The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Page 24

  “Good God!”

  He paused, startled at the exclamation as his bride sat up, staring.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked in alarm.

  Georgie shook her head, but her eyes were on stalks. Realising he was being inspected, Rochford held still, though he was feeling unaccountably nervous. After all, if his face and the scars hadn’t put her off, he must be doing fine, because there was nothing wrong with the rest of him.

  “Everything as it should be?” he asked, watching her with caution.

  She let out a soft exclamation. “Oh, y-yes,” she managed, her voice faint. “You are a very fine sight, Alden. Very fine indeed.”

  Her words and her unmistakable admiration unlocked something inside him, freeing him of some toxic mixture of pent-up anxiety and shame that he’d held close for so long. He smiled, feeling strangely vulnerable, as if this was a first time for him too, though she was the virgin.

  “Do you want me then, Georgie?”

  She gave him an incredulous look. “Of course I want you. I’ve wanted you since you ate the shortbread I gave you. Honestly, the look on your face. You looked like you’d died and gone to heaven, but would you admit it was the best thing you’d ever tasted? Oh, no. It was the most adorable thing, watching you try to pretend it hadn’t impressed you.”

  “Adorable?” Rochford repeated with a snort. “You’re addled, and it wasn’t the best thing I ever tasted.”

  “Oh, yes, it was,” she protested.

  Rochford prowled up the bed, pushing her back as he climbed over her. “Not anymore. Not even close,” he murmured, staring down at her splendid breasts, the peaks tipped with little rosy buds that made his mouth water.

  With a moan of pleasure, he ducked his head and circled her nipple with his tongue and then suckled as her hands stroked down his back and she arched into him. God, but he loved the pleasure sounds she made, all those breathless little sighs and moans. He turned to her other breast and lavished equal attention there before kissing his way back down her belly and between her thighs, where she was already slick with desire. She wanted him. She wanted him badly. The knowledge was a balm to every ragged scar, healing old wounds and soothing his pride, making him feel whole for the first time in his life. He wanted to weep and to laugh and to bellow his triumph like some untamed creature, but instead he worshipped her, this strange, beautiful, fierce young woman who had decided he was worthy of her. He wasn’t, not yet at least, but he would be.

  Pushing her thighs wide, Rochford settled to his delicious task with one long swipe of his tongue.

  “You, duchess, my own sweet, Georgie. You are the best thing I have ever tasted.”

  She cried out as he concentrated on driving her out of her senses, teasing the delicate pearl of flesh, licking and caressing with his tongue until she was clutching at the bed sheets, writhing beneath him as if she were something wild he’d caught and held captive. Her climax made his breath catch, aroused beyond bearing as she cried out with no trace of inhibition, utterly abandoned to pleasure. She didn’t even stop to catch her breath before she reached for him.

  “Please,” she begged, her beautiful face flushed, eyes dark and filled with desire.

  Rochford could hardly breathe himself, his body primed, aching with need, and yet still very aware of her inexperience.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, hardly able to force the words out as he settled between her legs, and she coiled about him. The desire to simply thrust into her was tantalising, but he’d rather die than cause her pain whilst taking his own pleasure.

  “I know. So you won’t,” she said, smiling at him, reassuring him, when it ought to be the other way around. “I want you, Alden.”

  He stared down at her and gave a soft huff of laughter. “God. I want you so much I’m afraid I’ll be clumsy, that I’ll—”

  She kissed him, tugging at his neck and Alden was lost in her, discovering with his capitulation that he’d come home, that he was a willing prisoner. His wife welcomed him with no reserve, holding nothing back, her soft hands stroking his hair, his back, giving herself to him with every expression of delight. Rochford groaned as he sank into her, striving to be careful, to go slowly, but she shifted her hips, urging him inside, taking him deep and the pleasure of it almost shattered him. She gave a soft cry of discomfort, the only thing that could have pierced his consciousness and he stilled at once, but she only laughed, her eyes dancing with amusement.

  “You’re v-very big,” she said.

  Rochford snorted, helpless with laughter, with desire, with love for this glorious woman. Oh, God. With love. He loved her. Strangely, the idea did not terrify him as it might have. For really, what other choice was there? It was what she had wanted from him, and he wanted to give her everything she desired.

  “I’m fine,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

  Rochford stared down at her, at his wife, as he made love to her for the first time, and knew she held his heart. She reached up, her gaze upon him soft as she stroked his cheek and he turned into the caress, kissing her palm.

  “Beautiful, Georgie,” he whispered, wanting to tell her, to give her the words whilst he was brave enough to say them aloud, but his body had wanted for too long, and the feel of her beneath him, holding him inside her was too good. Though it was too soon, and he did not want it to end, he could not hold on. He shattered with a fierce cry, detonating like a light exploded inside him, sending him flying as his body shuddered with the force of it. She held him tight as he spilled inside her, anchoring him to this world, and came back to earth entirely remade.

  Georgie held her husband in her arms, almost crushed beneath his weight and not caring a bit. Oh, Lord, but it had been marvellous. He was marvellous. The caring, tender man she had suspected hid beneath the uncompromising exterior had been revealed to her now and she had fallen hard. Not that there had been much farther to fall. She had known each week that he chipped away a little more of her heart and took it away with him, but now there was nothing left. He had it all, for better or for worse, and the thought did not scare her as much as she had believed it would. No doubt they would have their trials. He was still impatient, and she did not doubt his temper would surface eventually, but she did not fear it now, nor him. Because he was not the obnoxious arse she had accused him of being, but only a man with flaws, who could be loving and kind and gentle, and who could recognise when he was wrong.

  “Did I hurt you?” his gruff voice brought Georgie back to the here and now and she blinked up into her husband’s grey eyes. He had braced himself on his elbows, taking his weight from her, and watched her anxiously.

  Georgie shook her head. “No. It was lovely,” she said. “You’re lovely.”

  He made a sound of amusement and, rather to her regret, rolled off her. She waited warily, wondering if he’d just fall asleep as her mother had warned her he might. Some men needed to be taught how to cuddle, Mama had said. Apparently, Rochford wasn’t one of them. He tugged Georgie close, spooning around her until her big, warm husband enveloped her. She shivered with pleasure as one large hand cupped her breast and he sighed with contentment, his breath hot against the back of her neck.

  They were quiet for a long moment, and Georgie was feeling sleepy and pleased with the world when he spoke.

  “Are you happy?”

  With difficulty, she turned her head so she could see his face, and he shifted to look down at her.

  “I am spectacularly happy,” she told him, to be certain he had no doubts about her sincerity.

  He grinned, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “So am I,” he admitted.

  “So you should be,” she replied tartly, trying not to laugh. “I’m marvellous.”

  “You are that,” he whispered, touching a gentle finger to her cheek before bending and pressing a kiss to her mouth. “I love you, Georgie.”

  Georgie stared at him, not having expected that. She had thought it might take her months, years e
ven before he gave her such a declaration. “Oh,” she said, blinking as her eyes prickled.

  “Don’t cry,” he warned her, looking alarmed.

  She gave a muffled laugh and shook her head. “Well, how on earth do you expect me not to when you are so adorable? If you want me to stop, you’ll have to be an obnoxious arse again, because I love you too, Alden. I’m utterly, hopelessly besotted, and you’ll find it a dreadful trial, I’m afraid, but it’s too late now. You’re stuck with me.”

  He stared down at her, his heart in his eyes, and Georgie wondered if her own heart could contain any more happiness as she saw how her words had pleased him.

  His expression was still somewhat dazed when he finally spoke. “Stuck with you, am I?”

  Georgie nodded.

  “Well, thank God for that,” he murmured, and kissed her again.

  Chapter 22

  Dearest Evie,

  I am happy! Ridiculously happy. The kind where I can’t stop smiling for no reason. I’m certain I must be revolting company to anyone but Rochford. As we are currently inseparable, I suppose that is not a problem, though, is it?

  I will not blame you if you are making retching sounds at this moment. It is nauseating, I know, but all the same, I hope you find someone who makes you feel this way one day, Evie, dear. For it is the most marvellous sensation, to be married to a good man in whom you can put your trust and give your whole heart.

  You must find someone very special to be worthy of you, though, my dear friend.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Her Grace, Georgina Seymour, The Duchess of Rochford (daughter of Ruth and Gordon Anderson, The Earl and Countess of Morven) to Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Lady Helena and Mr Gabriel Knight).

  9th March 1841, Mulcaster Castle, Cumbria.

  They only spent the one night at Wick, though it was tempting to linger, but Rochford admitted he had neglected Mulcaster for too long and needed to return. Georgie hadn’t minded, eager to inspect her new home and see what she could make of it, for Rochford had painted a rather bleak picture of the castle, and she intended to make it a loving, comfortable home for him, for them both.

  Georgie gave a shriek as that new home came into view.

  “Rochford!” she exclaimed, grasping his hand and holding on tight. “You’ll never see me again.”

  “Why? Is it that bad?” he asked, frowning.

  She shook her head, dumbfounded. “No,” she said faintly. “But I’ve a dreadful sense of direction and I’m bound to get lost. It’s—”

  “A monstrosity, I know,” he said dryly as the carriage rumbled up the driveway.

  “Magnificent,” she corrected him with a tut.

  Rochford laughed and pulled her into his lap. “You have some very odd notions, duchess. Things that most people find ugly and overbearing, you find enchanting.”

  “It is enchanting,” she said, snuggling against his chest as she watched the castle grow closer. He held her tight, kissing the top of her head.

  “Well, I expect your mother will be champing at the bit to get my measure,” Georgie said, trying to tamp down a surge of anxiety. She had promised herself she would be polite for her husband’s sake. He would not want his wife and mother at each other’s throats, she knew, but she could not feel kindly towards a woman who had treated Rochford so coldly. If she’d shown him even a scrap of affection, he would have been so much less alone all these years. Georgie turned to look at him, aware he had not answered and that he suddenly seemed very tense.

  “Alden?”

  He still said nothing, so Georgie took hold of his beard and gently tugged until he looked her in the eyes.

  “You did tell your mother I was coming, didn’t you?”

  Her husband cleared his throat, looking shifty. Oh, no.

  “Rochford! You told her you were getting married, at least?” she asked in horror.

  He shrugged. “It slipped my mind,” he said defensively.

  “It—” Georgie stared at him. “How could marrying me slip your mind?” she demanded.

  He frowned, avoiding her gaze.

  “Was it so forgettable an event?” she pressed, knowing this would provoke an answer.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” he said at once. “It was the only thing I could think of, as you well know. It was she who slipped my mind. I didn’t think of her. She’s barely a part of my life and… and I knew she’d only say something spiteful, so I didn’t bother.”

  Georgie relaxed, her heart aching for him. She could not imagine a life where she did not share her every triumph and happiness, as well as the disasters, with her family. He had been so alone for so long. She could hardly blame him for keeping his happiness to himself, where his mother could not take the shine from it.

  “Well then. She’s in for a big surprise this morning,” she said wryly.

  Rochford groaned and buried his face against her breasts. “Shall we go back to Scotland?” he asked, his voice muffled.

  Georgie laughed and stroked his dark hair. “Do you think I’d let your mother rout me before we even meet? I think not, Rochford.”

  He groaned again and held her tighter. “Don’t let her change you, or the way you want to do things, love. Promise me.”

  Georgie looked down at him, surprised that he believed it possible.

  “Have you met me?” she asked, quirking one eyebrow. “I’m a graceless, mannerless baggage, remember?”

  “Georgie,” he said, his dark eyes filled with reproach. “Don’t make me remember how ill I treated you, the things I said. I’m so sorry.”

  She made a very Scottish sound of disgust and pressed a finger to his lips. “I did not say it to make you feel bad, but to remind you that you married that girl. Did I ever back down from you, duke?”

  “No,” he said, adoration shining in his eyes. “Never.”

  “Do you truly think your mother will get the better of me?”

  Rochford hesitated. “She has a way of saying things, of… pricking your tender parts.”

  “She’s spiteful,” Georgie said, unsurprised. “Don’t you worry about me, my sweet. I shall do just fine.”

  “Sweet?” Rochford repeated, a little incredulous.

  Georgie nodded, enjoying his dumbfounded expression. “Yes. Sweet. My sweet big bear.”

  “Ugh,” he said, looking askance.

  “Don’t like it?” she asked, wide-eyed with innocence.

  “No I d—”

  “Kiss me.”

  “I like it fine,” he muttered, and did as she asked.

  Rochford strode into Mulcaster Castle, wondering at how completely his world had changed since he’d left the place so many months earlier. He ought to have returned in October of last year but hadn’t had the heart for it then. He’d put it off, and put it off, and then snatched at Jules’ offer to come for Christmas, not knowing how fortune was smiling upon him. He owed Jules a good deal, he reflected now. A debt he must repay one day.

  He had always dreaded coming back here. Not because he hated the castle. He didn’t. Though there were too many memories he’d rather be rid of, he did not blame the ancient stones for his unhappiness. There was a stark grandeur to this ancestral monstrosity that pleased him, and he looked forward to Georgie’s help in making it into a home for them both. A home. It startled him to realise how desperately he wanted that. He’d thought such things as a home and a family were for other people, not for men like him. His parents and his experiences had made it very clear to him that he was unlovable, but that wasn’t true. Not at all. Georgie was right. If you gave people a chance, some of them would surprise you. Not all, but he did not want or need everyone to like him. Even before Georgie, he’d had Jules, and Joe, and even the Duke and Duchess of Bedwin, had made him welcome in their home. Miss Knight had been kind, and so had Lady Rosalind, though he knew he intimidated her. Not everyone judged his appearance and saw a monster.

  He held Georgie’s hand tightly, aware she was feeling overwhelmed no matter how
courageous she was. This huge behemoth was her home now, and his mother didn’t even know she existed. Well, that at least was quickly remedied.

  “We’ll get the traumatic part of the day over quickly,” he said, hurrying her towards his mother’s apartment. “Like ripping off a plaster bandage.”

  “That’s encouraging,” Georgie said dryly.

  Rochford shrugged. “I’m not expecting to enjoy this, but it’s a big place. I only see her once a month. She rarely leaves her rooms.”

  “Is she ill?”

  “She complains of her nerves a good deal,” he said, trying to slow his steps as his wife was having to run to keep up. “But I do not know if she’s truly ill. She’s always been fragile.”

  “Says who?”

  Rochford paused, frowning. “I don’t know. She says it a lot.”

  Finally, they arrived at the door of his mother’s rooms. Rochford knocked once and opened the door without awaiting an answer. He turned back to Georgie.

  “Well then,” Rochford said, his expression giving nothing away. “Let’s tell darling Mama that she’s no longer the Duchess of Rochford, but the dowager.”

  Georgie clung to Rochford’s hand. Not for her own comfort, but for his. She was anxious, yes, but not unduly so. Running a household held no fears for her, because her mama had taught her well. Dealing with difficult staff was a skill she had learned at her mother’s knee as they had spent their time between the many large properties that belonged to her father. Mama was kind but firm, fair, but with a will of iron. Mama had also often reminded Georgie she was not only an Anderson by blood, but a Stone, and no one could wear away one of those. As for dealing with spiteful women, well, she’d been a debutante, and not one that fit the prescribed mould of what a debutante should be. Being on the receiving end of spiteful comments was hardly new. She could do this.

  What she had seen on the way to these rooms had shown her a grand medieval castle that was austere and unwelcoming, but beautiful for all its uncompromising lines. The rooms her new mother-in-law had made her own appeared to have been transplanted from somewhere else entirely.