The Duke's Holiday (The Regency Romp Trilogy)

by Maggie Fenton

  He reached out and undid the work she’d just accomplished, his hand brushing over her breasts, drawing a response from her body that was alarming. She was embarrassed how much she wanted him again. Already. She could not be natural. This could not be natural.

  She turned on her side. He turned her back to him and climbed on top of her. He kissed her, his rough beard scraping her cheeks. The weight of his body pressed her into the hay, which chafed and itched at her backside. She was only distantly aware of it any more, because he was touching her again and doing things to her body she was sure were illegal.

  She willed herself not to throw herself into the wild fever that had gripped her last time. She averted her head so that his kiss landed on her ear. “I think we must stop,” she said.

  He didn’t seem to hear her. He set about making love to her ear.

  “Cyril!” she hissed, reluctantly pushing him away.

  “I told you, don’t call me that,” he murmured, tweaking one of her breasts with his fingers.

  She yelped in shock and renewed desire. Damn. He was good. “Get off me, you oaf,” she cried, punching his shoulder.

  He sat back on his heels and glared at her.

  She blushed at the sight she must present, sprawled out before him, tangled in her mangled clothes. She felt like a mound of quivering jelly, all bulges and odd angles. She picked a piece of hay out of her mouth and tried to shift her hips for some semblance of modesty. Though it was rather too late for that, she supposed.

  He held her legs in place, his glare fading, his molten glance pouring over her body, lingering on the one place she would have rather he didn’t see at the moment. He seemed to be fascinated by it, and it was titillating and mortifying all at once. What was so fascinating? Her hair was red. He’d complained about it often enough to leave no doubt that he knew its color. Did he expect it to be different on the rest of her? Blue, perhaps, or striped?

  She glanced down at his lap, though she probably should have restrained herself. His breeches were halfway down his hips, and his … his Male Part was as exposed as she was. It was bigger than she would have thought, and at the moment, it seemed quite eager to further their acquaintance. A bubble of pure heat sparked in her belly, and a shiver of apprehension went through her. She didn’t see how he had fit the first time. She was certain he would not fit again.

  His hand splayed over her stomach, and his expression softened, as if he had read her mind. A flush stained his cheeks, the bridge of his nose. He rose on his knees and pulled his breeches up, fastening them, a look of extreme discomfort flickering over his features.

  To her embarrassment, he helped her legs back into her trousers and pulled them up her body. She swatted his hands away and buttoned them herself. She kicked him away and sat up, pulling her shirt around her. She was shivering. He reached out to her, but she shied away, climbing onto unsteady feet. He watched her tuck in her shirt and attempt to tame her hair behind her ears.

  “Oh, stop gawking at me,” she snapped. She wanted no tenderness. She crouched down, retrieved his shirt and waistcoat, and hurled them at his head.

  He stood up, swaying slightly as if drunk, and began to dress in silence. She resisted the urge to go to him and pick the hay out of his disheveled hair. Instead, she slumped back down into the hay and buried her face in her hands. She was aware of him moving about, of him kneeling down next to her. He gathered a clump of her fallen hair in his hands and held on to it.

  Her heart was breaking. “I’ll not be your whore,” she bit out.

  “No,” he agreed.

  “This cannot happen again. This is utter madness.”

  “No.” The fierceness of his voice sent fire through her loins and rage and despair through her heart. She had no idea what he meant, but she recognized that tone. She should jump to the ground floor. She should do anything but let him take her again.

  Which was what he intended, despite having taken the trouble to have dressed. He gathered her up in his arms and kissed her until her head swam, and before she knew it, she was in the hay again, tumbling about with him, tugging at his clothes. She was mad. Completely cracked in the head to give in to her desires.

  He clutched at her breasts and nuzzled her neck, groaning, kicking her legs apart. He ground his hips against hers, and she gasped and pulled him closer. He was so warm and hard and big and overwhelming. He could make her do anything, and the realization was terrifying. It was unfair that she should love him yet he feel no more than this animal need for her.

  And she did love him. Stupid child that he was.

  She would have ripped off his clothes again when she became aware of footsteps beneath them and voices raised in alarm. Montford lifted his head from her breast in a daze when he heard his name being called.

  He rolled off of her with utter reluctance and began straightening his clothes.

  “Your Grace! Where are you?”

  It was his driver, Newcomb.

  Montford groaned, crawled over to the edge of the loft, and peered down. “What the devil do you want?”

  “Is Miss Honeywell with you?” the man inquired in a harried voice.

  “No,” Montford replied, affronted.

  Astrid wanted to vanish into the hay in mortification.

  “You sure, Your Grace? For it would be better if she were! Not that I’ll notice if she is, mind!”

  “What are you blathering on about!” Montford demanded.

  “If she ain’t with you, then she might be in the castle!”

  “Yes, that’s where she is,” Montford said quickly.

  “Then we’re in a heap of shite, because the castle is on fire!”

  Astrid leapt to her feet. “What?” she cried, coming to the edge, modesty bedamned.

  Newcomb had the good manners to avert his eyes. “The castle’s up in flames! Don’t tell me you’ve not noticed!”

  Astrid ran to the nearest window and looked out, her pulse leaping, her stomach sinking. A chaotic horde of people milled about the yard and gardens staring helplessly up at the flames and smoke that leapt out of every available opening in the old structure.

  Montford came up behind her. “Hell and the devil!” he muttered. “What next?”

  Chapter Twenty Six

  IN WHICH ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE. AGAIN.

  SEBASTIAN SHERBROOK rounded the edge of the castle, his eyes burning with the cinders floating through the air, his lungs clogged with smoke. He found Marlowe, grimly puffing his cheroot and bellowing out orders to a line of servants throwing buckets of water from the stable well through the windows of the castle, to little effect. If the pile of rocks could be saved, Marlowe would find a way. Though the chances were slim from where Sebastian stood. The castle was an inferno.

  Sebastian had been slightly tipsy before the incident with the pig. Now he was stone sober, and his skin was prickling with dread. He couldn’t find Montford, and he feared his friend was trapped inside. Sebastian did not know what he’d do without the old bugger. Montford meant as much to him as Marlowe. He’d be lost without him.

  He was growing sentimental, which was a very bad sign.

  The two urchins who had unleashed the pig on them came running around the corner, nearly knocking him from his feet. Their strange garments and faces were blackened with ash, making their terrified eyes look enormous. Marlowe moved quickly to intercept them, grabbing their robes and giving them his sternest stare. The Viscount had two hellions of his own and knew how to handle them. “You two pests stay put.”

  “We can’t find our sister!” one of them sobbed. Tears streaked the ash on their faces.

  Marlowe patted their heads. “Don’t worry. She’ll be found.” He glanced at Sebastian, his expression belying his encouraging words.

  Sebastian shook his head. He’d seen no sign of Miss Honeywell either.

  Or Lady Katherine, for that matter. But he’d not become hysterical over her.

  He glanced around him. Araminta was over by an old crumblin
g stone wall, awkwardly comforting the old lady in the ancient dress, her wig now nowhere in sight. He started over to them. “Where is your sister?” he demanded of Araminta.

  The girl lifted a trembling hand and pointed towards the castle.

  His heart sank as he followed her gesture. Lady Katherine was still inside? He broke into a cold sweat, and his nails dug into his palms. He told himself he’d feel the same for anyone stupid enough to get caught in a burning building.

  But then he spotted her tall, elegant form among a cluster of farm hands. Her sleeves were rolled up her slender arms, and dark splotches of soot covered her dress. She hauled a bucket across the yard and passed it off to one of the men. Then she brushed her fallen, gossamer hair off her face and marched towards one of the castle doors.

  His relief was shortlived. What in hell’s name did she think she was doing?

  He rushed across the yard, and without thinking he grabbed her by the arm. He hated touching people, but he only remembered this after she’d turned to him, her fine, emerald eyes wide, a slash of ash running down the length of her arrogant patrician nose.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, translating his wild thoughts verbatim. “Do you want to get yourself killed?”

  Her serene face betrayed nothing but slight surprise, but he could see the flare of fire flash through her eyes. He felt a measure of gratification in ruffling her feathers, however slightly. “No. But the pig is still inside. You locked him in the kitchen. I thought I might …” She trailed off and looked away from him, her mouth tightening. “I thought I might save him.”

  “You’re going to risk your life for a pig! I should be amused if it weren’t so damnably stupid!”

  Her back stiffened. When she gathered herself to her full height, she was not but an inch or two below him, which was most off-putting for a female. She stared at him contemptuously. “It is not stupid to feel compassion, Mr. Sherbrook. Even for a … a pig.”

  This was the most absurd argument he’d ever had. He just gaped at her.

  She sniffed and swished her skirts, moving around him, heading towards the kitchens once more.

  He stepped in front of her. “You shall do it only to vex me!”

  She stared beyond him. “I assure you I do not regard you enough one way or another to wish to vex you.”

  Ouch. That would have hurt if he regarded her one way or another. But he didn’t. She meant nothing to him, other than as a fellow human bent on an idiotic folly.

  “Nor do you have any authority over me, so I suggest you move aside,” she added. She had her chin lifted haughtily, a stubborn gleam in her eyes. She met his gaze nearly at eye level, refusing to back down. She attempted to move around him, but he stepped in front of her. She moved the other way, and he moved with her.

  “You’ll not do it,” he said.

  She clenched her hands into fists. “It is the principle of the thing.”

  “I hate it when people start speaking of principles. It is ever so tiresome,” he drawled.

  Her shoulders stiffened even more. He watched a mote of ash land on a strand of hair falling down her neck, black on white. He itched to reach out and brush the ash away. But he did not. He dared not.

  “It is a living creature. It does not deserve to suffer any more than we do,” she said softly.

  “Everything living suffers, and most things die suffering. In pain or hunger or outrage.”

  She looked back at him, a mixture of frustration and something that looked very much like pity in her eyes. He hated her even more for it. “Do you really believe that?” she asked.

  He rolled his eyes. “Of course. And if you do not, you’re naïve. There is nothing pleasant about death, and rarely anything pleasant about living. But that is a digression. The pig was probably destined for slaughter soon enough. Perhaps we’ll find him later, nice and smoked and juicy, ready for a feast.”

  “You are despicable.” She paused. “I want that pig for a pet, not for the table.”

  “You can’t have a creature like that for a pet.”

  “I can, and I will,” she averred with steel in her tone.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” he said, throwing up his hands. She was not going to give this up. “I’ll go,” he said, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. He lowered his hand and spun around. “Stubborn woman,” he grumbled, stalking towards the kitchen door, which was smoking out of the top and bottom.

  He’d not have her dying on him over a pig. He didn’t like her – how could he like a woman who threw in her lot with a man like his uncle? – but he was not entirely a scoundrel. His honor as a gentleman forbade him from letting her perform suttee like some Hindu fanatic – and all over a pig. Though he’d not been honorable or a gentleman in any useful way for years. And he probably wouldn’t be for much longer, considering the flames shooting out of the upper storeys above him.

  But he had no real fear of death. He would prefer it not be entirely painful, of course – being burned alive was not the way he would have chosen to go – but if it had to be now, then that would be fine by him. He would be sorry to distress Marlowe and Montford, for those two were the only ones besides his valet who’d miss him, but they’d understand. He’d never expected to last this long anyway. None of them had.

  Besides, there would be a certain ironic humor in having died during the rescue of a male pig named Petunia. He hoped the tale was inscribed on his tombstone.

  LADY KATHERINE had never truly intended to go after the pig. She’d considered it for a split second before throwing out the idea as nonsensical folly, but then Sebastian Sherbrook had intercepted her, bullied her, and so provoked her to anger it would have taken an entire regiment aiming muskets at her head before she would have backed down. She had realized about halfway through their argument that at the end of it she’d be marching into a burning castle and nearly kicked herself for digging in her heels in the pursuit of winning an argument with Mr. Sherbrook, of all people. The rogue was certainly not worth it.

  But before she could say another word, he was stalking towards the castle himself. He didn’t even hesitate as he slammed in the door with his long leg and charged inside, which showed a worrying disregard for his own person.

  She bit her bottom lip and watched the door that he had entered, her worry turning to full-fledged panic as the minutes passed and he did not emerge. He couldn’t die, because she would blame herself for the rest of her life, and that would be most unfair of him.

  “Where the devil is Sebastian?” the Viscount demanded, loping up to her side in his strange attire, bedraggled and drenched, a damp cheroot hanging from his mouth. She’d not expected Marlowe, of all people, to have organized the servants and raised the alarum. It was most heroic of him, if a bit useless. The castle was so clearly lost.

  “He went inside.” She pointed towards the kitchen door, which had fallen off its hinges.

  The Viscount threw his cheroot down to the ground, his face paling. “What?”

  “He’s gone inside to fetch the pig.”

  “The devil you say!”

  She winced. Marlowe started forward, then stopped. His face creased in anguish as he turned back to her. “What have you done? You put him up to it, didn’t you?”

  She squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I did no such thing. He rushed off, before I could stop him.” It was not entirely the truth, but it was close enough.

  “You’ve no idea what you’ve done! He has no regard for himself. He’ll walk straight into the flames, if you let him.”

  “Surely not!” she scoffed, rather startled by the fierceness of his tone.

  “He is not right!” Marlowe cried. He pointed to his brain box as if to illustrate his point.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  Marlowe looked as if he wanted to shake her or worse, but with a jerk, he turned away from her, growling like a bear, and started towards the kitchen door. She followed after
him, truly panicking now. Even Marlowe, the most feckless man in England, was concerned over Sherbrook’s lack of judgment. That was not a good sign.

  They both stopped in their tracks as the doorway in front of them collapsed, flames leaping from the fog of smoke and dust. Marlowe cried out. So did she. She’d killed The Singlemost Beautiful Man in London! Her heart sank to her toes, and moisture burned her eyes.

  But then a now familiar sound captured her attention behind her: the high-pitched squeal of a pig throwing a tantrum. She turned with Marlowe to find Mr. Sherbrook sprinting through the garden, leaping over a wall in order to evade the pig, which barreled after him, intent on murder. He was coated in ash from top to toe, coughing into his handkerchief, the only splash of color left to him his piercing blue eyes. They gleamed like jewels in their new ebony setting.

  He waved to them and flashed a grin in their direction, his teeth blinding white. “Got your damned pig. Hope you’re happy.”

  She heard Marlowe sigh in relief. “Bloody damn fool,” he muttered, fumbling inside his robe for his cheroot tin. He extracted one from the tin, went over to the collapsed doorway, and lit it in the smoldering embers, grumbling to himself.

  Katherine had to go and take a seat next to her sister, her nerves shot.

  But the drama was far from over. She spotted Astrid Honeywell running towards them in her scandalous trousers, her shirt gaping open at the top. Her fiery hair was speckled with hay and streaming down her shoulders. She looked, in short, as if she had been rolling in a haystack.

  Katherine had thought it only a metaphor – surely the chit hadn’t truly been rolling around in a haystack – but then she saw the Duke of Montford trailing behind her. He was missing his jacket, and the ends of his lawn shirt were tucked out of his breeches. His waistcoat had been buttoned up unevenly, and his hair was standing up on end. He was also covered in hay.