Free The Duke's Holiday by Maggie Fenton

Honeywell set down her teacup in consternation. “I’ll
not wrangle with that pig another moment. You know he hates me and eats my
cabbage to spite me.”
    “Madame, your pig is named Petunia?” he interjected.
    All eyes swung to him.
    “Why, yes,” she said.
    “And he is a male … er, pig?”
    “Why, yes.” Miss Honeywell blinked, as if he were silly for
even asking.
    “I’ve landed in Bedlam,” he muttered. Then he reached down
and took up another biscuit.
    “Well, what about the coachman,” Miss Honeywell said,
turning towards him. “Your driver, or whatever it is you call him. Would you
think that he would be willing to assist us?”
    He barked out a hysterical half-laugh, and bit into his
biscuit. He was light-headed with hunger, bone-tired from casting up his
accounts for three days solid, and surrounded by lunatics, his only consolation
a biscuit. And he was having a conversation about livestock. “Of course. I am
sure Newcomb would like nothing better than to assist you, Miss Alice,” he said
archly.
    “Well, then it’s settled,” Miss Honeywell said. “Find Mr.
Newcomb and see if he will lend a hand.”
    Alice nodded and scurried to the door. She hesitated at the
threshold, turned, and curtsied in his direction before exiting.
    “Now, where were we?” Miss Honeywell asked, swinging her
attention back in his direction.
    “I believe you were attempting to gammon me, Miss
Honeywell.”
    “Gammon you!” she breathed, her color heightening in
affront. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean.”
    “Gammon. As in make a fool of,” he clarified.
    “I should not think such a thing possible, Your Grace. You
are clearly not a fool.”
    He could not tell by her dry tone whether she was mocking
him or not, but he decided to err on the side of caution and assume she was.
    He set down his biscuit – reluctantly, as he was
quite ravenous now – and gifted her with his frostiest expression.
    She did not so much as flinch under his gaze. Which did not
seem possible, as everyone, even Sherbrook on occasion, flinched at that look.
    And then her brassy hair had the effrontery to begin to fall
out of its bun a strand at a time, then in ever larger clumps, until half of it
was dangling down her back and the other half remained pinned in place, giving
her a lopsided look that made him seriously consider howling.
    She was just so completely wrong on so many levels it quite
astounded him that the gods had allowed such a creature to exist. It seemed a
fundamental crime against nature.
    But Miss Honeywell did not seemed bothered in the slightest
by the atrocity taking place on her head.
    “Miss Honeywell,” he began.
    She cocked a brow.
    “Miss Honeywell, your hair .”
It came out as a pained groan.
    She reached up, patted the side of her bun that had not
fallen down, and furrowed her brow. “What about my hair?”
    “It is …”
    She drew herself up to her full height, which put her no
further than his collarbone, and fixed him with a stare of pure feminine
outrage. “What is wrong with my hair?”
    “It is red …”
    “Hardly a sin.”
    “And it is falling down.”
    She crossed her arms over her breasts, completely ignoring
her hair, and gave him a superior look. “I shall excuse your behavior because
of your long journey. Surely, when you are well rested, you shall recover your
gentlemanly manners and realize that one does not remark upon a lady’s person,
no matter what the state of her hair.”
    That was when he made his worst mistake of the evening. He
snorted and said disbelievingly, “ Lady ?”
    She froze, her jaw jutting out, her mismatched eyes
glinting with a fire that had nothing to do with the flames in the grate.
Something inside of him wilted.
    She stalked towards him, and he looked nervously about the
room, though his rational mind –what was left of it – told him he
would find nothing to aid him against the approaching harridan. He glanced at
Aunt Anabel, but she had dozed off