The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8)

by Emma V. Leech

  “Who is that awful man, Jules?” she demanded.

  Jules laughed as he saw who she was gesturing towards. “The Duke of Rochford, and he’s an ill-tempered devil, I’ll grant you, though not as dreadful as he makes out.”

  “I beg to differ,” she muttered crossly.

  Jules gave her an alert look. “You know him?”

  “No, but I ran into him in the library earlier and he was horribly rude to me.”

  “Why? What did you do?”

  Georgie’s mouth fell open for the second time that day. “What did I do?” she repeated in outrage.

  “Well? Out with it,” Jules persisted.

  “I did nothing!” Georgie said, keeping her voice low and urgent, for they were almost in the dining room. “He was lurking in a dark corner of the library, and I didn’t know he was there. I walked into him—which is akin to walking into a brick wall, I might add—and the impact threw me off my feet. There I was, sprawled on the floor in front of him, utterly humiliated and all he did was stare at me like I was something unpleasant he’d stepped in.”

  “Really?” Jules said, looking thoroughly entertained.

  “Yes, really,” she said, flushing with embarrassment as she remembered. “He didn’t even offer me a hand to get up.”

  “Why not? What did he say?”

  Georgie rolled her eyes at him. “He said he would have offered, but he wanted to ensure I wouldn’t swoon at the thought of touching him, or some such nonsense.”

  A thoughtful expression flitted over Jules’ face as he considered this.

  “What?” she demanded, but they lost any further chance at conversation as they had to find their places.

  “I’ll speak to you another time, George,” Jules promised cryptically.

  Frustrated and curious, Georgie had to be satisfied… until she turned to discover she was seated next to the Duke of Rochford.

  Rochford smirked inwardly as he saw the young woman look at the place cards, scowl, and look up at him.

  Yes, my pretty little dove, they’ve sat you next to the mangy cur and there’s damn all you can do about it.

  He watched, admitting himself impressed, as she gathered herself, put up her chin and moved to her place.

  “Good evening, your grace,” she said with impeccable politeness, drawing out the honorific with such emphasis that he wanted to smile. She curtsied, offering him a peek of her splendid décolletage and, for a moment, Rochford forgot anything resembling manners, too riveted by the sight and a lurid daydream about burying his face there. She looked up, catching him ogling her like some panting, overheated schoolboy. He felt bad about it until he remembered the way she’d sprung away from him like he’d the pox. Anger and resentment overtook any feelings of guilt and he leered at her, ensuring she was not in doubt she’d been right in thinking him a vile monster. She stiffened and refused to look at him again.

  Rochford endured the evening, as he’d known would be inevitable. Everyone here was related or an old friend of the family, and the atmosphere was warm and convivial. The conversation flitted past him, witty and fast-paced and covering many eclectic topics. But Rochford let the noise wash over him. It was always this way, with him on the outside even if he was in the centre of a crowd. Once upon a time, it had bothered him. Once upon a time, he’d been fool enough to try to belong. No longer. With an inward sigh, he wondered if he might have been better off alone at Mulcaster than sitting through weeks of evenings like this. A chill ran down his spine as he considered returning to the castle alone. No. No, this was far from perfect, but it was better than that.

  “—then Rochford stepped in and saved my sorry arse.”

  “Jules! Language,” the duchess scolded, though her eyes danced with mirth.

  Jules grinned at her, not looking the least bit chastised. “Sorry, Mama, but it’s true, I swear. Isn’t it, Rochford?”

  Rochford glanced up, discomforted, to find everyone at the table looking at him.

  “If it’s coming from your lips, I highly doubt it,” he muttered, concentrating on cutting up a slice of roast beef.

  A murmur of laughter rippled around the room.

  “A fair remark, but all the same, they outnumbered me five to one, and the fellows were cut-throats to a man, I swear. I thought my number was up, I don’t mind telling you.”

  “Oh, Jules, have a care for your poor mother!” the duchess said with agitation, swiping up her wineglass and taking an unladylike swallow.

  “There, there, Prue. He survived and was a deal wiser for the experience,” Bedwin said, from the other end of the table.

  “Anyway, Rochford arrived like an incoming tide,” Jules said, apparently enjoying himself enormously. “For a moment, I wasn’t certain what side he was on, as he didn’t look exactly friendly himself, but then… then… he picked the first fellow up, over his head, and flung him halfway across the room. I swear to God, I’ve never seen the like before or since.”

  The entire room fell silent, gawping at Rochford, and his skin prickled with unease. Well, let them look. They looked and saw a great beast capable of violence and destruction, and why not? He was capable of such behaviour, right enough. Fighting their expectations certainly didn’t get him anywhere.

  “What happened next, Jules?” his sister, Lady Rosamund, asked with wide eyes.

  “The other fellows took one look at Rochford and ran away,” Jules said, laughing. “So I bought him a drink to thank him for his help, and the surly devil took a liking to me.”

  “I never did. You just won’t take no for an answer,” Rochford grumbled.

  “Ah, there he is, my dearest pal.” Jules gestured affectionately across the table towards him.

  Rochford shook his head in exasperation and returned his attention to his dinner. A moment later, he felt the unmistakable sensation of being scrutinised, one which he would usually ignore. People always stared at him and whispered to each other, and he was past caring what they thought. Yet this time the sensation nagged, and he turned to discover the woman at his side studying him. He glowered back at her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Rochford sat back, surprised. “For?” he demanded, wondering if it was a trick.

  “For keeping Jules out of trouble,” she said, and Rochford felt a surge of resentment for the familiar way she spoke about his friend.

  He wondered if perhaps there was an understanding between them and had to batter down an unwelcome flood of bitterness. She was beautiful and well-bred, no doubt an ideal bride for the handsome young man. Blackwood had told him she was Lady Georgina Anderson, daughter of the Earl of Morven, though whoever had the raising of her had been wise enough to work the Scottish accent from her speech. The ton did not tolerate such differences, like a face that was scarred and twisted. Irritated by her gratitude, though he did not understand why, Rochford turned to look at her.

  “He was a damned fool for going to such a place.”

  She stared at him, narrowing her eyes. “Perhaps he was. I was only thanking you for your kindness in helping him.”

  “I didn’t do it to be kind.”

  Her gaze upon him was steady. He had to give her credit for that, for unless they were whispering about him from a safe distance, most women would not meet his eye.

  “Then why?”

  “I knew Bedwin would owe me a debt of gratitude if I saved his heir’s neck.”

  He watched her, waiting for her contemptuous expression, when she realised he’d done it for his own gain and not out of any sense of fair play.

  “Well,” she said, after a long moment. “Whatever your motivation, I am grateful for it.” She returned her attention to her dinner and did not speak another word to him all evening.

  Chapter 3

  Laurie,

  I may well take you up on your invitation—not the one about finding a wife. I’m uncertain my nerves could stand more female company at the moment. If ever I marry, I shall find the sweetest natured, most doci
le and compliant female that I can. I do not care if she is plain, or fat or thin, so long as she is amiable company and does not create scandals nor make things explode in my face.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble August Lane Fox to The Most Hon’ble Lawrence Grenville, The Marquess of Bainbridge.

  Evening of the 7th of December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

  Evie hesitated at the top of the stairs as she heard muffled voices from below. Footmen spoke in hushed tones before walking off and going about their business. She held her breath, cursing to herself as her stomach rumbled ominously. Drat the thing, if her stomach made a racket and got her caught, that would just be typical of her luck. She’d barely eaten a thing at dinner, which had been utter misery as she’d watched all the mouth-watering courses come and go, but she was determined to do her best. Louis had promised to fix the horrid pink gown she was wearing, or burn it, but if she were just a few pounds lighter, it would make the job much easier, surely?

  Evie waited until she was certain the servants had carried on their way, then picked up her skirts and ran down the steps, the material billowing and rustling as she went. She could not help but grin as she ran through the darkened corridors and rooms on the way to the library. There were stunningly beautiful women of all ages who would go to extreme lengths to be alone with Louis César and here she was, plain little Evie Knight, meeting him in private. Of course, there was nothing the least bit romantic in their meeting, but it amused her to imagine their reaction should any of those women discover it. Not that they ever would. No one must ever know, for it would be a shocking scandal and then poor Louis would have to marry her. That would never do, though she wished she could find a nice, kind woman who would love and care for him as he deserved. She had tried, but no one ever seemed to be quite right. Yet, anyway. But surely there must be someone for him. Georgie, for example, was very kind and loving, and the sight of Louis had certainly made an impression on her Evie remembered her friend’s stunned expression with amusement.

  She quickened her steps as she reached the library door and, with one last furtive look over her shoulder, she slipped inside.

  It was dark, apart from the warm glow cast from the hearth, where a fire burned low.

  “Louis?” she whispered. As there was no answer, she moved towards the fire to wait for him. A few minutes later, the ornate grandfather clock that stood in the entrance hall chimed the hour as the door opened silently and a tall figure entered the room.

  “Louis!” Evie exclaimed, and ran to him, hugging him tight.

  “Evie, you little wretch,” he said with a sigh as his arms closed around her. “You nearly did that earlier in front of everyone and set them all talking.”

  “I know, I am sorry,” she said sheepishly. “Only it’s been months and months, and I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too, ma petite.” He hugged her briefly before letting her go. “Now, let us have a proper look at this offensive gown and see what we can do with it.”

  Evie waited, holding onto a chair as she felt a little lightheaded. She was curious to know what on earth he had in mind for the ugly gown she was wearing. Louis crouched by the fire to light a taper and then went and lit the lamps. When he was satisfied there was enough light, he turned back to her. As they had done earlier, his brows drew together. Well, it was an ugly gown.

  “Evie? Are you certain you are quite well?” he asked, moving closer to her.

  “Yes, of course,” she said, impatient to know his opinion of her horrid pink dress. “Now, what do you think of it? Isn’t it vile?”

  She turned in a circle to give him a good look and gasped as the room tilted.

  “Evie!”

  Strong arms caught her around the waist, and Louis hauled her against his muscular, warm body. Evie gasped in shock, still too dazed to respond, as he lifted her as though she weighed nothing, which was certainly not true.

  “I—” she said, disorientated and giddy. She put her hands to her temples and closed her eyes, too weak to protest as Louis carried her and laid her carefully down upon a settee.

  “Merde! What the devil have you been up to, you little fool?” he demanded, his voice hard and angrier than she had ever heard it.

  “Nothing!” she protested, not understanding what she’d done to deserve such a scold.

  “Rien!” he retorted, shaking his head. “That is a lie. You barely ate a mouthful at dinner, and don’t tell me otherwise, for I was watching. You’ve lost weight, far too much, and you’re so pale. Mon Dieu, Evie, what were you thinking?”

  Evie’s eyes prickled with embarrassment and humiliation at his words. “W-Why shouldn’t I try to lose weight? Everyone else does it and Madame Blanchet said—”

  “Madame Blanchet? She told you to starve yourself? Well the wretched woman can go to the devil, and so I shall tell her,” he raged, his eyes sparking blue fire.

  “Oh, no! No, Louis, you must not,” she said, reaching out to clasp his arm. “Think of the scandal. It’s not at all appropriate.”

  His expression was rather daunting as he turned on her, for she had never seen him angry with her. “And since when do you give a damn about propriety? You are here alone with a man who could ruin you, and do you care?”

  Evie put her chin up. “You would never hurt me.”

  “So much you know,” he said savagely, tugging his arm free and walking away from her. He stood staring down at the fire, his shoulders rigid.

  “Louis?” she said, uncertain now, never having encountered her friend in this kind of mood before. There was a long silence, followed by a muttered curse. Louis ran a hand through his hair and then turned back to her.

  “I am sorry, Evie,” he said, his voice low. “I beg you will forgive me. I ought never have spoken to you so harshly.”

  “It was nothing, please, let us forget it…” she began, but Louis crossed the floor and knelt beside her, taking her hand.

  “Non! It is not nothing, and neither is that dreadful woman making you feel anything less than beautiful nothing. She has no right to make you unhappy, and neither do I. My only defence is that it makes me furious to see you make yourself ill, and for what? To look like another dull little debutante, just like all the others, when the world already has its fill of those.”

  Evie felt her eyes burn again and looked away, embarrassed. She had long been accustomed to being the plain, plump one among a bevy of beautiful women, but to have to discuss it with Louis… How mortifying. Yet, he was her dearest friend, and who else would she speak to?

  “I was j-just tired of the constant comments. ‘Oh, Evie, you’d be so much prettier if only you’d lose some weight.’ ‘Oh, Evie, I found the most wonderful diet—I’ve lost six pounds, you must try it!’ ‘Oh, Evie, do you think you ought to have another piece of cake? It’s dreadfully fattening.’”

  She blinked hard as her vision blurred, startled to hear a volley of furious French as Louis muttered beneath his breath.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said, his voice terse.

  She waited as he took a deep breath and let it out again. Despite her best efforts, she felt a tear slide down her cheek. Louis saw it and his jaw set again, but he reached out and wiped it away, his touch gentle.

  “Evie, do you trust me?”

  “Of course, I do. You know I do.”

  He snorted and shook his head. “Oui, far more than you should, ma petite, but if you trust me, you will heed my words and believe them. Do you promise?”

  Evie frowned. “Well, I shall try, but I don’t know what they are yet.”

  Louis shook his head. “That is not how this works. You will listen, and you will believe me, because I am telling you the truth. You are every bit as beautiful as any woman you wish to compare yourself with.”

  Evie let out a huff of laughter. Well, if he was going to be silly about it….

  “I am serious,” he said, and her breath caught at the anger in his eyes. “You. A
re. Beautiful. Inside and out, and anyone who cannot see that does not deserve a moment of your time, and certainly not your tears.”

  It was hard not to believe his words whilst those blue eyes stared at her with such sincerity, but Evie could not help but feel sceptical. She was a practical girl, after all, and aware of her own attributes. That’s not to say she had none. She knew she was fun to be with and could hold an intelligent conversation, and she had pretty eyes and hair, and she’d be an excellent wife and companion to anyone who wished to marry her. But to suggest she could compare to the great beauties of the ton was simply ridiculous. She knew Louis meant she was a beautiful person because he thought she was kind-hearted, but that was not at all the same thing. She simply wasn’t the type who made men wild with desire or prompted them to write sonnets or fight duels. Not that she wanted anyone to fight a duel on her account, for that would be horrible, but it would be nice to see some evidence of desire or jealousy. She had seen the possessive looks on the faces of Arabella’s and Florence’s husbands, the pride and the heat in their eyes as they looked upon their beloveds. It would be nice to think some man might feel like that for her one day, but she felt a little dubious, no matter Louis’ words.

  “You don’t believe me, do you?” Louis said, his tone flat.

  Evie gave a rueful smile. “I believe you are fond enough of me to see me with a kinder eye than most, and I am grateful for it, but please, Louis, let us speak of something else. What are we to do about this wretched dress?”

  Louis sighed, shaking his head. “Very well. Can you stand without swooning?” he asked, his tone a little impatient.

  Evie nodded, so he gave her his hand and helped her up. Louis stood back and muttered something that did not sound complimentary about the dress as he walked around her, studying the gown from all angles.

  “I hate pink,” Evie said, wishing she didn’t look such a wretched sight.

  He shook his head, studying her. “Non, I disagree with that, at least. The colour is good. You have a complexion most women would kill for, all that creamy white skin and here….” He moved closer to touch a finger to her cheek. “The faintest flush of rose,” he murmured.