The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Read online

  “Oh, Vivien! We did not expect to see you so soon,” Georgie exclaimed, greeting their friend as they gathered in the drawing room where the family were at home for morning callers.

  There had been a steady stream of guests for the past few days, but this morning seemed especially busy. Most people came to thank the duchess for the marvellous party and to catch up with—or spread— the ensuing gossip.

  “I am here too,” Vivien’s twin brother, Ashton, grumbled as everyone fussed about Viv and saw her comfortably settled with a cup of tea. “She only had a cold, you know.”

  “Ha! And if you’d have suffered the same ailment, you’d have ensured everyone knew you were at death’s door,” his sister retorted. “Whereas I suffered in stoical silence.”

  Ash stared at her in outrage. “Good God, was that what it was? I must look up the definition of the word silence when we return home, Viv, darling, for I believe we have wildly different ideas about its meaning.”

  “Oh, do hush, Ash, and stop putting on airs,” Viv said tartly. “We all know you haven’t the faintest idea how to use a dictionary.”

  Everyone laughed, amused as always by the twins’ banter.

  “Well, I like that,” Ash said, tugging at one of his most eye-watering waistcoats. It was a vivid lime green with tiny oranges and lemons embroidered all over it. He grinned at Louis César, who was regarding it with a pained expression.

  “Quite something, isn’t it?” Ash said, regarding it with pleasure.

  The comte quirked a dark eyebrow. “Quite,” he agreed mildly.

  “Quite revolting,” Jules murmured, sotto voce. “You’re giving the comte a headache, Ash. The French are sensitive to such displays of vulgarity, you know.”

  Ash pulled a face at Jules. “It is not vulgar, it is original, like me, and you wouldn’t know style if it kicked you in the head.”

  “It is certainly one of a kind,” Louis César replied, before adding with an anxious tone. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Evie laughed and took his arm. “Poor Monsieur,” she said sympathetically. “Shall I seat you somewhere where you can’t see it?”

  “It might be best,” the comte replied gravely. “I feel a megrim coming on.”

  “Oh, I see how it is,” Ash said, giving Evie a reproachful glare. “It’s everyone pick on Ash day. Well, if you don’t want my company—”

  “Oh, we do! Do stay!” cried the assembled company, which mollified him enough to sit and accept a cup of tea with a smug expression. Once everyone had been supplied with tea and a selection of delicious little cakes and biscuits, silence reigned for a few moments.

  Georgie made herself comfortable next to Viv, who, she noticed, was covertly watching the Duke of Rochford. The duke was deep in conversation with Jules on the far side of the room.

  “Shall I introduce you, Viv?” Georgie asked her.

  Viv nodded, lowering her voice for privacy. “Yes, but not now. Tell me everything first. Everyone is talking about him and his interest in you. Ash tells me his appearance at two society events and his marked attention has the gossips all a-twitter. Is it true he’s courting you?”

  “I’m not sure, I think… perhaps he means to, but he’s said nothing outright,” Georgie whispered. “What do you think of him?”

  Viv pulled a face at Georgie. “Oh, now. That’s not fair. You know I’ll have heard the gossip like everyone else. He’s reclusive, ill-mannered, bad-tempered, and eats small children for breakfast. If one was to judge him by appearance alone, I could well believe it, but from that besotted look in your eyes I’d say there’s more to him than that.”

  “What besotted look?” Georgie retorted indignantly. “I haven’t looked at him at all.”

  “No. Rather my point,” Viv said dryly.

  “Well, there’s no point arguing if that’s your logic,” Georgie protested.

  “None whatsoever,” Viv agreed with a smirk.

  “Mr August Lane-Fox,” announced the butler as a tall, elegant man in his late twenties entered the room.

  “Oh my, Georgie. Do you know him?” Viv whispered, elbowing Georgie.

  Georgie looked up and nodded. She had met Mr Lane-Fox several times over the years and thought him a charming fellow, good natured and easy-going. He was handsome, too, with bright gold hair and light blue eyes.

  “Mr Lane-Fox? Yes, I do. Though I’ve not seen him in an age. Entangled in some drama of his mother and sisters’ making, as usual, no doubt.”

  “Introduce me,” Viv demanded.

  Georgie’s eyebrows went up, and she stared at Vivien in surprise. Viv was quite simply the most beautiful woman Georgie had ever seen, but to her knowledge, she had never shown an interest in any man before.

  “What?” Viv said, her golden skin glowing with sudden colour. “He looks nice,” she said defensively.

  “He is nice,” Georgie said, grinning, though privately she suspected Viv would eat August Lane-Fox for breakfast. She had rather a forceful personality. Not that August was a pushover by any means, but she had never understood how someone who appeared to be such a sensible and well-behaved chap could have been best friends with Viscount Roxborough, Raphe de Ligne, and the Marquess of Bainbridge. He seemed very much the odd one out, but he had got into all the same scrapes they had, and the scandal sheets often connected his name to some brawl or misdemeanour. Somehow, his reputation had not suffered like the others, though, perhaps because he was so impeccably well-behaved in polite society, unlike his friends.

  “August, old man. Good to see you,” Jules said, waving him over. Georgie watched with interest as Jules introduced him to Rochford. The three men talked for a while, and then Jules guided August over to them. Georgie tried to suppress a surge of disappointment when Rochford didn’t follow, but accepted an invitation from Aunt Prue to sit with her instead.

  “Well, I suppose you don’t look too disgusting,” Jules said as he stood looking down at them, giving Vivien a critical once over. “Your nose is rather red, though.”

  “Jules. A pleasure as always,” Vivien said, narrowing her eyes at him.

  Jules returned a beatific grin. “August, may I introduce this dreadful creature, Miss Vivien Anson. Have a care, she bites. Viv, this gentleman is a friend and a jolly good fellow. Try not to upset him.”

  August gave Jules an uncertain glance, but smiled politely and bowed. “Miss Anson, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “I’m sure it must be, after such an introduction,” Vivien remarked acidly.

  “You must ignore Blackwood, Mr Lane-Fox,” Georgie said with haste. “He is only funning, I assure you. He’s rather—well, you’ve met him,” she added apologetically.

  “Ouch,” Jules replied as August laughed.

  “I take all of Blackwood’s comments with a large pinch of salt, Lady Georgina, fear not, and anyone who can refer to Miss Anson as not looking too disgusting clearly needs urgent medical attention, if not a straitjacket,” August said with an admiring smile.

  “Thank you, Mr Lane-Fox,” Vivien said, smirking at Jules. “There, you see, Jules? That is how a gentleman acts. It seems you need the instruction.”

  “You say that, but I wasn’t the one who caused havoc at that balloon ascension at Green Park the year before last. Was I, August, old man? I believe they read the riot act?”

  Jules smirked as August shifted uncomfortably and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah,” he said, grimacing. “Well, yes, but that was—”

  “Bainbridge and Roxborough,” Evie said, saving the poor man’s blushes. “Arabella told Florence about it, and she told me. Mr Lane-Fox was likely just an innocent bystander.”

  Georgie noticed Viv watching August intently as he looked increasingly ill at ease. “Well, to be truthful, I may have played a part, but I can assure you, those days are behind me. Now Bainbridge and Dare have settled down, I hope my own life can follow suit. It is one thing for a young man to get up to mischief and into scrapes, but it looks rather undignified
when your thirtieth year is almost behind you.”

  “Oh dear. You will not become a bore, will you, Mr Lane-Fox?” Vivien asked softly.

  Georgie bit back a grin as Viv looked up at him from under thick, black lashes. It was a look that could turn a sensible chap into a blithering idiot. Georgie had seen her wield it before now and it appeared Mr Lane-Fox was not immune.

  “I—er,” he mumbled. “That is, no, I hope not. Only I intend to keep out of the print-shop windows from now on.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked, looking genuinely perplexed.

  “Well, it’s the sort of thing that puts the ladies off, you see,” he explained.

  “Oh. Are you looking for a wife, then?” she said, gazing up at him.

  August cleared his throat. “I am,” he said, a little too forcefully. There was the faintest touch of colour at his cheeks, but considering the way Viv was looking at him and her clearly flirtatious line of questioning, he was doing quite well, in Georgie’s opinion. Some men could do nothing but stammer when Viv turned the full power of her dazzling attention directly upon them—which was rare.

  Vivien’s mouth curved in a slow smile. “How interesting,” she said.

  Once their guests had gone, Georgie surveyed what remained of the cakes, deciding which she would like. Only Jules, Rochford, Evie, and Louis César were in the parlour now, chatting amiably.

  A footman was clearing away all the empty cups and saucers and Evie stood, approaching him. She was carrying a beautiful bouquet of pink hyacinths, the scent of which filled the room.

  “Davies, would you see these are put in water and sent to my room, please?”

  “Of course, Miss Knight,” the footman said, placing the bouquet carefully on the tray.

  “They’re beautiful flowers, and such a glorious perfume. I think your Mr Hadley-Smythe is rather smitten,” Georgie said.

  Evie returned a pleased smile. “Yes, I think he is too.”

  “I notice he did not take part in our conversation about the French realist movement,” Jules said mildly. “What was it you were chatting about?”

  Evie scowled. “His new litter of pups, as you well know. Stop picking on him.”

  “I’m not picking on him. I am merely suggesting you might grow bored with a fellow who is not your intellectual equal.”

  “I do not believe Miss Knight is thinking of eloping with him,” Louis César cut in, his voice mild.

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” Evie said, sending Jules an exasperated glare. “I am in no hurry to marry anyone at all, but Mr Hadley-Smythe is a nice man. He’s genuine, and he likes me for me, not for my dowry. That is a rare enough quality to recommend him to me. Do you not think it preferable to marry someone kind and sweet and gentle, rather than someone who is clever and difficult, no matter how interesting?”

  “No,” Jules replied dryly. “It shows a lack of foresight. That’s why villains are always the more interesting characters.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Evie said impatiently.

  “I’m not being ridiculous. Just look at that silly book that was all the rage a year or so ago, what was it? Something about ghosts.”

  “The Ghosts of Castle Madruzzo,” Georgie cut in. “It was very good actually, though rather gruesome.”

  “And which character did you like best, Georgie?” Jules demanded.

  Georgie sent Evie a guilty glance. “The villain,” she mumbled, before adding hastily. “But that does not mean I should want to marry such a man.”

  Jules made a sound of disbelief. “Give over, Georgie. Every woman wants to see a wicked devil redeem himself for love. If the author had any sense whatsoever, they’d have changed the ending, shown the hero up for the spineless halfwit he was and had the villain get the girl.”

  “What nonsense,” Evie said, sitting down with a flurry of skirts. “That’s a romantic novel, Jules. What seems exciting and romantic in a book is not the least bit exciting in real life, but distressing and uncomfortable. I don’t want a dramatic love affair, or duels of honour, or races to Gretna Green or anything of the sort, and neither do most people. You’re being ridiculous.”

  “No, I’m not,” Jules persisted.

  “Jules,” Rochford said. “Shut up.”

  Jules folded his arms looking mutinous but subsided, and Georgie sent Rochford a look of gratitude. A prickly silence filled the room and Georgie turned her attention back to the trays of cakes and biscuits hoping to distract everyone.

  “I’m glad they didn’t eat all these,” she said, taking a small iced cherry cake from the few that remained. “I was too busy talking to try them.”

  “I had one,” Evie said, grasping at the change of subject eagerly. “They’re divine, so are the little lemon ones.”

  She gazed at the trays thoughtfully as Jules took one and put in his mouth whole, glowering at everyone.

  “I suppose I ought not have a third,” she mused regretfully.

  Louis César immediately reached for the tray, offering it to her. “You should have whatever pleases you,” he said.

  She laughed, giving him a speculative look. “But there’s only two left. Someone else might want one.”

  “Eh, alors? It’s their loss. I’ve offered it to you now.”

  Her cheeks dimpled as she smiled at him. “Very well, but if I have one, you must, too. You ate nothing at all.”

  “As my lady commands,” he said gravely, waiting until she had taken a cake before taking his own.

  Evie took a bite and chewed, giving a little moan of pleasure. “Oh my, that is delicious,” she said, licking icing from her fingers. She turned to look at Louis César, who was watching her, and laughed.

  “Well, don’t just sit there, eat it, or I might steal it from you.”

  Louis César looked at the cake in his hands as if he’d forgotten it was there, but obediently bit into it.

  “Well?”

  “Délicieux,” he said softly.

  Evie grinned.

  The next morning, Georgie rose early to discover everything outside smothered in a soft layer of snow. With a little squeal of excitement, she dressed in her warmest clothes and hurried downstairs.

  No one was about yet, and Georgie had the singular pleasure of being the first person to lay a footprint upon the pristine covering of white as she crossed the lawn. Yet as she made her way across the garden, movement to her right drew her attention to the fact that she was not the only one up and about. Rochford must have come out on the other side of the building, and was standing with his back to her, apparently lost in thought as he gazed out across the landscaped gardens.

  Georgie bit her lip, indecision gnawing at her. The temptation was simply too great to resist though, and she gave in, bending to scoop up a compact handful of snow. Silently, she stood and crept closer, took aim, and threw the snowball.

  It hit him in the back of the neck, knocking his hat to the ground and, from the violent oath that erupted from him, sent ice down the back of his shirt. He swung around, looking ready to do murder. Georgie quailed, wondering if she’d made an error of judgement. But then his expression changed, a very different light glinting in his grey eyes.

  “Well,” he said, his voice a soft murmur that made her shiver far more than the cold. “You started it.”

  Quicker than she would have credited from a man of his size, he grabbed a handful of snow and lobbed it at her.

  Georgie squealed, trying to dodge out of the way, but too slowly. She turned at the last minute and the snowball hit her on the bottom.

  “Oh!” she said, excitement surging through her blood. “This means war!”

  “No quarter,” he warned her.

  “No quarter,” she agreed, and ran up the hill to higher ground and the nearest tree.

  Rochford hit her twice on the way. One glanced off her shoulder, but the next knocked her bonnet off so it dangled by its ribbons. Impatiently, Georgie tugged at the bow and cast it aside, quickly taking advantage of her s
heltered position to gather snow enough for five balls before peeking out from behind the tree.

  Rochford was advancing on her, walking up the hill with a snowball in each hand.

  Georgie grinned and gathered up her prepared ammunition.

  “Prepare to meet your maker, Rochford,” she yelled, and then threw the snowballs one after the other.

  He dodged the first, smacked the second aside with his hand, and the third missed altogether. The fourth hit his shoulder, but the fifth—the perfect fifth snowball—hit him square in the face.

  “Bweffh!” came the muffled sound of Rochford eating snow.

  “Huzzah!” she exclaimed, running about in a circle, crowing and doing a little victory dance.

  “Never turn your back on the enemy,” murmured a low voice from behind her, and Georgie shrieked as Rochford stuffed a handful of snow down the back of her dress.

  “Eeeek!” she screamed, jigging about and tugging at the material to get the snow off her skin. She turned to see Rochford laughing himself silly, doubled over with mirth.

  “Oh, you wretch! That’s not fair,” she complained, though she too was laughing as she ran at him and pushed with all her might. Rather to her surprise, he went down, but not before grabbing hold of her. He fell heavily and then gave another oof as Georgie landed on top of him.

  They both stilled, their laughter dying as Georgie stared down at him.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, pushing at his chest to scramble away, but Rochford held onto her, his firm hands clasped about her waist.

  “Don’t go,” he said, his voice quiet.

  Georgie hesitated. His grey eyes were soft, and she could feel the heat emanating from his big body. The desire to burrow into his warmth was almost irresistible, but some measure of sanity kept her from moving. Sadly, there did not seem quite enough sanity left to climb off him. She swallowed as his icy hand moved to cup her cheek.

  “I cannot stop thinking about you,” he said. “You’re in my mind every minute of the day. What do I do?”

  Georgie’s breath caught. “I’m going back to Scotland after Christmas,” she said in a rush. “And you to Cumbria.”