The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Page 12

  Rochford started in shock. His fists curled, as he realised he was furious with Jules for speaking of Georgina so intimately, for even suggesting such a thing, and yet… and yet, now he could not get the image from his mind. He could see her at Mulcaster, in his bedroom, in his bed, her dark curling hair spilling over the pillow. Christ, what would it feel like to wake beside that beautiful face every morning? There was an odd stabbing sensation in the vicinity of his heart. He imagined watching her dress, perhaps even brushing out her hair for her, sharing breakfast with her. His breath caught.

  “She’d be lonely,” he said, reminding himself of all the reasons he’d be a terrible choice for her, when all he truly wanted was for Jules to find an argument to counter each reason.

  “She lives in the backend of beyond in Scotland, Rochford,” Jules said, shaking his head. “She’s used to such a life. Of course, she’ll want to see her friends and family, but you could bear that now and then for her sake, couldn’t you?”

  Privately, Rochford thought he could stand being slow roasted on a spit for her sake, but he held his tongue. There was something horribly like hope flickering in his heart and he was bloody terrified it would snuff out at any moment.

  “I’d embarrass her,” he said, frowning at Jules. “People would mock her.”

  Jules’ expression hardened. “Well, I’m sad to say she’s used to that, too. Her grandfather was a cit, and a vulgar one at that. She’s no shrinking violet. Georgie is strong and loyal, and fiercely protective of those she cares for. If a woman like that loved you, she’d stand up to anyone and anything and be proud to do it.”

  “It sounds like you ought to marry her yourself,” Rochford remarked carelessly, though his heart thudded too hard in his chest with wondering why on earth Jules hadn’t done so, if he could see all her fine qualities so clearly.

  “I told you already. She’s like a sister to me,” Jules said, rolling his eyes. “Besides, we’d never suit.”

  “And you think I would? You’re soft in the head.” Rochford stalked away. He was being a fool to even consider it. He’d be setting his foot on the path to misery and humiliation if he even dared consider courting her. “You heard the lady. I’m the last man on earth she’d ever marry.”

  Jules hurried after him. “She was angry with you, you bloody half-wit, and with good reason. You insulted her—and me, I might add.”

  Rochford frowned but slowed his steps, glancing back at Jules. “I… I apologise,” he said awkwardly. “Though it appears I wasn’t entirely wrong about your intentions.”

  Jules gave a bark of laughter. “Well, that’s a half-arsed apology, but I suppose it will have to do. I suggest you do a better job with Georgie, though. In fact, I’d strongly suggest getting on your knees and grovelling.”

  Rochford stopped and swung around to face his friend. “You’re not serious?” he asked, whilst something raw and vulnerable trembled in his chest. “You don’t really think that… that she’d ever consent…?”

  “She kissed you, Rochford,” Jules said with a smile. “And I’d wager that’s the first proper kiss she’s ever had. You’re a bright fellow—well, some of the time—you’ll figure it out.”

  And with that, Jules clapped him on the shoulder and walked away.

  Aggie looked up from the paper dress she was cutting out. Monsieur Le Comte had bought the beautiful set to appease her for not being able to attend the ball tomorrow night, telling her it was an early Christmas gift. Beautifully printed with lavish colours, the little paper doll that went with it had a comprehensive wardrobe that any girl would covet. She was not so disappointed about missing the ball now, for Fred and Victoria would be with her and the duchess had promised they may watch the dancing from a hidden balcony for a while if they were good. Instinctively, she felt Monsieur was not so happy about the ball himself, or about being here at all. Since he had rescued her from the streets, she had come to idolise her guardian, though not so much that she did not see his faults. She was too much a realist for that, having lived a harsh life for too long.

  She knew her guardian’s closely kept secret too, that his life had been equally hard, and that he understood the difficulty of always feeling an outsider, even if one was welcomed with open arms. He seemed more unsettled of late, though, unhappy, and she did not know why. Aggie had become attuned to his moods and could tell when he was truly happy and when he was putting on a show to be polite. Usually, Miss Knight’s company was enough to make him relax and smile, but even that did not seem to be working. She wasn’t quite certain, but she thought perhaps it was only making matters worse, which she did not understand at all. Miss Knight was such a lovely, warm young woman who made everyone laugh and feel at home, even Aggie.

  It was a talent few people had, but everyone who knew her loved her and sought out her company, not that she seemed to realise the fact.

  Monsieur was watching Miss Knight now as she poured the tea, his expression pensive.

  “Do you think the yellow or the green?” Aggie asked, raising two carefully cut out carriage dresses up to show him.

  Her guardian’s astonishing blue eyes moved to study the paper gowns. “The green.”

  Aggie nodded. “Yes, that is what I thought.”

  “You have excellent taste, child.”

  Preening a little, Aggie grinned, and then gave into the impulse to jump up and hug him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Mille mercis pour mon cadeau, monsieur. It is a splendid present.”

  He regarded her with surprise, clearly taken aback by the show of affection. Aggie blushed, feeling foolish now, but he smiled at her, a proper smile, and she was glad for having done so.

  “It was my pleasure, Agatha, and both your French and your English are coming on wonderfully well. I am proud of you.”

  The praise was enough to have Aggie walking on air, and she beamed at him. She settled down at his feet, returning her attention to the paper dresses, though she watched him covertly from under her eyelashes. “Are you looking forward to the ball, monsieur?”

  If she had not been studying him, she might not have noticed how his face shuttered up, but she saw.

  “Of course,” he said lightly, though she knew he did not mean it. His attention drifted to the other side of the room where his brother, Nic, was laughing with Eliza and her mama.

  Something like pain flickered in his eyes and Aggie’s heart ached. He would never say so—he’d do nothing to spoil his brother’s happiness, but he missed Nic dreadfully. She wished he was truly her Papa, so she could live with him and keep him company, for he hated being alone, but that was not allowed. Monsieur had explained why, and she’d said she understood, but it seemed a stupid rule. But rules were rules and Aggie realised she must obey them, for the consequences could be very bad indeed.

  She sighed. If only he would marry, then perhaps she could go and live with him and his wife, but then his wife might not like her. A wife might make him leave Aggie alone. The idea made her heart squeeze with fear.

  “You won’t ever leave me, will you, monsieur?”

  He looked at her, startled by the anxiety in her tone. “Dieu, Aggie! Whatever would make you say such a thing?”

  Aggie shrugged miserably, wishing she’d never thought such a horrid thing, for she couldn’t shake the idea now. “If… If you got married, your wife might not like me. You know people s-say I’m your bastard.”

  His face hardened, his eyes glittering, and he reached out and took her hand, squeezing her fingers. “I will never abandon you, Aggie. Never. You have my word.”

  “Oh,” she said, the breath leaving her in a rush. “Oh, thank you, but—”

  “But?” he asked gently, a smile in his eyes.

  “But if you married and—”

  He shook his head, the smile vanishing. “Never, Aggie. You may be easy on that point.”

  Aggie nodded, reassured.

  “I need some fresh air,” he said, though the weather outside was cold and grey. “Wo
uld you like to come for a walk before tea?”

  Aggie nodded, leaping up to take his hand. “Yes, I’ll come, but may we have crumpets when we come back?”

  He chucked her under the chin and winked at her. “You may eat crumpets and jam until you burst.”

  Aggie grinned and followed him out of the room.

  Chapter 12

  Dearest Aisling,

  I hope you are having a marvellous time at Rowsley Hall. It is a shame I won’t see you this Christmas.

  I would be having a lovely time here at Beverwyck if not for the presence of the most vexing man who ever lived. If you didn’t know already, that title belongs to the Duke of Rochford. Oh, how I hate him!

  Except I don’t hate him half as much as I should, which is horribly frustrating. Why must men be so difficult? It’s like they are an entirely difference species. If only I could talk myself out of liking a man I dislike so much and please do not write back to tell me that doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense, for I am very well aware of the fact.

  Oh, I shall run mad!

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Lady Aisling Baxter (daughter of Luke and Kitty Baxter, The Earl and Countess of Trevick) from Lady Georgina Anderson (daughter of Gordon and Ruth Anderson, The Earl and Countess of Morven).

  14th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

  Rochford glowered as his valet laid out evening clothes on the bed.

  “I never said I was going to the bloody bedamned ball!” he barked at the young man, who didn’t bat an eyelid. But then Joe Browning didn’t bat an eyelash at much at all, which was the reason he’d got and kept his job for almost a full year, unlike every valet who had come before him. At best, they usually lasted around six months before they decided enough was enough.

  “No, you just stomped about all day with a face like a slapped arse,” Joe remarked, a comment which would have earned him instant dismissal from most employers, if not the nearest heavy object flung at his head.

  Rochford, however, wasn’t most employers.

  Joe hadn’t even wanted the position as valet, protesting he didn’t know the first thing about it. But he’d spent much of his life working on making costumes for a big London theatre and he knew clothes. Rochford had been desperate, and at the time Joe had no better options. He’d warned Rochford that he’d speak his mind and if he didn’t like it, he could lump it. Strangely, Rochford had discovered he preferred someone who wasn’t merely polite because he was paid to be so and told him when he was being a bastard—which was most of the time.

  “Now,” Joe said, clearly striving for patience. “Why don’t you sit your bottom down in that chair and let me trim your beard. You’re looking more like an angry bear with each day that passes.”

  “To the devil with you!” Rochford muttered crossly, feeling increasingly like an angry bear.

  Joe sighed and folded his arms. “You’re being a big baby. She asked you to go, didn’t she? She wants you dance with her.”

  “Asked. Wanted. Past tense,” Rochford bit back.

  Joe’s lips took on a pinched expression as he made a little moue of displeasure. “Well, so you cocked things up. Don’t we all? Now, get yourself prettied up and go and apologise to the lady.”

  “Prettied up?” Rochford repeated, incensed.

  Joe rolled his eyes and waved a delicate hand. “Yes, yes, you’re a big strong fellow who could snap me in two and you’re not the least bit pretty. A great, ugly devil you are. There, better now? You still want to look your best, don’t you?”

  Rochford snorted and folded his arms.

  “Oh, I swear I don’t know why I bother,” Joe threw up his hands and flung himself down in the nearest chair. “Why I gave up my work at the theatre for this, I truly don’t know.”

  “Because after your last tantrum you burnt your boats and didn’t have any other options, and neither did I,” Rochford said dryly. “We’re not exactly well behaved, either of us.”

  Joe sighed. “True enough. It doesn’t make you any less of an idiot where the fairer sex is concerned. Truly, Rochford, Blackwood is right. It’s high time you married and got that witch of a mother off your back. It would certainly make my life easier.”

  “And that’s my job, is it? To make your life easier?” Rochford shot back, knowing he was being an obnoxious arse, but doing it anyway. He was a duke, after all. If he wanted to be insufferable, he could be.

  He sighed, despondent. He wanted Georgie to call him an obnoxious arse again, and a pompous fool, and a horrid creature, and whatever the hell else she wished to call him. So long as she did it to his face, he didn’t care.

  He glanced back at Joe, who was watching him with a knowing expression. Grumbling furiously under his breath, he went and sat his backside down and had his beard trimmed.

  “Good heavens, Evie!” Georgie said, staring at her friend in wonder.

  “Oh, dear. It’s too much, isn’t it?” Evie fretted, covering her cleavage with her gloved hands. “I knew I ought not to have listened to… to my sister.” She flushed and bit her lip.

  Georgie shook her head vigorously. “No! No, that’s not what I meant at all. I mean… you look beautiful. Splendid. My word, that gown. Wherever did you get it?”

  Evie mumbled something Georgie didn’t hear, but took her arm, hurrying down the corridor to the stairs. “You’re sure? I don’t want to make a spectacle of myself.”

  “I’m quite sure. You’ve never looked better. Truly.”

  Evie returned a pleased smile. “Thank you, Georgie. I think I needed to hear that tonight. You look stunning too, you know, but then you always do.”

  Georgie smiled, but her stomach was in knots. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much, for tonight she would be with her friends and that was enough for her to enjoy herself. So what if no eligible men ever asked her to dance? Well, not any with the slightest interest of finding a prospective bride, anyway. So what if people sniggered at her and called her a giantess? It was only words. She had people who loved her. Just no man who wasn’t a friend or relation who wanted to dance with her. It was nothing new and there was no point lamenting it all over again. Yet, that one dance she shared with Rochford had opened her eyes to how it could be, to dance with a man who didn’t feel awkward to be with you, or made you feel awkward in return.

  She’d felt at home in her own skin, which only ever happened when she was at home with her family. That was it, she realised then. That was the reason he drew her to him. She could be entirely herself, without trying to shrink or watching her tongue. Well, it was one of the reasons, the others being a physique that made her mouth go dry, and the suspicion that something soft and lovable lurked under that uncompromising exterior. Except, if it did, it was dashed well hidden. The big lout.

  Georgie and Evie made a circuit of the ballroom, greeting friends and accepting invitations to dance. These they noted on pretty mother-of-pearl fans which served as dance cards. So far, Georgie had invitations from the Duke of Bedwin, Jules, Nicolas Alexandre Demarteau, and the one she’d already gained from his half-brother, the comte. She’d not seen the Comte de Villen yet, though he must be here somewhere. You could hide a herd of elephants in this crush. The Duchess of Bedwin’s annual Christmas ball was the event of the festive season and anyone who was anyone was here.

  The sound of sniggering and the sensation of Evie stiffening beside her gained Georgie’s attention, and she turned to see a group of five pretty debutantes, giggling and whispering behind their fans. That she and Evie were at the centre of their amusement, she did not doubt. She supposed they made an odd pair, with her towering over diminutive Evie.

  “No, no, Goliath and his fat pony,” said the nearest girl, not bothering to lower her voice as the others went off into peals of laughter.

  “Oh, I know,” said another, bouncing on her toes. “Lofty and Dumpling.”

  “Just ignore them,” Evie said with a sigh, cheeks blazing.

  Suddenly, the whispering and giggling sub
sided, and an awed hush fell over the girls. Georgie looked to see what had taken their attention and saw the Comte de Villen moving purposely through the crowd. Though—and despite scolding herself soundly for it—she’d been hoping to see the less elegant figure of the Duke of Rochford heading towards her, Georgie’s breath still caught. Heavens, but he was beautiful. He looked like a young god moving among mere mortals. Everyone turned to look at him as he passed, their gazes drawn to him whether or not they wanted to be.

  The debutantes sighed and batted their eyelashes as well as their fans, trying to gain his notice, and he ignored them utterly. The comte’s gaze seemed fixed on Evie, his expression intent.

  “Lady Georgina, Miss Knight. May I say how lovely you both look this evening,” he said, giving them a very formal bow. He barely glanced at Georgie, his gaze lingering on Evie a touch longer than it ought, apparently taking in every detail of the gown she wore.

  They curtsied, and Georgie returned a wry smile. “Thank you, monsieur. I’m afraid the young ladies did not agree with you. What was it, Evie? Lofty and Dumpling?”

  The comte’s face darkened, and he turned to regard the young women, his expression cool. “Silly children,” he remarked, a comment nicely designed to set them down a peg whilst doing no harm to their reputations. “I hope you will heed my opinion over theirs. You are both exceptionally lovely.”

  The cluster of young women gasped, flushing with embarrassment, and one let out a sob of mortification as they all hurried away.

  “Thank you, Louis,” Evie whispered.

  His gaze shot back to hers. “Monsieur le Comte,” he reminded her, his voice hard.

  Evie flushed at the reprimand, and his expression softened. “Will you dance with me, Miss Knight?”

  Evie relaxed, smiling up at him. “Oh, of course. I’d love to.”

  Georgie gave Evie a little wave as she walked off on the comte’s arm. Sighing a little, she stood back to watch the dancing, and nearly leapt out of her skin as someone spoke directly into her ear.