The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy)

by Maggie Fenton

  Then his shoulders sagged. Something softened in his face, and he sighed. He brought a hand up and raked his fingers through his wet hair, causing it to stand on end.

  He looked ridiculous. And utterly enticing.

  The heat rose inside of her again, knocking her off balance once more. She climbed to her feet and turned away from him. She heard him moving through the water and climbing onto the bank.

  “Don’t turn around,” he said.

  “Of course I’m not going to turn around,” she said, irritated and confused and itching to do just that.

  Clothes rustled, he grumbled underneath his breath. Something thudded in the soft earth.

  “Are you decent?” she asked with impatience.

  He snorted. “I’m clothed, if that’s what you’re asking,” he retorted.

  She spun around. He was sitting on the riverbank in his trousers and torn lawn shirt, snapping his stockings against his knee. They were stiff with dirt and dried blood. She stared down at his bare feet, and her breath hitched. The soles were covered in a mass of angry, raw gashes and blisters.

  Without thinking, she rushed to his side and dropped down beside him, lifting his foot into her lap.

  He drew back from her as if stung and glared at her.

  “You look like you’ve been walking on glass, Montford,” she scolded.

  He tugged on one stocking with a jerk, wincing. “Not glass. Rocks. Twigs. God knows what else.”

  “Oh, yes, the race.”

  He jerked on his other stocking and reached for a boot. “Never mind it. It’s my own fault. There’s nothing to do but endure. How do you feel?”

  “Sore. Hungry.”

  He grunted and tugged on his boot, not meeting her eye. “Well, you’re not puffed up any more, at least. Just purple.”

  Her pride was a bit stung. Clearly, he was disgusted by her appearance. She pursed her lips and tried to think of a stinging retort.

  He continued before she could. “And I have no clue as to how to feed you. Unless you know how to catch animals with your bare hands. I confess I haven’t the skill.”

  “We could boil your boot. I’ve heard Hessians are a delicacy in some parts of the country.”

  He stared at her as if she’d gone mad, then burst into laughter. Great side-splitting guffaws that shook his entire body. He lay back clutching his stomach, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

  She chuckled, more from the sight of him so out of control than her own joke. When he didn’t stop for some time, she grew worried. “It wasn’t that funny,” she chided.

  “It is,” he insisted. “I’d eat it too, I’m so damnably hungry. But we don’t even have a pot. Or fire. We can’t even cook a boot.”

  Her lips twitched.

  “And we’re lost. We’re likely to eat each other.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” She held out the coat she’d found.

  He sat up and eyed the article with distaste.

  “I thought you might be cold.”

  He snatched it from her hands and thrust his arms through the sleeves. He attempted to button it, but it was too small for his broad chest. The sleeves didn’t reach his wrists, and the whole garment was riddled with holes coming apart at the crude seams. He looked like an overstuffed scarecrow.

  She laughed as hard as he had, and he glared at her, but without any real malice. “You look ridiculous!”

  He picked up his other boot and shoved it up his leg. “At least I’m warm and ridiculous.”

  “You’d be a lot warmer if you hadn’t jumped into a freezing river. What could you have been thinking?”

  He stood abruptly, his brow darkening, a curious, almost pained expression flitting across his brow. “You don’t want to know.” He held out his hand, and without thinking she took it, and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

  He held onto her hand longer than was strictly necessary and looked as if he were on the verge of speaking.

  Then he let her hand drop and started walking down the riverbank.

  “Come on, let’s try to get out of this jungle,” he said.

  She laughed and followed him.

  By the grace of God, the forest at last gave way to the gentle, undulating pastureland of the dales after a couple of hours trudging on their empty stomachs. Sheep and cows dotted the hillsides, grazing and dozing and entirely uninterested in the two strange humans trudging through their midst. The livestock was a promising sign. The appearance of a crude road bordering a crumbling stone wall was even more promising. They stopped upon reaching it, and Montford gazed up and down the road, batting a family of flies away from his eyes. He looked vexed and exhausted – rather how she felt – and not at all relieved.

  She wondered how he could bear to walk upon his tender feet. He must have been in considerable pain, but he’d yet to complain. Lesser gentlemen would have long since broken under the strain of their circumstances. She could never say that Montford was faint-of-heart, or that he hadn’t behaved heroically. The rescue had been a bit of a muddle, and she’d had to more or less save herself, but he’d tried. And she wouldn’t have been able to escape if he hadn’t been there to carry her. He had saved her life. It would be ungenerous of her not to give him his due.

  But did she like him?

  Yes, she suspected she did, just a little bit. She’d find the devil himself good company afer her experience with Lightfoot.

  Not that Montford was a devil. Far from it. He was a bit of a prude, really. He’d actually blushed when she’d come across him in the river. He was no doubt the sort to drape fig leaves over statuary to preserve their modesty.

  Although when he kissed her…

  But she would not think of that. It seemed a lifetime ago anyway. He’d never kiss her again, after what had happened. Gentlemen did not kiss women who had been foolish enough to get themselves kidnapped and nigh on compromised.

  Or they did, but they never married such women.

  Not that she wanted Montford to marry her.

  Or kiss her.

  She determined which way was south and pointed in that direction, attempting to concentrate on practical matters. “We should go that way.”

  He scowled at her. “I know which way to go.”

  No, she definitely did not want to marry a scowling, snappish Duke.

  His scowl faded when he saw her expression. “I’m just worried. If this road connects with the main highway, we might run into your friend.”

  She was irritated at herself for not thinking of this. For some reason, she’d forgotten all about Lightfoot.

  “Not my friend so much as a lunatic. He’s quite mad, you know.”

  “I think I could guess it.”

  “He shot Charlie.”

  “Yes, I know. I found him, and he told me what had happened.”

  Astrid’s heart soared. “He was alive?” she cried.

  “Yes. In bad shape, but alive when I left him with a doctor in Hawes.”

  Astrid sighed in relief, her burden growing lighter. She’d just assumed Charlie had died. She studied Montford out of the corner of her eye to gauge his mood concerning Charlie. Clearly, Charlie had not spoken of his part in this disaster, and Astrid was relieved. She wasn’t prepared to send Charlie to the gaol, even though he probably deserved it after what he’d done. She had to consider his family. They’d not survive without him.

  She stepped onto the road. “We’ll just have to hide if we hear someone coming.”

  “Right,” he said, falling into step beside her. They walked for some time without encountering anything more intelligent than a flock of geese crossing the road and a pair of cows napping in the sun.

  It was well past noon when Montford made a strange noise – a cross between a laugh and a gasp of disblief – and suddenly veered off the road and into a stand of trees. He disappeared behind heavy, gnarled branches until all she could hear of him was an occasional rustling of leaves and a snort.

  �
�Montford! What’s the matter? Are you ill?”

  “No!”

  She thought for a minute. “Are you … well, you know … going?”

  “No!” A moment later, he reemerged, pulling on the reins of a skittish horse. “I’m procuring our ride home,” he said, then eyed the ragged beast with resignation. “Such as it is.”

  MONTFORD COULD hardly believe his eyes when he spotted the callow nag that had attempted to drag him to his death the day before casually munching on a patch of grass off of the side of the road. How the horse had arrived in this particular spot, or indeed how they were to manage the recalcitrant beast to their advantage, seemed beside the point. They had a mount – sort of. All was right with the world.

  But then Astrid smiled at him, turned to the horse, and pulled herself onto the saddle.

  Astride.

  He could not help but stare at the long, well-turned leg at eye-level. Only a patch of bare, creamy flesh peeked out the top of her torn stocking, revealing a glimpse of her knee before disappearing beneath the hem of her skirt. But it was one glimpse too much. His stomach bottomed out, and his mouth felt as dry as a desert.

  He lifted his eyes, but that did not help. He took in her glorious bonfire hair, spiraling over her shoulders, down her arms, not stopping until well past her waist. Her face might be bruised. And freckled. And her eyes might be mismatched. And her nose no more than an arrogant snub he wanted to reach out and tweak. She might be utterly, completely hideous, but he’d never seen anything more beautiful or dear to his eyes.

  He was wrecked.

  And in big trouble.

  How was he going to keep his hands off her?

  He wasn’t, because now he was expected to sit behind her on the damned horse.

  “I think I’ll walk.” Though that was the last thing he wanted to do, considering the state of his feet.

  “Now that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said, Cyril, and you’ve said a lot of ridiculous things.”

  His lust was somewhat dampened by her words, thank God. “Don’t call me that!” he growled, putting his foot in the stirrup and hauling himself onto the saddle, his body sliding into place behind her. He was immediately dazed by the scent of her hair.

  “What should I call you then?”

  “I am Montford,” he growled, reminding her of his station – and himself.

  She just sniffed with annoyance.

  He snatched up the reins and spurred the horse down the road, trying to ignore the feel of Astrid Honeywell’s derriere rammed up against his groin, the feel of her back sliding against his chest, and the way her halo of fiery hair itched his nose.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  IN WHICH THE DUKE – AND MISS HONEYWELL – GIVE INTO TEMPTATION

  IT WAS afternoon before they found themselves on the final stretch back to Rylestone Hall. Owing to their empty pockets, they’d not bothered to stop in Hawes, so their bellies were painfully empty still and their patience with their situation and with each other was running out. She could feel the tension of Montford’s body behind her. He didn’t like the fact that she was nestled in his arms, relying upon him to keep her upright. But she was too tired and hungry to care about his fragile emotional state, or the inappropriate intimacy of their bodies.

  He seemed to care enough for the both of them, anyway.

  Good God, one would think she had the plague. It wasn’t her fault he couldn’t seem to keep his hands to himself. As for the fact that she was guilty of lusting after him in return … well, that was a moot point. She may have admired the figure he had cut in the stream. She may have even regretted not being thoroughly compromised by Montford while in Lightfoot’s clutches. But she was free, and such a wild thought had no place in reality. She had managed to escape Lightfoot without losing her virtue. She was not about to let Montford take it, after all the trouble both of them had gone through to preserve it.

  Of course, no one would believe she was not ruined. She was going to have the devil of a time salvaging her reputation – or what was left of it – when she got home. She had no idea what was being said about her in Rylestone Green, but it couldn’t be anything good. She’d been gone for days, and when she turned up in the company of the Duke and no one else, the worst was going to be assumed. He’d saved her from Lightfoot, but he’d not be able to save her from wagging tongues.

  As if he’d care. He’d abandon her to her fate as soon as they reached the castle. It was not as if he was going to make an honest woman of her. She suspected he’d rather eat nails than marry her. Not only that, but he probably thought she wasn’t good enough for his duchess. The Duchess of Montford would be biddable, overbred, pretentious, and utterly boring. She’d never challenge him or go against his dictates. She’d be a decoration for his station, like a wall sconce or a pretty bit of lace trim about a curtain.

  Astrid gagged just imagining it and shifted on the saddle. Her backside had gone numb.

  Montford stiffened and drew in his breath, as if she had startled him. “For pity’s sake, what are you doing?” he hissed, his arms falling from her sides.

  “I’m uncomfortable.”

  “So am I, but you don’t see me shifting about like a … a circus act,” he said, spitting out stray bits of her hair that had blown into his mouth.

  “If you must know,” she bit out, squirming about some more, just to annoy him further, “certain parts of my anatomy have gone to sleep.”

  “I wish I had that problem,” he muttered.

  She spun her head around to glare at him and nearly lost her balance. His arms came around her again, catching her. “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded.

  His jaw was clenched, and he avoided looking at her. “You don’t want to know. Be still, would you?”

  She harrumphed and turned back around. But all of that movement had relieved none of her restlessness and caused her to cramp in her right leg. Sighing, she grasped the pommel in front of her for balance and swung her right leg over to join the other in the hopes to end her agony.

  Montford let out a groan and brushed her hair out of his face. She was now riding sidesaddle, halfway facing him. He ground his teeth, looking completely miserable.

  “Will you stop it?” he breathed. He swatted her hair out of his face again.

  “I had a cramp.”

  She settled her rump more evenly in the saddle so she was no longer sitting on his thighs, but rather between them, her side nestled against his front. He let out a choked sound.

  “There. Is that better?”

  He looked distraught. “No, it’s not better. It’s worse, much worse.”

  “Well, I’m sorry. But you’ll just have to get used to it,” she said, staring straight ahead in haughty dismissal. “’Tis just a few miles to go.”

  He said nothing, although she could feel him breathing heavily against her left ear.

  The wind gusted again, driving her loose hair back into his face. She gathered it up over her right shoulder and attempted to braid it into a simple plait. She froze when she felt something damp and hot against her neck. She felt it again, right behind her ear, and her hands dropped away, goosebumps traveling up her spine.

  “Astrid …” It was Montford. Or rather, Montford’s mouth, kissing her bare neck, the column of her throat, her ear.

  “What are you … oh! Oh!” She strangled on her words as she felt Montford’s tongue trace the outline of her ear, then poke inside it, sending chills down her back and heat into her core. Unconsciously, she arched her neck, exposing more of it to his questing tongue.

  “Couldn’t … bear it … another moment …” he managed to choke out in between licking her throat.

  One of his hands gave up its rein and molded itself against Astrid’s breast, and her body reacted as if set on fire. Every point of contact with his body sizzled. He brought his hand from her breast over her hair, to the side of her jaw, turning her head towards him.

  She stared up at him in disbe
lief. This was an unexpected turn of events, if there ever was one, but she was quite powerless to stop it. He looked pained and as confused as she was. His breathing was shallow, his eyes glazed, his body tense.

  “We are on a horse, Montford,” she said stupidly.

  He didn’t bother to answer. His arm tightened around her, and his mouth closed over hers. He kissed her once, twice, and her body melted against him. She opened her mouth to say something more, but he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging it. His tongue darted inside, tasting her, and he groaned, his hand returning to her breast, squeezing it between his fingers.

  She brought her hand to his face and trailed her fingers over his jaw, down the length of his neck, and over the hard muscles of his chest. She’d forgotten her earlier arguments with herself to avoid temptation. She’d forgotten they were on a horse, though it kept walking forward, oblivious to its passengers. Indeed, she was lucky she remembered her name, but that was only because he kept saying it over and over between his kisses.

  His hand wandered down her side, over the swell of her hip, then around, to the vee between her legs, clutching her there, making her burn. She gasped and nearly came off the saddle with her hips, her head falling back against his shoulder.

  He dropped the other rein, forgetting the horse entirely, and gripped her hand at his chest, bringing it down his front, over the straining muscles of his abdomen, then lower still, to the bulge at the front of his breeches. It was hot and hard and quivering with a life of its own. Astrid’s hand jumped away, but he caught it, brought it back to him, pressing against his solid length, urging it down, then up again.

  He made a choking sound deep in his throat, and put his hot lips against her ear. “Touch me, yes … God!” He gasped as she stroked him through his breeches with a trembling hand. She was mesmerized, frightened, of the power she felt in him. He moved his hips, thrusting himself more fully into her hand.

  She felt his fingers wander up her leg beneath her skirts, over the fabric of her drawers, seeking out her warmth. His fingers found the inside of her thigh, then skirted higher, higher. She cried out as a spark of heat ricocheted through her as he caressed her in a way she’d never imagined possible. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew what he was doing was very wrong, but she could not care at the moment. It felt wickedly delicious.