces and not a few kisses stolen behind the paltry cover of a tree or building. Many marriages were hastily contracted in the weeks that followed the harvest festival, many more babies in the village born nine months to the day afterwards. It was somewhat of a badge of honor to bear a festival baby.
Spirits were high, as they always were, and only one or two troublemakers cast a temporary pall over an otherwise merry day. There were not many bad seeds in Rylestone Green.
And the worst seed of all had thankfully departed for London.
Astrid was relieved that when she went back to the castle he would no longer be there. She truly was.
But she was in no mood to celebrate. In fact, she felt rather depressed.
Not to mention rather … distracted. Her mind kept drifting back to The Encounter, as she had dubbed it in her mind, and every time it did, her body became all tingly, her stomach fluttered, and her cheeks burned. Had he kissed her? She didn’t even known what to call what the Duke had done to her mouth. It had been obscene. It had been meltingly wonderful. He’d awoken parts of her body – parts of her soul – she’d not known existed.
She would never forgive him for making her feel so … so…
Ruined.
He had stuck his hand down her bodice, and she had let him. She had craved his touch, and she had wanted more, even as her mind protested. If he hadn’t been able to unbutton her gown, if he hadn’t broken their kiss and come to his senses, she didn’t know if she would have had the wherewithal to stop him. He’d turned her wits to mush, her body into a raging inferno.
Why? Why had he done it? To humiliate her? To punish her with some primitive display of male dominance?
She would never know now, and it did not matter. She’d never see him again. Or if she did, she would make sure she was not alone with him. They seemed to bring out the worst in each other.
And, she reminded herself bitterly, she’d be married by then.
All three of her prospective grooms were at the Festival. She’d seen Mr. Lightfoot lurking in the crowd and had promptly hidden herself behind a stall to avoid him. She would not be marrying him, that was for certain. As for her cousin – well, that too was out of the question.
Which left the vicar.
She studied Mr. Fawkes from the other side of the green as he attempted to order a meat pie from one of the vendors. As Mr. Fawkes was no good with his m’s or his p’s, the vendor had plucked up a pie, wrapped it in wax paper, handed it over, taken his money, and given him change, before he could finish his request.
Astrid liked the vicar. Astrid liked the fact that she would have no problem wrapping him around her little finger. But she could not marry the poor man. It would just be cruel.
She sighed. London it would be.
Alice seemed amenable to the scheme, which wasn’t surprising. Sir Wesley was never going to get around to noticing her, and if she couldn’t have him, then a Season away from him had sounded like music to her ears. It was Wesley’s loss if he was an idiot, and Alice had always wanted a Season. To her mind, the Duke had been more than generous. He had given them everything they ever wanted. Dowries, the Hall, the chance to catch a husband in London. She hadn’t seen why Astrid was so upset, as this was what Astrid had ostensibly been working so hard to provide for her sisters to begin with.
But to Astrid’s mind, the Duke had taken away everything. He had reduced her to what she had worked so hard to deny: an unmarried, dependent, powerless female. Now Astrid knew how Napoleon must have felt when he was exiled to Elba. Sick to his stomach and bristling with indignation.
Well, she’d find a way to escape, just like Napoleon had. She’d go to bloody London and find some poor doddering old thing to shackle herself to. The older the better. He’d likely die during the wedding reception, and she would own the castle and lands outright as a widow. The Duke couldn’t do anything about it if she married an octogenerian who’d kick off within a few months.
Bastard.
And she was not giving up her managerial duties quite yet. Tomorrow was one of her favorite days of the year, when all of the brewery’s employees rode out in different directions to deliver the seasonal supply of ale to cities and towns across the country. She was not going to give up her customary spot on the cart to Hawes, come hell or high water.
She determined to make this clear as she crossed through the crowd to reach Charlie Weeks’ side. He was talking to Hiram in front of a keg, the two men deep into a pint of ale. Charlie blanched when he saw her approach, which doubtless meant that news had already spread of her fall from the throne.
She sniffed in Hiram’s direction as he doffed his hat to her. “I’m not talking to you, turncoat,” she said stiffly.
“Well, now, ain’t that a surprise,” Hiram answered wryly.
She turned to Charlie and pointed her finger at his chest. “Don’t think I’m not coming to Hawes with you tomorrow, Charlie Weeks.” She swung the finger at Hiram. “And don’t think you can stop me. I’m going, and you can all hang if you don’t like it.”
Hiram held up his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, lass, easy. I weren’t gonna stop ye, for cryin’ oot loud.”
“Well, good!” she sniffed. “Because I’m going.” She turned back to Charlie. “First light?”
Charlie, still rather pale, nodded. “As always, Miss Astrid. I have the cart made up and ready to go already.”
“Fine.” Astrid crossed her arms and settled her glare on Hiram.
Charlie, sensing the discord in the air, made his excuses and left them.
Hiram cocked an eyebrow and pulled his pipe out of his pocket. “Ach, dunna look at me like that, lass. I done wot best for the lot of yer.”
“How is that, I wonder?”
“Himself were beyond fair, all considering. Yer sisters are well set, an ye won’t be caught in yer aunt’s web of hatefulness. He be givin ye the castle, an that’s more’n we ever thought ye’d see.”
“If I marry, Hiram.”
“Aye an wot so wrong with tha’, pray tell? It’s aboot time yer settled in an had
a passel of wee bairns.”
“I thought you knew me better, Hiram.”
Hiram’s brow furrowed. “Wot, ye doan want bairns? Ye doan want a family of yer own? Or a man to warm yer bed?”
Astrid was stung by his harsh tone and didn’t know how to answer him. Did she want a family of her own? How would she know, since she had enough trouble dealing with the one she already had? “I’ve never thought about it. I’ve been too busy.”
“Well, now yer not. Now ye have time to think on it. Now ye have the priviledge for figurin out what ye want. Not what yer sisters want, or the workers want, or yer auntie wants, but what ye want.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “I’d never thought of it like that, I suppose …” she began cautiously.
“Well, mebbe ye should. I’m sure ye’ll be thinking a lot in Lunnun. It’s a whole nother world there ye’ve yet to see.”
“I won’t like it,” she said stubbornly.
He puffed on his pipe and shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll see, woan we?”
With a harrumph, she stalked off. A few paces later, she stopped and turned back. “You’re a traitor, Hiram McConnell. And I’ll never forgive you.”
“Mayhap. Mayhap not,” he said, grinning broadly and saluting her with both his tankard and his pipe.
She harrumphed again and turned to continue her dramatic leavetaking, nearly colliding with an innocent bystander who had the audacity to crowd her path. She looked up to apologize – or snarl – at the person in question. Instead she bit back an oath.
It was Sir Wesley, staring down at her with clear concern. “There you are, Astrid. We must talk.”
She rolled her eyes and waved away the arm he’d extended. She turned and stalked in another direction, but he fell into step beside her.
“I wanted to apologize about last night. I don’t know what came over me,” he said.
“I believe I can say the same,” she muttered, thinking not of Wesley but of a silver-eyed scoundrel who’d ruined her life – and her lips. They were still quite tender from his abuse. The thought filled her with a shameful heat.
“I just thought it was the right thing to do,” Wesley continued, kicking a pebble with his boot. “It seemed the only thing … but it wasn’t right, was it?”
She stopped at the distress in his voice, taking pity on her cousin. She turned to him and decided to do everyone a favor and set him straight. God knew someone needed to do so.
He stopped too and stared down sheepishly at his boots. “I just wanted to help. I’ve always just wanted to help. You know I like you, Astrid. I like all of you … better than my own family.” He admitted this last bit without the slightest twinge of guilt.
“I imagine you do, Wesley, but I can’t marry you.”
He grimaced.
“For one, we do not suit. I would run roughshod over you, and you know it. And I have no patience for your … hobbies. Steam engines? In boats? Really, Wesley. No, I love you, but as a dear friend. Just as you love me. As a dear friend.”
He scratched his head. “Suppose you’re right.”
“And for another, I hate your mother.”
He didn’t look the least surprised.
“She’s horrible, and I hate her, and am not one bit ashamed to admit it.”
“She ain’t so fond of you either.”
“And for another,” she continued, taking a deep breath, and hoping she was doing the right thing, “Alice would never forgive me.”
His head snapped up. His brow creased in confusion. “What?”
“I said, Alice would never forgive me. She’d likely stab me in my sleep if I married you.”
He looked affronted and hurt. “Why’d she want to do a thing like that? I ain’t so bad she’d not think me good enough for your husband.”
Astrid sighed wearily. “Wesley, you really are an idiot. She’d kill me because she’s in love with you, you dolt.”
Wesley’s eyes grew wide. His jaw attempted to drop off his face. “What?”
“Alice is in love with you. She’s been in love with you since she was – oh, about four years old, and you threw your pudding over her head in the nursery.”
Wesley’s face turned scarlet. “You can’t mean it … really … Alice? In love with me?”
“And you’re in love with her. Which was why you dumped your pudding on her in the first place.”
“Alice? Alice? No, it ain’t possible. She can’t … I mean, I never dreamed she’d … But I thought I’d … And I’m not…”
Astrid wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him into a complete thought.
He seemed to gather his wits enough to give her a level stare. “I never thought she’d give me the time of day, Astrid. I never thought I was good enough for someone like her.” It took several beats for him to realize what he’d implied about Astrid, and the color in his face deepened until it was nearly purple. “Not that you aren’t every bit as…”
Astrid snorted to silence his dimwitted apology. “I know what you mean. Alice is … Alice.”
“Alice is … she’s an angel. She can’t love me!” he insisted.
They both turned to study the object of their conversation, who was currently conversing with several earnest-faced young men. Alice was looking particularly lovely in her sky-blue day gown and rust-colored pellise, her cheeks rosy from the nip in the air. She laughed, and the sound of it carried over in the wind like a birdsong.
Wesley sighed at Astrid’s side.
“Nonsense, Wesley, if I say she loves you, she loves you. You’re an idiot for not noticing. And she’s an idiot for not making her affection clear to you, though God knows it’s quite clear to everyone else in the district!”
Wesley didn’t seem to hear her any longer, his attention settled firmly on Alice. “God, Astrid, how can I even speak to her now!” he moaned, looking miserable and full of longing.
Astrid’s spate of benevolence was over. Now she was feeling distinctly irritated. What had she done? “You’d best figure out how soon before she’s out of hearing range. I understand London is quite some distance from Rylestone.”
He looked sick. “London! But she can’t go to London…”
“You might tell her that,” Astrid suggested, pushing him in the direction of her sister.
He stumbled forward as if he’d forgotten how to walk.
Really, this was ridiculous. She took him by the arm and tugged him towards Alice. He went quite reluctantly for someone so violently in love.
“Look who I’ve found,” Astrid said, brushing aside the young men crowding Alice. “Wesley’s been looking everywhere for you. I believe he wants to say something.”
Wesley’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.
Astrid decided her job was at an end. She glared at her sister, with whom she was still quite angry, and said, “You may thank me later. I think.”
Alice was confused, but Astrid did not wait around to clarify her statements. She stalked off. She was doing quite a bit of stalking today. And as the clock in the chapel tower finally tolled out the noon hour, she thought it was high time she enjoyed a bit of the free ale on tap. Even ladies were permitted a sip or two on festival days.
Astrid planned on sneaking several pints.
She was surreptitiously filling a mug to the brim from a tap located at a discreet distance from prying eyes, glad for a few moments alone, when she heard someone approach from behind. She looked over her shoulder and cursed under her breath.
Lightfoot. Looking particularly oily and toadish, his dark eyes filled with a strange light, and his face – unpleasant to begin with – painted with an unmistakable leer. She looked involuntarily to her right and left and cursed again. She certainly didn’t want to be alone now, with Mr Lightfoot, but she was. And she felt … uncomfortable. She’d never liked him, never liked the way he looked at her. It made her shiver, and not in a good way.
“Miss Honeywell, how lovely to see you.”
She incli
ned her head and attempted to move past him. He didn’t exactly trap her where she was, but he made it impossible to get around him without some part of her touching him. And she most certainly did not want to touch him.
“I have heard you’ve had a houseguest,” he said conversationally.
“The Duke has been and gone. He’ll not be here today, if you were hinting to be introduced.”
Something unpleasant flashed across his eyes, but he smiled at her, revealing a set of small, uneven teeth that reminded her of Petunia’s. “I have also heard that he has … come to some understanding with you regarding the estate.”
“That, I’m sure, is none of your concern.”
“But I am most concerned. I am always concerned for you, my dear. For instance, I was most concerned when I heard about the Duke’s little … accident yesterday. If he had been injured, then I … and I hate to be unpleasantly blunt … I feared that you might be implicated.”
Astrid stiffened and clutched her mug before her, certain that her wild suspicion the day before had not been so wild after all.
“It would be terribly inconvenient for you if something were to happen to the Duke of Montford.”
“Nothing happened. Nothing is going to happen, as he’s left for London.”
“The road can be so dangerous this time of year. Brigands everywhere, storing up for the winter.”
Astrid did not tremble. She would not give this toad the satisfaction of betraying such an emotion. But she was afraid. Very afraid. And she was afraid of no one, not even Montford. Unless he was kissing her, of course.
But she wouldn’t think of that right now. She needed to focus on making an escape from her current companion. Before, Lightfoot had been an annoyance, but now he was something else entirely. She’d never trusted him. She’d never trusted that strange light in his eyes. “You did it,” she stated, meeting his glance steadily.
He smiled. “Did what?” He sounded innocent, too innocent, and she knew in that moment beyond a doubt he’d arranged for the shooting yesterday. Rage consumed her. “You killed my horse.”
“That was truly an accident. I’m sure the shooter only meant to make a point.”
The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy) Page 22
