a pitchfork and a hammer.
Everyone came to a halt at the sight of the Duke of
Montford sitting in the mud, looking, for all intents and purposes, ready to do
murder.
Ready to murder her .
She took an involuntary step backwards at the icy glint in
his silver eyes. “COOMBES!” Montford roared.
The consumptive peacock jumped, squeaked and started
forward, tiptoeing across the muddy expanse. The Duke staggered to his feet.
The peacock reached his side, produced a bit of lace from a pocket, and started
to dab ineffectually at the Duke’s mud-soaked breeches.
The Duke gave a pained groan. “Will you please refrain from
dabbing at my arse , Coombes,” he bit
out, swatting away the man.
And because she couldn’t have stopped herself had a gun
been pointed at her head, Astrid let out the laugh she had been attempting to
quell ever since the Duke, in all of his sartorial splendor, had landed on that
aforementioned arse in the mud.
The Duke caught his breath and glared at her in
indignation. Then he looked over her shoulder towards Stevenage and shouted his
name.
She followed his glance and discovered that Stevenage was
now attempting to hide behind Flora. At the sound of his name, poor Stevenage’s
courage fled him completely, and he turned and ran out of the stableyard as if
chased by the devil, hiccoughing along the way.
The Duke looked aghast at his man-of-affair’s desertion. He
turned his steely eyes back to her and attempted to speak, but Petunia squealed
and began charging in their direction once again. The Duke looked at the pig,
and something resembling terror flashed across his face. Petunia rushed past
them and back into the garden.
Astrid groaned. Her cabbages! Her prize cabbages! “Charlie!
Mick! See to Petunia,” she ordered. The two stablehands rushed towards the
garden. “Flora, why don’t you show our guest to a room so that he might …” She
glanced down at the Duke’s lower portion, dripping with mud, “ … repair
himself.”
Flora nodded.
Astrid turned to the Duke. “If that suits His Grace, of
course.”
“It does,” he snapped, then began to walk towards the
castle, his boots squelching in the mud. He gave Art and Ant, who were doubled
over in giggles, a quelling look as he passed by them, which sobered the girls
completely. They scurried to Astrid’s side and attempted to hide behind her
legs.
When the Duke and the peacock had disappeared inside,
Astrid let out a groan and turned to Alice, who had come out into the yard, a
look of sheer panic contorting her pretty features. “Oh, Astrid! What are we to
do?”
Astrid wished that she knew. She had not planned on this
particular development.
She caught the glance of the burly man in livery who was
staring at her speculatively. Montford’s driver. After a moment, he just shrugged
and disappeared into the stables, as if none of what had occurred was of the
slightest concern to him.
Astrid sighed.
She had known from nearly the first moment she had seen him
standing over the garden wall that the Duke of Montford had come to call, like
some villain out of a fairy tale. He was towering, lean, but nevertheless
powerfully built beneath his splendid, princely clothing, and seemed to occupy
the space around him as if he owned it. As if, in fact, he owned the very air
he breathed – or at the very least as if the air he breathed should feel
humbled that he was allowing it to pass into his exalted lungs. His dark hair
was close-cropped and tamed into perfect submission, his features so blindingly
perfect and completely glacial they could have been hewn out of marble, and his
eyes – silver overlaid with ice – bored into her with an
intelligence and probity that had quite literally taken the breath from her
body.
She had never seen anything like him before. His coat
alone, black silk tailored in stark lines that emphasized the strength of the
body beneath, had clearly cost more than her and her sisters’ wardrobes
combined. His
Everyone came to a halt at the sight of the Duke of
Montford sitting in the mud, looking, for all intents and purposes, ready to do
murder.
Ready to murder her .
She took an involuntary step backwards at the icy glint in
his silver eyes. “COOMBES!” Montford roared.
The consumptive peacock jumped, squeaked and started
forward, tiptoeing across the muddy expanse. The Duke staggered to his feet.
The peacock reached his side, produced a bit of lace from a pocket, and started
to dab ineffectually at the Duke’s mud-soaked breeches.
The Duke gave a pained groan. “Will you please refrain from
dabbing at my arse , Coombes,” he bit
out, swatting away the man.
And because she couldn’t have stopped herself had a gun
been pointed at her head, Astrid let out the laugh she had been attempting to
quell ever since the Duke, in all of his sartorial splendor, had landed on that
aforementioned arse in the mud.
The Duke caught his breath and glared at her in
indignation. Then he looked over her shoulder towards Stevenage and shouted his
name.
She followed his glance and discovered that Stevenage was
now attempting to hide behind Flora. At the sound of his name, poor Stevenage’s
courage fled him completely, and he turned and ran out of the stableyard as if
chased by the devil, hiccoughing along the way.
The Duke looked aghast at his man-of-affair’s desertion. He
turned his steely eyes back to her and attempted to speak, but Petunia squealed
and began charging in their direction once again. The Duke looked at the pig,
and something resembling terror flashed across his face. Petunia rushed past
them and back into the garden.
Astrid groaned. Her cabbages! Her prize cabbages! “Charlie!
Mick! See to Petunia,” she ordered. The two stablehands rushed towards the
garden. “Flora, why don’t you show our guest to a room so that he might …” She
glanced down at the Duke’s lower portion, dripping with mud, “ … repair
himself.”
Flora nodded.
Astrid turned to the Duke. “If that suits His Grace, of
course.”
“It does,” he snapped, then began to walk towards the
castle, his boots squelching in the mud. He gave Art and Ant, who were doubled
over in giggles, a quelling look as he passed by them, which sobered the girls
completely. They scurried to Astrid’s side and attempted to hide behind her
legs.
When the Duke and the peacock had disappeared inside,
Astrid let out a groan and turned to Alice, who had come out into the yard, a
look of sheer panic contorting her pretty features. “Oh, Astrid! What are we to
do?”
Astrid wished that she knew. She had not planned on this
particular development.
She caught the glance of the burly man in livery who was
staring at her speculatively. Montford’s driver. After a moment, he just shrugged
and disappeared into the stables, as if none of what had occurred was of the
slightest concern to him.
Astrid sighed.
She had known from nearly the first moment she had seen him
standing over the garden wall that the Duke of Montford had come to call, like
some villain out of a fairy tale. He was towering, lean, but nevertheless
powerfully built beneath his splendid, princely clothing, and seemed to occupy
the space around him as if he owned it. As if, in fact, he owned the very air
he breathed – or at the very least as if the air he breathed should feel
humbled that he was allowing it to pass into his exalted lungs. His dark hair
was close-cropped and tamed into perfect submission, his features so blindingly
perfect and completely glacial they could have been hewn out of marble, and his
eyes – silver overlaid with ice – bored into her with an
intelligence and probity that had quite literally taken the breath from her
body.
She had never seen anything like him before. His coat
alone, black silk tailored in stark lines that emphasized the strength of the
body beneath, had clearly cost more than her and her sisters’ wardrobes
combined. His
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