The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Read online

  “What in common?”

  “Ah, that is what you have to figure out, that’s the game part of it.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Of course it is. That’s the point of a game. It’s fun.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I give up.” Georgie said in exasperation and turned to walk away from him, startled to find a large hand dart out and snare her wrist. Goodness, but he was fast. Sensation prickled up her arm, making her cheeks burn, and he dropped his hold on her like she’d burned him.

  “Don’t go,” he said, his voice all low and gravelly, sending shivers down her spine.

  “Why?” she demanded, wishing that hadn’t sounded quite so breathless, but he had startled her, that was all.

  He gave an irritated huff before admitting, “I don’t know where Jules is, and I don’t know anyone else here I can bear talking to.”

  “You mean you can bear talking to me? Why, your grace, I may swoon.” Georgie placed a hand over her heart and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  Rochford snorted. “Yes, yes, very amusing, I’m sure. You should be on the stage. Think of it as another act of charity, why don’t you?”

  “Yes, I suppose I can do that,” Georgie said gravely. “Like reading to a doddering old man whilst he dribbles into his soup.”

  “Charming.”

  “No, you’re not the least bit charming. Frankly, I’d rather take the toothless soup drinker, but that’s life. No one said it was fair.”

  He stared down at her and she thought she saw amusement in his eyes. They were a deep slate grey she saw now but there was a halo of gold around the pupil, a warm colour, though she had never seen warmth in his expression. She thought she saw a hint of it now, of the man he might have been if life had been kinder, and she had the sudden urge to see more, to reach past the impenetrable façade.

  “Life’s a vindictive bitch, Lady Georgina. Sooner you recognise that fact the easier it is to bear.”

  He raised his eyebrows at her, his arm still awaiting her hand.

  Georgina slid her hand over his sleeve, too aware of the power of the man beneath the material. Even though she wore gloves, and there was his coat and shirt between them, she was viscerally aware of his skin, of heavy muscle and bone shifting under her fingertips. Her heart gave an erratic thud and a strange, liquid warmth pooled deep in her core.

  “You’re blushing,” he said, and drat the man for noticing. “If being seen with me is too dreadful a fate, I’m happy to leave. I never wanted to come in the first place.”

  Georgie’s gaze snapped to his. The words had not held a trace of condemnation, only offered her a way out.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” she said crossly.

  He frowned down at her. Did the man have another expression? “Why are you blushing, then?”

  Georgie flushed harder. “Stop asking me that, you’re making it worse.”

  “How am I making it worse? I don’t know why you’re blushing.”

  “Oh, shut up, will you!” she pleaded, aware that everyone was staring at them.

  He obliged her by shutting up, which was a blessing, and they did a circuit of the room in silence as Georgie endured the stares and the whispers. It was horrible. The poor man. How did he stand it? Well, he didn’t, did he? Which was why he never socialised and had all the patience of an angry bear.

  Georgie glimpsed swirling skirts and movement through the open doors of the ballroom and realised the dancing had begun.

  “Do you dance?” she asked him, before she could think better of it.

  He stared at her liked she’d asked if he spoke Swahili.

  “I never dance,” he said coldly.

  “Yes, I know that, but do you know how to?” she replied, striving for patience.

  Another contemptuous glare. “I’m a duke.”

  “Excellent,” she said, assuming that meant yes, and began steering him towards the ballroom. Naturally, he planted his feet, which meant tugging at his arm would have about as much effect as trying to move a twenty-foot block of marble. “Oh, do come along,” she pleaded.

  “I’m not dancing. I never dance.”

  Georgie sighed and released his arm. She turned and looked up at him, keeping her voice soothing. “Well, why don’t you try something different? You never come to parties either, do you, and look how well that’s turned out.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her, imperious devil.

  She tsked at him, impatient now. “Stop waggling your eyebrows and trying to look all ducal. It won’t work. I’m immune.”

  “I am not trying. I am ducal. And what in the name of God makes you think this has turned out well? Everyone is whispering about us—about you. Do you want to be at the centre of their tittle-tattle?”

  “No,” she said frankly. “But I do want to dance and I’m not about to let their wagging tongues stop me.”

  He stood watching her, his expression unreadable. Georgie waited.

  After what seemed an age, he made his usual harrumphing sound and took her hand, placing it back on his sleeve and strode towards the ballroom, muttering as he went. Naturally, the whispering behind fans increased tenfold as Rochford appeared in the ballroom. It was as if he were some dangerous beast who’d strayed into their territory.

  Georgie felt a sudden swell of protectiveness rise inside her, which clearly proved she was utterly deranged. Of all the men who needed protecting here, the duke was the least likely candidate, surely? Yet that was only on the surface. Yes, he was big and fearsome if you took him at face value, and admittedly, getting on the wrong side of his tongue was akin to being lashed with glass paper. Still, she couldn’t help herself. Something in her nature told him he needed looking after even if he didn’t want it.

  “Are you quite sure about this?” he asked, his voice even, giving nothing away.

  “I am,” Georgie said, though her heart was careening about behind her ribs. “Quite sure.”

  “It’s your funeral,” he muttered, and reached for her.

  Oh. Oh, this was a bad idea. The worst. Oh, Georgie, you nitwit.

  But there was no backing out now.

  He danced superbly. Perhaps not with the finesse of some, but for a man of his size to move as he did, and to hold her so carefully… Georgie was melting. Though she enjoyed dancing, Georgie did not enjoy being paired with a man over whose head she could see, which was far too many of them. Not that she minded the men being short—it was no more their fault than that she was tall—only that it made her feel such an elephant in a room full of fairies. It wasn’t a problem with Rochford. His powerful physique made her feel almost delicate by comparison. He certainly held her as though she was, as though he might break her if he wasn’t careful. And then she made the mistake of looking up into his eyes. She didn’t see the scar, nor anything that seemed the least bit out of place. It was simply Rochford, and his dark grey eyes were on her, for once unguarded. He looked like a man stripped bare, like someone seeing the ocean for the first time.

  Georgie wanted to reach up and stroke his face, to show him she wasn’t like the others, that she wasn’t afraid of him. Thankfully, some fraying shred of sanity remained, and she kept her hand glued to his shoulder, but she could not tear her eyes from his.

  The dance ended, and Georgie was uncertain if it was too soon or if that had been an eternity. Her head was spinning, and her heart was pounding and….

  “Well. You’ve had your dance. I’m off. Goodnight.”

  Rochford stalked away, leaving her in the middle of the ballroom by herself.

  Chapter 7

  The dress is ready for a fitting.

  Tonight.

  ―Excerpt of a note to Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Mr Gabriel and Lady Helena Knight) from Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen – slipped under her door.

  12th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

  Georgie didn’t care. No. Not at all. Four days of being
ignored didn’t bother her one little bit. She simply did not give a fig. She didn’t. So what if Rochford hadn’t spoken a word to her since the night of the rout? That was his loss. Not hers. Especially not when she was sitting next to the Comte de Villen at dinner this evening.

  Goodness, but he was breath-taking. If she wasn’t careful, she’d just spend the entire evening gazing at him like an idiot. It took her a moment to realise she was doing just that and that Evie, sat on her other side, was speaking to her.

  “You’ve not heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Evie smiled, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

  Georgie returned a rueful expression. “Sorry.”

  “It’s understandable. I know women find him dreadfully distracting.”

  “Don’t you?” Georgie asked, bending closer to Evie and lowering her voice. How Evie could be around Louis and not just sit sighing over him she couldn’t fathom.

  Evie shook her head. “No. I mean, I can see he’s beautiful, obviously. I’m not blind, but he was my friend first. Perhaps when we met, I was just too young to see him in a romantic light and it stuck. Or perhaps he’s just not my type,” she added, laughing at Georgie’s sceptical expression.

  “You’re an odd duck, Evie,” Georgie replied, shaking her head.

  “Lady Georgina,” Georgie turned her head and was immediately struck dumb by Louis’ brilliant blue eyes. “Your napkin.”

  He held the folded square out to her, which must have slid off the silky skirts of her dress.

  Georgie swallowed. She didn’t seem able to speak. Or move.

  Louis smiled gently, took her hand and placed the napkin in it, and returned his attention to his dinner. Georgie felt the blush all the way to her toes. Hurriedly, she stuffed the napkin back in her lap and elbowed Evie, who was sniggering uncontrollably.

  “Shut up,” she muttered, mortified.

  Glancing up at the table, her gaze collided with the Duke of Rochford. His sneer seemed more pronounced than ever, perhaps because of the rigid set to his jaw. Appalled that the duke might have seen her behaving like such a prize ninny, Georgie put her head down and concentrated on eating.

  After dinner, everyone retired to the parlour for tea or brandy. Aunt Prue had banished the tradition of the men sitting over their port by themselves as soon as she’d become duchess, but as it was an informal gathering, the port was available in the parlour for those who wished, or tea for those abstaining. Thankfully, there were no parlour games this evening, for which Georgie was grateful. She wondered if her aunt had done that deliberately, to ensure it did not make Rochford uncomfortable.

  Everyone seemed relaxed and in good spirits. The scent of Christmas lingered in the air, the warmth of the fire fluttering the red silk ribbons of the decorations, and stirring the thick arrangement of holly and fir and evergreen studded with cinnamon sticks on the mantelpiece. For a moment, Georgie acknowledged a pang of homesickness. Christmas at Wildsyde was always a jolly affair. Mama had such a knack for decorating the castle and making everything seem magical. Even her brothers were tolerable during the festive season and made time to go sleighing with her, even if their snowball fights became rather violent. She decided she must write to them tomorrow and tell them everything that had happened since she’d arrived. Well, perhaps not everything. She could certainly leave the duke out of any correspondence. The great, overbearing—

  “Lady Georgina.”

  Georgie let out a yelp as the deep voice rumbled in her ear.

  Well, speak of the great, overbearing lout and he shall appear.

  “Your grace,” she said, pleased with herself for sounding so cool and detached when her heart had begun a riot behind her ribs.

  “Did you enjoy dinner?”

  “Of course. Dinner at Beverwyck is always a work of art.”

  “The company helps, of course.”

  There was no sarcasm, not a hint of mockery in his words, but Georgie’s cheeks burned all the same. “Of course,” she returned with a tight smile.

  “Do you think he appreciates his good fortune?”

  Georgie forced herself to look at the duke then, wondering if he smirking again, but no. Although the scar tugged at his lip as always, his expression was curious.

  “I’m not certain,” Georgie replied. “Perhaps his beauty is as much a burden as your scar.”

  Rochford snorted at that, clearly unconvinced. “Yes, it must be terrible, having women fall at your feet without lifting a finger.”

  He levelled what she could only describe as an accusing gaze at her, and Georgie stared back at him, refusing to be further embarrassed. So, she found the comte beautiful. Who didn’t? Well, apart from Evie, apparently.

  “Perhaps it becomes tedious, never knowing if people truly like you, but only want to be with you for your pretty face?” she suggested. “At least if someone spends time with you, your grace, you know it is because they wish to. Oh, wait… no. I forgot. You think everyone is after your money and your title. If you’ll excuse me….”

  Georgie turned away, appalled at herself. She must put some distance between them before she said anything truly reprehensible.

  Strong fingers grasped hers, tugging her to a halt. Georgie glanced around, wondering if anyone had seen, but her skirts hid their hands from view, and he hadn’t let go. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart simply could not keep up this demented speed. It would explode.

  “Did I not apologise for insulting you so?” he asked sounding a little impatient.

  “It’s so hard to remember. There have been so many things to apologise for,” she replied tartly, though her mind was consumed with the fact he was still holding her hand and showed no sign of releasing her.

  “Only two, surely.”

  “There was only one apology,” she said, glaring at him, though she still hadn’t pulled her hand free. Why hadn’t she done that?

  Why haven’t you done that, Georgie? You are furious with him. He’s an obnoxious arse.

  Remember?

  “Two apologies,” he corrected, and her breath hitched as his thumb caressed her palm.

  “T-Two?” she stammered, finding it harder and harder to concentrate on the thread of the conversation.

  “I came to the party for you, didn’t I?”

  She blinked up at him. “That wasn’t an apology.”

  “Yes. It was.”

  Oh.

  “Goodnight, Lady Georgina.”

  He released her hand and left her standing by herself. Georgie stared at her palm, half expecting to see a mark, a burn, as if his touch had scalded her. Good heavens. What on earth had that been about? Had that been an apology, too? Or had he simply not liked the idea she might have been thinking about the Comte de Villen and not him? Oh, good Lord! Did he know she’d been thinking about him? How ghastly. Georgie put her hands to her cheeks, wishing she did not blush quite so easily. She had her mother to thank for that.

  “Whatever did he say to you?” Georgie looked up to see Rosamund staring at her with wide eyes.

  “Who?” Georgie replied defensively, which was clearly an idiotic thing to say in the circumstances. A fact reinforced by the look Ozzie send her in reply.

  “I-I hardly know,” Georgie said apologetically, unable to dissemble with her friend and too bewildered to try.

  “Oooh, was he flirting with you? He looked awfully intense.”

  “Of course not. He always looks that way,” Georgie said absently… or had he been flirting with her? The touch of his thumb stroking her palm reverberated in her memory, making her flush. That had to be flirtatious, but… but surely….

  Ozzie gave her an odd look but said nothing, only taking her arm and leading her on a walk about the room. Georgie followed like a lamb, too focused on unravelling the conversation with the duke to object.

  “I think he’s taken a fancy to you,” Ozzie whispered.

  Georgie snorted. “He said I was a graceless, mannerless baggage,” she said dryly. “Obviously he’s head
over ears in love.”

  Ozzie laughed but refused to give up on the subject. “Everyone but you is terrified of him, I think. I admit I find him dreadfully daunting. I’ve not spoken a word to him yet, which vexes me, for I do not wish to be the kind of woman who judges by appearance. Indeed, I never thought I was, but every time I try to gather the nerve to attempt a conversation, I get all tongue-tied. I’m sure he thinks me a horrid creature.”

  “I shouldn’t worry, he thinks that of everyone,” Georgie reassured her, and then considered that. Why oughtn’t he think that, if even kind-hearted people like Ozzie wouldn’t speak to him. Perhaps he did not realise how intimidating he was. Or perhaps he did it on purpose, to keep everyone away, like a dog with a thorn in its paw, snarling at anyone who tried to help it.

  “You’re awfully quiet, Georgie.”

  Georgie looked up, startled to discover they’d done several turns of the room in complete silence.

  “I beg your pardon, Ozzie,” she said with an apologetic smile. “I shall try to do better.”

  Georgie woke early the next morning after an uneasy night’s sleep. Her head felt muzzy and no clearer than the previous evening, so she dressed in her riding habit and went to the stables. A good hard ride ought to clear the cobwebs and give her an appetite for breakfast.

  The grooms knew her by now and didn’t quibble over her choice of mount, a big sturdy gelding who would not ordinarily be thought suitable for a woman. She had learned to ride with her brothers, though, and she had always been too stubborn to be left behind by them. It had taken her a lot of falls and bruises, and even a broken wrist, but she had learned to keep up and eventually even outride them. She could manage the same horses that they could, but was far lighter in the saddle, and she was also an excellent markswoman. Though she did not enjoy hunting, she could hit a target in a bullseye with far more accuracy than most men. Her brothers respected her abilities and treated her little differently than they did each other. She’d enjoyed that fact as a girl. As she had grown, though… not so much.