The Duke's Holiday by Maggie Fenton

a false smile on her face. The
Duke strode up to her side, outfitted in a gray cut-away jacket and fawn
breeches tucked into high Hessian boots, their glossy surface marred by the mud
from the path, the only aspect of his person not perfectly in order. She
marveled at the crisp, unwrinkled fabrics, the starch of his collar, the
spotless gleam of his top hat and silver-tipped walking cane.
    She raised a hand unconsciously towards her head, and only
by great effort forestalled her fingers from attempting to put her hair to
order. She had, of course, forgotten her bonnet in her haste this morning, and
she could feel the damp, curling tendrils of her hair beginning to sag out of
its pins in the back.
    She did not care what she looked like. Not one jot.
    If only he did not look so blasted … perfect.
    And if only Roddy had not told that blasted story. How was
she supposed to think straight about anything now?
    “Miss Honeywell, was that Stevenage who just hied off into
the shrubbery?”
    “What? Who? Oh, was there someone?” She glanced around her,
looking perplexed.
    “Yes, there was … oh, for the love of … never mind.” He
stabbed his cane into the ground and glared at her.
    She met his glare with one of her own and told herself not
to think of the last time she had been in his company. When he had stared at
her breasts.
    Too late. She cursed inwardly as she felt the blush creep
over her cheeks. She hated being a redhead. “Your Grace. Did you want
something? Directions, perhaps, back to London?”
    “I am not going anywhere.”
    “I would have thought Ant and Art had quite convinced you
that it would be in your best interest.”
    “Ant and Art.” Something twitched in his jaw. “Your sisters , I presume.”
    “Yes. Antonia and Ardyce.”
    “They shall not run me off.”
    “Damn. I mean, fiddlesticks.”
    His jaw twitched again.
    “Nevertheless, if you deem it necessary to stay in the
area, you should be more comfortable at the Thirsty Boar,” she said breezily.
    He looked at her as if she had grown a tail.
    “The coaching inn in the village,” she elucidated.
    His eyes grew as wide as saucers, and he blinked once,
twice. Apparently she had grown hooves, wings, and a snout to accompany her
tail, from the look on his face.
    “Good God, no,” he breathed, as if she had suggested he dig
a hole to China. “I never stay at coaching inns.”
    “Then is this your first time out of London?” she
persisted.
    “Of course not.”
    “Then how have you not had to put up at a coaching inn?”
    “Madame,” he said in that haughty, condescending ducal tone
she had already grown to hate. “I own thirty seven properties in England alone.
I hardly need to stay at a coaching inn when I can sleep in my own bed.”
    “How very convenient for you to have so many beds.” She
paused. “Have you thought that you might be inconveniencing us to stay at Rylestone Hall?”
    “I am sure it is no inconvenience,” he said in that
superior tone.
    She snorted. “Have you thought that we might not want you to stay at Rylestone,
Montford?”
    “Of course. But that is beside the point. I own it.”
    “Ha! Do you indeed?”
    She picked up her skirts and started past him.
    “Which is precisely why I am here,” he continued, falling
into step beside her.
    “If you own thirty seven properties, what need do you have
for this one?”
    “Again, beside the point. It is the principle of the
thing.”
    She shot him a fierce glare. “Rylestone Hall is our home.
The Honeywells have managed this estate for centuries.”
    “And made an appalling hash of it. The Hall is crooked,
madame, if you haven’t noticed.”
    “The towers need some work, granted …”
    “And I can’t imagine the state of the tenant farms. Or the
poor sods under your shoddy management.”
    She stopped up short and turned to give him an earful. But
he was not expecting her sudden movement, so he kept on walking, right into
her. She collided with a solid pillar