starched cravat, with a single, giant ruby nestled in its crisp
folds, was whiter than snow. His perfectly manicured hand settled atop the
wall, smooth and unsullied by anything so plebian as manual labor, was adorned
by an enormous gold signet ring on his long index finger, topped by a crest
studded by another gargantuan ruby. The only sign that he was flesh-and-blood
were the dark circles under his eyes and a slight pallor to his complexion,
suggesting a long, difficult journey.
He was ridiculously imposing. Arrogant. As beautiful as an
ice sculpture. And so completely trussed, groomed and buttoned up that Astrid
had the overwhelming desire to run up to him and rip the cravat from his neck.
She’d hated him immediately. Even before he had called her
an insolent chit.
And she knew that he was going to prove a nearly
insurmountable obstacle.
She turned to Alice. “Hide the book,” she said.
Alice, who had never been the sharpest tool in the box when
it came to anything other than her wardrobe, looked perplexed. “What book?”
“The estate book,” she bit out.
Alice’s eyes widened in understanding. “Oh, that book.
Where shall I hide it?”
Astrid sighed. “In the last place the Duke of Montford
would find it, obviously.”
Alice nodded and hurried inside, past a confused-looking
Aunt Anabel, whose wig was sitting slightly askew on her head.
“Astrid,” Ant said uncertainly, pulling at her trousers.
“What are we to do?”
She looked down at her younger sisters. “Why, carry on as
you were, of course.” Then an idea began to form in her head. She smiled at the
pair of ruffians. “In fact, I give you permission to act as naughtily as you
possibly can while our houseguest remains.”
They looked startled for a moment, then understanding
blossomed across their impish faces, and they grinned cunningly. They ran off
into the gardens, whispering to each other, no doubt fomenting something very
naughty indeed.
Astrid nodded to herself. “Right then,” she said,
straightening her shirt. “Into the fray.”
If the Duke survived the night, he would be a very lucky
man indeed.
Or more formidable than the combined forces of the
Honeywells. And no one was more
formidable than that, even if he happened to be more powerful than the Prince
Regent himself.
“Aunt Anabel,” she said, taking her by the arm and guiding
her inside, “how would you like to have tea with a Duke?”
“Why, that would be lovely, my dear.” She glanced around
her, perplexed. “What Duke?”
BY
THE time Montford managed to wash, have his trunks hauled from the carriage and
fresh clothes procured, the sun was going down, and any vestige of patience he
had was lost. The journey had been a nightmare. His arrival had been a nightmare. He hardly knew why he had come any
longer and was beginning to wonder how he was ever going to get back to London.
He didn’t think he could stand to ever set foot in a carriage again. It would
take days – weeks – months – for his nerves and stomach to recover. Now he was stuck here. In a
crooked castle. With pigs. And Honeywells.
Coombes’ hands were trembling so violently it took ten
tries before he managed a proper cravat. When Coombes attempted to brush the
lint from his jacket, Montford’s patience snapped. “Leave it.”
“But sir, I …”
He fixed Coombes with a glower that had once cowed the
whole of Parliament into passing an unpopular bill – damn those smug Whig
upstarts – and Coombes backed away, the brush falling from his hands.
A knock sounded on the door, and the blowsy woman called
Flora peeked inside. She seemed more sensible than the rest of the household
and gave him an uncertain curtsy. “Yer Grace, Miss Honeywell and … ah, Miss
Honeywell kindly request your presence in the parlor. Erm … Yer Grace.” She
bobbed a curtsy again.
He gifted her with a hard stare. She turned and fled.
He rounded on Coombes, who was still trembling. “Make yourself useful
folds, was whiter than snow. His perfectly manicured hand settled atop the
wall, smooth and unsullied by anything so plebian as manual labor, was adorned
by an enormous gold signet ring on his long index finger, topped by a crest
studded by another gargantuan ruby. The only sign that he was flesh-and-blood
were the dark circles under his eyes and a slight pallor to his complexion,
suggesting a long, difficult journey.
He was ridiculously imposing. Arrogant. As beautiful as an
ice sculpture. And so completely trussed, groomed and buttoned up that Astrid
had the overwhelming desire to run up to him and rip the cravat from his neck.
She’d hated him immediately. Even before he had called her
an insolent chit.
And she knew that he was going to prove a nearly
insurmountable obstacle.
She turned to Alice. “Hide the book,” she said.
Alice, who had never been the sharpest tool in the box when
it came to anything other than her wardrobe, looked perplexed. “What book?”
“The estate book,” she bit out.
Alice’s eyes widened in understanding. “Oh, that book.
Where shall I hide it?”
Astrid sighed. “In the last place the Duke of Montford
would find it, obviously.”
Alice nodded and hurried inside, past a confused-looking
Aunt Anabel, whose wig was sitting slightly askew on her head.
“Astrid,” Ant said uncertainly, pulling at her trousers.
“What are we to do?”
She looked down at her younger sisters. “Why, carry on as
you were, of course.” Then an idea began to form in her head. She smiled at the
pair of ruffians. “In fact, I give you permission to act as naughtily as you
possibly can while our houseguest remains.”
They looked startled for a moment, then understanding
blossomed across their impish faces, and they grinned cunningly. They ran off
into the gardens, whispering to each other, no doubt fomenting something very
naughty indeed.
Astrid nodded to herself. “Right then,” she said,
straightening her shirt. “Into the fray.”
If the Duke survived the night, he would be a very lucky
man indeed.
Or more formidable than the combined forces of the
Honeywells. And no one was more
formidable than that, even if he happened to be more powerful than the Prince
Regent himself.
“Aunt Anabel,” she said, taking her by the arm and guiding
her inside, “how would you like to have tea with a Duke?”
“Why, that would be lovely, my dear.” She glanced around
her, perplexed. “What Duke?”
BY
THE time Montford managed to wash, have his trunks hauled from the carriage and
fresh clothes procured, the sun was going down, and any vestige of patience he
had was lost. The journey had been a nightmare. His arrival had been a nightmare. He hardly knew why he had come any
longer and was beginning to wonder how he was ever going to get back to London.
He didn’t think he could stand to ever set foot in a carriage again. It would
take days – weeks – months – for his nerves and stomach to recover. Now he was stuck here. In a
crooked castle. With pigs. And Honeywells.
Coombes’ hands were trembling so violently it took ten
tries before he managed a proper cravat. When Coombes attempted to brush the
lint from his jacket, Montford’s patience snapped. “Leave it.”
“But sir, I …”
He fixed Coombes with a glower that had once cowed the
whole of Parliament into passing an unpopular bill – damn those smug Whig
upstarts – and Coombes backed away, the brush falling from his hands.
A knock sounded on the door, and the blowsy woman called
Flora peeked inside. She seemed more sensible than the rest of the household
and gave him an uncertain curtsy. “Yer Grace, Miss Honeywell and … ah, Miss
Honeywell kindly request your presence in the parlor. Erm … Yer Grace.” She
bobbed a curtsy again.
He gifted her with a hard stare. She turned and fled.
He rounded on Coombes, who was still trembling. “Make yourself useful
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