Evie flushed a deal harder at his words. The way the French rolled the r on rose was rather delicious after all. Louis smirked. “Not so faint.”
“Well, perhaps the colour isn’t to blame, but it’s still dreadful,” Evie grumbled, folding her arms about her middle and feeling increasingly self-conscious.
Louis took her wrists, uncrossing her arms and staring at her bust and midriff with such concentration she wanted to die of embarrassment.
“Louis,” she said, uncomfortable.
“The cut is all wrong,” he said, interrupting her. “This neckline is far too high and unflattering. It does not make the most of your assets.”
“My… what?”
“Your assets,” Louis repeated impatiently.
“Do I have, er… assets?” she asked doubtfully.
Louis tsked, giving her an incredulous glance. “Your bust is magnificent, Evie, and it’s being hidden beneath that high neck when it ought to be on display. I cannot understand what the woman was thinking. Perhaps she was jealous.”
Evie snorted in amusement, too entertained to be scandalised by the comment. “I hardly think—”
“What kind of corset are you wearing?”
“Wh—” Evie began, and then gave up, staring at him in outrage. “You cannot ask me that!” she whispered, stunned.
Louis rolled his eyes. “You wanted my advice, my help, oui? Well, whatever is under that dress is not doing what it ought. Tiens, never mind. You must send me your measurements and I shall deal with that too.”
“But—”
“Hush.” Louis silenced her as he stood back, contemplating.
Obediently, Evie hushed, too confounded to say another word. Louis studied her critically.
“The cut of this neckline needs to be low, and these dreadful frills must go. They are all wrong for you. You need a much simpler style, with some small pleats for emphasis, I think… Oui, that run from the shoulders to here.”
Evie blinked, a little stunned, as he traced a line in mid-air, from her shoulder to low on her décolletage.
“There?” she squealed in alarm. “I’ll fall out of it!”
“No, you will not,” he assured her.
“B-But everyone will stare at me,” she protested, flushing hot as she considered the idea.
Louis shrugged. “Oui, naturellement.”
“I’m really not sure—”
“You said you trusted me,” he replied, watching her with unnerving intensity.
“I do. Of course, I do, but…” Evie sighed at the implacable look in his eyes. “Oh. Very well.”
“You will have the gown sent to my room and I will see to the alterations.”
“Yes, Louis.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied. The sound of the clock chiming one, echoed in the distance. Evie sighed in disappointment. “I suppose I had better go to bed.”
“Non, not yet,” Louis said, taking her firmly by the hand and leading her to the door.
“Where are we going?” she asked, brightening to think the evening was not yet over, and curious to know what he had in mind.
Louis looked over his shoulder at her, a determined glint in his eyes. “To get you something to eat.”
8th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
Georgie came down late to breakfast the next morning after a luxurious lie in. Nearly everyone but Evie had already been and gone ages ago, but she was content enough, sipping a cup of delicious hot chocolate. She gave a little sigh of pleasure and licked her lips, setting the cup down and turning to Evie, who was smothering a yawn.
“Did you not sleep well?” George asked her in concern.
Evie flushed and returned a nervous smile. “Umm, no, not very well. All the excitement I expect.”
“I slept like the dead. Meg had to shake me to wake me up, or I’d still be snoring,” Georgie said, grinning, though her smile faded as she noticed the Duke of Rochford sit down at the opposite end of the table. He was scowling at her. She resisted the temptation to stick her tongue out at him and returned her attention to Evie.
“Aunt Prue said I might go to the kitchens and make shortbread. Do you want to come?”
Evie bit her lip. “Actually, I have a bit of a headache. I might go for a walk and get some fresh air. Clear the cobwebs away.”
Georgie nodded. “As you wish. I hope you feel better.”
Evie smiled and got up, leaving the table. Georgie reached for a fresh bread roll and tore it in half. She had buttered one side and begun on the other before she realised Rochford was still there.
“You cook?” he asked, surprising her.
She had assumed he would ignore her and had been quite happy with that. Conversing with him did not seem wise, but she could hardly refuse to answer a direct question.
“I do.”
He frowned at her, apparently unhappy with this answer. “Why? You are the daughter of an earl. If you want something, you need only snap your pretty fingers.”
“And do aristocratic men need to go out and shoot birds and deer?” she countered.
He waved this away with disregard. “It is not considered a respectable hobby for a lady, I think. It is too menial.”
Georgie stared back at him. “I don’t care. I enjoy it.”
His thick, dark brows drew together.
She gave a tut of irritation. “If the ton suddenly disapproved of men hunting, would you stop?”
“I don’t hunt anyway, so I should not care.”
She stared at him in surprise.
“You don’t hunt?” The surprise in her voice was audible.
He shot her a contemptuous look. “No doubt you imagine me murdering the wildlife with my bare hands, but no, my lady. I do not hunt.”
The bitterness of his tone took her aback, and Georgie looked at him with interest. “You certainly look capable of doing that,” she admitted. “But I do not understand why you should think I imagine you doing so.”
“Do you not?” he said, and she wondered if he was really sneering at her, or if it was the scar at his lip that just gave that impression. She ignored his comment and concentrated on piling jam onto one half of the roll.
“I like to cook. It gives me pleasure, both to make things and to see people enjoy the results. Obviously, I do not need to do it, but I find it… soothing.”
“Soothing?” he repeated. “What in God’s name do you need soothing for? You’re young and rich and beautiful. A charmed life, I would think.”
Georgie glanced at him, wondering why he seemed so dreadfully cross with her when he did not know her at all. Though she noted he thought her beautiful and was alarmed by the little jolt of pleasure the words gave her. He was a peculiar fellow, this duke.
“Indeed, a charmed life. I am very fortunate, but so are you, I think.”
His lip curled. This time it was deliberate, she was certain.
“Indeed,” he echoed, a private note to his voice she could not decipher.
A footman appeared at her elbow to refill her cup of chocolate and she smiled, recognising the handsome young man. “Good morning. Roberts, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lady,” he said, beaming at her, clearly pleased to be remembered.
“How are you settling in? You had not long been here when I last visited. Are you happy?”
Roberts flushed with pleasure at her inquiry. “Oh, yes, my lady. The duke and duchess are most kind and everyone has been very welcoming. I’ve been fortunate.”
“And how is your mother? She was unwell, I think? I do hope she has recovered.”
Roberts gaped at her in astonishment, but nodded. “Yes, my lady, she is fit as a flea—I mean, she’s well, thank you. She’ll be that made up to know you asked after her.”
“Well, then I am glad on both counts,” Georgie said, before thanking him for the chocolate.
Roberts moved away down the table and Georgie once again felt the weight of the duke’s scrutiny. Heavens. Now what? She looked at him and r
aised her eyebrows.
“You ought not be so familiar with the staff,” he said, his voice cold. “It causes problems.”
“Problems for whom?” she demanded, matching his icy tone. “Not me.”
“No. For them. For if they do not know where the line is, they overstep and jeopardise their situation.”
“Perhaps in your employ, not in my mother’s, nor my Aunt Prue’s,” she retorted.
He made an impatient sound. “They are not your friends. They work for you.”
“That does not mean we must treat them as if they do not exist,” Georgie snapped, her temper rising.
Her mother had instilled that lesson into her. Georgie knew, as her mother had discovered in her time, that it was not done to thank servants, or even acknowledge the fact that they existed. As the daughter of a vastly wealthy self-made man, the aristocracy had not accepted her mother, viewing her as an imposter in their select ranks. The ton had reviled her for her lack of breeding and laughed at her befriending the staff, implying that like was drawn to like. Despite this, she had refused to follow their lead and blend in by acting as they did. She had always known the names of her staff and whether they were happy or well, and as much about their families and situations as they wished to share. She also thanked her staff for a job well done. Every one of Georgie’s father’s great estates ran like clockwork, and the staff were happy and well-treated. That was down to her mother, so this pig-headed, mean-spirited duke was not about to change her mind or her ways.
“They will not respect you if you speak so freely with them. They’ll take advantage. Did you not see the way that boy looked at you?”
Georgie blinked at him. “What way?” The duke made a disgusted sound and threw his napkin down on the table as he stood.
“Ignorant child,” he muttered under his breath.
Georgie flushed. “I am not the least ignorant, and you are rude and unkind, and I don’t care if you are a duke, you are not a gentleman.”
Rochford snorted at that, staring at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. “No. I’m not.”
He stalked out of the breakfast parlour without another word, leaving Georgie to seethe in his absence.
Rochford walked back towards Beverwyck, the frost hardened grass crunching beneath his boots. He was still simmering after his confrontation with Lady Georgina, though why she’d annoyed him so he could not fathom. She was just another brainless debutante, except this one had an urge to be a do-gooder. Her kindness would get her or a member of staff into trouble one day, but she’d not heed him, so he might have saved his breath.
A delicious scent drifted upon the cold air as he drew closer to the house. Rochford stopped, sniffing appreciatively. He’d been walking for some time, trying to shake off a growing sense of restlessness, and had found himself on the side of the house where the kitchens and utility buildings lay out of sight of the grander parts of the property. Not that they were shabby. Everything about Beverwyck was immaculate and revealed a sharp eye for beauty and detail. The sound of a door opening had him turning, and he muttered a curse as he saw Lady Georgina step outside. Typical. Just what he needed. He was considering ducking behind a well-placed oak tree in order to escape her when she looked up. She stiffened at the sight of him, a reaction which only irritated him further, though heaven alone knew why. It wasn’t as if he wanted the blasted woman to like him. No one liked him. They respected him, feared him, and damn well did what he said, but they didn’t like him. He didn’t have friends who liked him. Well, apart from Blackwood, but he had a warped sense of humour and was somewhat eccentric, so he could be excused for his judgement, which was clearly unsound.
The kitchen was set on the lower floors and, as he could not now escape, Rochford waited as she climbed the stairs back up to ground level. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the kitchen and her thick, curling hair was escaping its pins on all sides. Rochford had a sudden and unwelcome vision of how she might look beneath him as she cried out in passion, her lovely skin pink for an entirely different reason. He stamped on the image at once, but it was too late and his body reacted, his skin feeling two sizes too small as desire flared with an accompanying rush of heat.
“The famous shortbread, I surmise,” he said, jerking his head at the tin box she carried.
“Yes,” she replied, looking wary, as well she might.
The scent of butter and sugar clung to her, and Rochford’s mouth watered. Damn the shortbread, she looked good enough to eat.
She hesitated for a moment before tugging the lid off and offering the tin to him. “Try one.”
“I don’t like sweets,” Rochford growled, aware he sounded ungrateful and churlish but unable to stop himself.
“Try anyway. You’ll like these,” she predicted, annoying him further.
He’d just told her he didn’t have a sweet tooth, hadn’t he? She waved the tin under his nose, clearly not about to take no for an answer. Rochford gave a long-suffering sigh and looked at the biscuits, which had been made in the shape of a thistle. He picked out a golden piece, studded all over with sugar, and put the whole thing in his mouth, chewing reluctantly. Butter and sweetness and a crumbly, rich texture filled his mouth, and it was all he could do not to moan with pleasure. He was damned if he’d let her know that, though. He scowled and shrugged.
“It’s a biscuit.”
She gave a derisive snort and glared at him in outrage. “It’s not just a biscuit. It’s shortbread!”
Rochford regarded her with amusement. He’d never guessed someone could get so furious over a biscuit.
“Shortbread is a superior biscuit. It is the king of biscuits and you enjoyed it, you’re just being stubborn.”
Rochford felt his eyebrows go up. “The king of biscuits?” he repeated sceptically.
She flushed harder but put up her chin. “Aye.”
Ah, and there was the Scottish accent she hid, emerging because she was flustered.
“Aye,” he repeated, smiling. It was a mistake. He’d not meant to mock her, but she clearly took it as such.
“Aye,” she repeated, her voice louder and harder now as she crammed the lid back on the tin. “So awa’ n bile yer heid!”
Rochford’s mouth fell open, though he was uncertain whether he was more stunned by the thick Scottish accent or the fact she’d just told him to go boil his head. He had no opportunity to react or retaliate, though, as she turned and stalked away, and he could do nothing but watch the mesmerising sway of her glorious backside as she went.
Chapter 4
Dearest Aisling,
Do you remember when I last visited you and I joked about you making a love potion and you said such things really existed. Do they work? And could you make one? Only, I know how clever you are with herbs and medicines, and I just wondered because —
―Excerpt of a letter from The Lady Rosamund Adolphus (daughter of Robert and Prudence Adolphus, their graces, The Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) to Lady Aisling Baxter (daughter of Luke and Kitty Baxter, The Earl and Countess of Trevick).
8th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
The rude, aggravating, impossible man! Georgie seethed all the way back to her room, flinging the tin of shortbread down and snatching at the ribbons of her bonnet.
“Stop tugging at them like that, ye’ll get them all fankled,” Meg scolded, moving closer to smack her hands away.
Georgie huffed but stood like an obedient child as Meg removed her bonnet and took her coat. Her maid gave her a squint-eyed look and correctly interpreted her mood.
“What’s got ye crabbit now? You were in a fine mood when ye went down the stairs.”
“Rochford,” Georgie said, folding her arms.
“Ach, he’s a fine, big fellow, so he is,” Meg said with a dreamy sigh. “A face like a slapped arse, I grant ye, but ye need not look at him in the dark, hen.”
“Meg!” Georgie exclaimed. She was well used to Meg’s rather forthright manner of speech, but still.
Meg looked back at her, all innocence. “What? Don’t tell me he doesn’t get your heart going pitty-patty when ye consider those big, brawny arms about ye. Why he could lift ye like a feather, and there are few men ye can say that about, for you’re a fine, braw lassie, but no delicate flower.”
Georgie ignored the observation about her stature, having heard it often enough before. “He’s rude and arrogant and the most annoying man that ever walked the earth!”
“Give him something better to do than flap his gums, then. I could think of better uses for his—”
“That’s enough,” Georgie cut in, horrified.
Meg smirked, sashaying off with her bonnet and pelisse to put them away. Good heavens, what a thought. Her and Rochford, of all men. Georgie shook her head, incredulous at the idea of kissing a man like Rochford, at the thought of those muscular arms going around her, that huge, powerful body pressed to hers. She imagined those cold grey eyes staring at her with warmth, and that overbearing man who looked like a brutal warrior treating her with gentleness and affection. A surge of heat swept over her, stealing her breath and making her feel giddy. Good Lord. Surely, she couldn’t be attracted to that bad-tempered devil. No. That was… it couldn’t… it wasn’t possible.
Oh no!
Georgie sat down on the bed with a thud and tested the theory again, cautiously imagining the duke of Rochford sweeping her into his arms and kissing her. With horror, she realised her heart was racing, a fine prickle of sweat flushing her skin, and a strange aching sensation had begun deep inside her.
Oh, dear heaven. This was a disaster. Rochford? Of all men, she had to find herself wanting that great ill-mannered oaf? Georgie groaned and put her head in her hands. This was bad. This was very, very bad.
Gathering herself, Georgie took a deep breath. Very well. She was utterly deranged and found the great ox appealing. It wasn’t the end of the world. She just needed to stay away from him and ensure they were never in close proximity, never alone together. Besides which, he clearly couldn’t stand the sight of her. He thought she was a mannerless, ignorant hoyden, and he’d mocked her accent when it had slipped, the beast. So, unless she threw herself at him—which she was certainly not going to do—she ought to be safe enough.
The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Page 4