The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8)

by Emma V. Leech

  Comforted by the thought, Georgie steeled her spine and went back downstairs.

  She found the family in their favourite parlour, one which they only allowed very close friends to enter. All the furniture was comfortable and worn just enough to make it clear this was a well-used space. Books and magazines littered the tabletops, and drawing pencils and sketchbooks lay abandoned next to half-finished pieces of needlework. It was warm and cosy, especially as the bright morning had gradually clouded over into a grey late afternoon, and a fine drizzle of rain fell as the daylight waned.

  Everyone was playing charades, and Ozzie had just begun her turn, with everyone shouting at once and giving completely opposing suggestions.

  Georgie grinned as she entered, amused to see everyone taking part. Everyone except for Rochford. He stood apart, leaning back against the low windowsill, watching the proceedings with a frown. She got the impression he hadn’t the least idea what was going on.

  “Turning,” Jules shouted at Ozzie, who threw up her hands in frustration. “Well, you are turning round and round,” Jules retorted.

  “Dizzy?” Aunt Prue suggested.

  “Lost! She’s lost,” seven-year-old Harry said.

  Aunt Prue ruffled his hair affectionately. “What a good guess!”

  Georgie looked back at Rochford. He’d crossed his muscular arms over his chest and was still scowling. Like a big angry bear. Yet, the longer she looked, Georgie could not help but wonder if he was more puzzled than angry. It was so hard to tell when he appeared so fierce all the time, and that scar gave him a look of permanent disdain, making him dreadfully intimidating. Despite her annoyance with him for mocking her earlier, and in opposition of her better judgement, Georgie went to stand beside him.

  He straightened at the sight of her, his arms falling to his sides.

  “Have you never played charades?” she asked.

  Rochford returned an incredulous expression.

  “No,” he said, terse as ever, confirming her suspicions.

  She wondered at that. How could he never have played? It was such a common pastime.

  “Not even as a boy?”

  He snorted. “Especially not as a boy.”

  Georgie frowned. “Why not?”

  She was unsurprised by the impatient huff of irritation but stared at him, awaiting his answer.

  “I inherited the title when I was seven years old. Dukes don’t play games. They’ve more important things to occupy themselves with.”

  “At seven years old?” she returned incredulously, before pointing at the Duke of Bedwin, who was trying to guess the charade with as much enthusiasm as everyone else.

  Rochford shrugged, and the sight of those enormous shoulders rolling momentarily diverted Georgie’s attention as the muscles shifted beneath his tight-fitting coat.

  “My home bore little resemblance to his one.”

  “You’ve never played charades?”

  He shook his head.

  “You must have played games, though?” she pressed, appalled at the idea of a childhood with no games.

  “I played hide and seek,” he admitted, but there was a darkly amused look in his eyes that unsettled her.

  “Oh?”

  “Oh, yes. I hid from my mother’s lover, so he couldn’t thrash me for putting maggots in his tea or dead mice in his boots.”

  Georgie stared at him.

  “Yes,” he replied dryly, sneering. “I’m certain you are not shocked to discover I was just as charming and ugly as a boy as I am now, though I didn’t get the measles until I was six, and the scar not long after that.”

  The words you’re not ugly burned on Georgie’s tongue, but she didn’t know how to say them. It seemed far too intimate, and this man already posed a threat of sorts. She must not encourage any familiarity between them. Yet, she considered a boy of seven losing his father. No wonder he had taken it out on his mother’s lover. Why had he even known the man existed so soon after his father’s death? Hadn’t his mother protected him? He must have been so angry and confused. Compassion stirred in her breast, but she pushed it aside. A man like this would hardly thank her for such sympathy. He had obviously crushed any feeling of tenderness or sympathy a long time ago. So, instead, she ignored his comments.

  “Well, it’s easy enough to play,” she said briskly. “The player, or players, choose a title of a book or play, or perhaps a nursery rhyme or a saying, and then they must try to act out the words in a way that the others in their team can guess it. I think Lady Rosamund said hers has two words and is the title of a book.”

  Rochford frowned, watching as Lady Rosamund mimed screwing a corkscrew into a bottle.

  “Twist,” he said. “Oliver Twist.”

  “Oh!” Georgie exclaimed, staring at him in delight and then calling out. “Oliver Twist!”

  Ozzie exclaimed in relief. “Oh, thank goodness. Well done, Georgie.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t me,” Georgie replied, giving Rochford a wicked grin. “It was his grace.”

  Rochford shook his head. “No,” he said, his tone brooking no argument as he realised the dreadful creature had set him up. Revenge, he didn’t doubt, for mocking her accent. Not that he had been. He’d thought it charming, but it was obviously a sore spot and he’d hit it.

  “Don’t be such a stick in the mud,” she said, rolling her eyes. Her expression softened, and she lowered her voice. “It’s fun. Come on, Rochford, I’ll help you if you like. We can do it together.”

  For the briefest moment temptation shimmered at the thought of doing anything with Lady Georgina but making a complete twat of himself in front of the entire household was not an occupation that appealed.

  “Forget it. I’ll not make an arse of myself for your entertainment, much as you might like to make a fool of me,” he said coldly, and stalked away from her and out of the room. Irritation simmered under his skin, and he strode along the corridor towards the front door. He needed to get outside, into the fresh air, and away from all these bloody people.

  “Don’t you run away from me, you pig-headed devil.”

  Rochford’s steps faltered at the sound of the imperious voice echoing down the corridor. He turned, admitting himself astonished to discover Lady Georgina had followed him—and had called him a pig-headed devil.

  “Are you going to instruct me to boil my head again?” he asked dryly.

  She flushed but did not back down, instead closing the distance between them.

  “Quite possibly,” she retorted. “But I want a word with you first. Are you really so high in the instep that you cannot lower yourself to have fun with these people? The duke and duchess were playing, for heaven’s sake, or do you consider yourself better than them?”

  It took a deal of effort not to laugh in her face at the idea he might consider himself better than the Duke and Duchess of Bedwin. Everyone liked and admired the duke and duchess, and people were happy to laugh with them if they chose to behave foolishly. If Rochford did it, he’d be crucified. He knew that well enough.

  “I don’t want to play the fool game,” he snapped, for he was hardly going to articulate any other motivation for running away.

  The woman stared at him, studying him. No one ever looked at him so directly. “Very well. If it makes you so uncomfortable, you need not take part, but do come back to the parlour.”

  There was a softer look in her eyes now, one that looked horribly like sympathy. Understanding. Damn her. He’d not be treated like a child.

  “Why should I?” he snapped, too angry to moderate his voice.

  She hesitated and Rochford snorted, aware she could not think of a good reason. The soft look vanished abruptly, and she scowled at him, which was a blessed relief. “Because you should be with everyone else. I feel quite certain you spend more than enough time on your own.”

  “That’s because I prefer my own company to that of a pack of damned fools,” he retorted, before he could think better of it. Naturally, the words offended
her, as they’d been meant to do, but now he wished he could take them back as her face shuttered up.

  “Well, if you despise us all so, I wonder you came at all,” she threw back, tossing her head as she turned and stalked away from him.

  “Hell and the devil! Wait, damn you,” he said, striding after her.

  “Why? So you can insult me and the people I care about some more? No, I think not.”

  Rochford clenched his fists in frustration. “Argh, you blasted hellcat! I—I didn’t mean it.”

  Her footsteps slowed but didn’t stop.

  Rochford gnashed his teeth, but there was obviously no other option. “I’m sorry,” he ground out, incensed at having to apologise to the chit.

  She stopped and turned to look at him.

  “For?” she pressed.

  For a moment, he toyed with the idea of throwing her over his shoulder and depositing her in the nearest body of water, preferably a lake, but that would only lead to another apology.

  “For calling you all a pack of fools. I didn’t mean it. Well, Blackwood is a bloody fool, but he’d tell you that himself.”

  Rochford studied her, waiting to see if he’d humiliated himself enough to gain her forgiveness, though why the hell it mattered he didn’t know. He thought perhaps her lips twitched at his words, but he couldn’t be certain.

  She nodded, apparently accepting his apology. “Thank you.”

  As they stood staring at each other, the atmosphere prickled and became increasingly awkward.

  “Well, then,” he said gruffly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He turned to leave, desperate to get away before the situation became utterly intolerable. The sooner he got outside in the cold, the better.

  “Wait,” she said, reaching out and grasping his sleeve.

  Rochford froze, staring down at her slender hand upon his arm. She wore no gloves, and he saw her fingers were long and elegant, the nails buffed to a shine. He looked up, his gaze meeting hers, and she snatched her hand away as if she’d been burned.

  “I… umm,” she dithered, and he wondered what she was looking so uneasy about. Her cheeks were flushed, but he could not fathom why. “Aren’t you coming to the rout party tonight?”

  Rochford’s eyebrows went up. “I don’t go to parties,” he said tersely, wondering if she was mocking him. Everyone knew he didn’t go to such events.

  “Why not?”

  He scowled at her. Surely, she was taunting him. “Do you think I would find it entertaining to stand about while all the pretty debutantes squeal and pretend to swoon if I glance in their direction?”

  “Good heavens, no,” she said, looking genuinely appalled. “They don’t, do they?”

  Rochford studied her. Did she really not know he was about as welcome as a dose of the clap at ton events? Angry now, he closed the gap between them, staring down at her.

  “Look at my face, Lady Georgina. What would you expect the young ladies to do on seeing it?”

  He had to give her credit, she did not flinch away from him but studied his face intently. He knew it was ugly. Christ, he’d been told often enough without the evidence of his own eyes. The ragged scar twisted the skin of his face, pulling at his mouth and eye. If that wasn’t bad enough, what skin wasn’t scarred was pockmarked. Thank the lord he could grow a thick beard, which hid most of it, but the hair was sparse both there and above his ear where the scar ran through it. Yes, he was a pretty sight, was he not?

  “I admit it—it is striking at first sight, so I suppose it ought not surprise me they stare. I am perhaps guilty of doing so to begin with, but anything more than that is simply foolishness and shows a lack of intelligence.”

  To Rochford’s utter astonishment, she reached a hand up, as if to touch him. He grabbed her wrist before she could and she gasped, her gaze flying to his. Fleetingly he saw fear waver there, and he expected her to snatch her wrist free, but she relaxed in his hold, making him feel foolish for the second time that day.

  “Are you really so terrified of a mere female? I would not scratch your eyes out, you know. No matter how provoking you are.”

  Perplexed, Rochford let her go. Her hand hung suspended in mid-air, and then she closed the space, tracing the ragged line of the scar that deeply scored the right side of his face. His breath caught and held, his lungs trapped in a vice as emotions he neither recognised nor welcomed ran riot inside him. Her touch was gentle, so careful, and he wasn’t certain if he wanted to howl with rage or weep for the feelings she stirred inside him.

  “You were lucky not to lose your eye,” she observed, studying the scar, her voice soft.

  “Yes. Lucky,” he replied bitterly, though he could not have moved if his life depended on it, bespelled by the gentle warmth of her fingertips.

  “It’s really not so fearsome,” she said, and then her whisky coloured eyes met his. “And I think perhaps… neither are you.”

  Longing exploded inside him, so fierce and overwhelming that it terrified him. He’d spent too much of his life learning not to want or need anyone. He was damned if he’d start now and let this sly chit get under his skin. Who the hell did she think she was, touching his scars and looking at him as if he didn’t repel her? Well, she might be a damned fine actress—all those years playing bloody charades, no doubt—but she didn’t fool him. Rochford pushed her hand away and stepped back, putting distance between them.

  “I don’t go to balls, and I don’t suffer fools, Lady Georgina, so whatever little game it is you’re playing at, forget it. If you’re angling to be my duchess, you’re barking up the wrong bloody tree. I won’t marry you, so cast your lures elsewhere.”

  “My lures?” she repeated faintly, blinking up at him as if she’d just snapped out of a trance. “You think I….”

  A blush scalded her fair skin, so fierce he could feel the heat of it rising from her.

  He frowned, mystified once again by this bewildering woman, for he knew she couldn’t have been sincere.

  She put her chin up.

  “You really are an obnoxious arse,” she said, and hurried away from him.

  But not before he’d seen the tears in her eyes.

  Rochford stood there for a long moment after she’d gone. He hadn’t the faintest idea what had just happened, though the realisation that he’d behaved badly—again—was more unwelcome than usual. He always acted like an obnoxious arse and, he reminded himself, he didn’t give a damn for the consequences. Except, it seemed like he gave a damn this time and that… that was troubling. No, not troubling, it was bloody unnerving.

  Gingerly, he raised his hand to his cheek, to the place where her fingers had lingered so carefully. He let out an uneven breath, wondering what the hell it all meant, before turning on his heel and hurrying outside.

  Chapter 5

  Dearest Cat,

  I hope this letter finds you well. Are you having a splendid time this Christmas? We are. Eliza and Lottie are both back at Beverwyck with their husbands, and we have Georgie and Evie staying, too, as well as Aggie. She sends her love, by the way. I hope we get to see you soon.

  Everyone is off to a rout party this evening, but at least Victoria and Aggie and I may stay up late and play games instead of going to bed like the babies.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from The Lord Frederick Adolphus (younger son of Their Graces, Robert and Prunella Adolphus, Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) to The Lady Catherine Barrington (daughter of Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Most Hon’ble Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).

  8th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

  Georgie stalked back to the parlour, as cross as a baited badger. Oh, the nerve of the man. And to think she’d been feeling sorry for him, the aggravating lout. Well, good. At least now she could put aside any unruly and inappropriate feelings for him. Currently, the only thing she wanted to do to him was hit him with a heavy blunt object, not that it would dent his thick skull. Still, it was all for the good, for there had been a disconcerti
ng moment when she had stood looking up at him, her fingers tracing the line of that ugly scar. She had been certain they’d had a connection, that for a moment she had glimpsed beneath the angry façade and what she’d seen had made her heart ache, had made her want to kiss him. Thank God she hadn’t acted on it. The horrid creature would have believed it proof positive she was trying to seduce him for his title! As if she’d want to spend the rest of her days tied to a fiend like that.

  Everyone looked up, staring at her as she flounced back into the room. It took her a moment to realise she had done nothing to disguise her fury. Her cheeks were flushed with irritation and she no doubt looked ready to do murder—after having flown from the room in pursuit of the Duke of Rochford.

  Oh.

  Deciding it was best to go on the offensive, she turned on Jules. “What were you thinking, inviting that beastly man to come for Christmas?” she demanded.

  Jules’ eyebrows flew up. “I didn’t want him to be on his own,” he said, candid as ever.

  Georgie huffed and folded her arms. “Perhaps there’s a good reason he’s alone,” she groused, aware she hardly sounded as if she was full of goodwill to all men. Though she was, she truly was, just… all men except the Duke of Rochford.

  “Undoubtedly,” Jules agreed, watching her with interest but offering nothing more concrete.

  “He’s too bloody proud to even join in a game of charades,” she said, brushing irritably at a curl of hair that had escaped its pins. “He can see Uncle Robert playing, but no… he won’t lower himself.”

  “Perhaps he’s shy,” Aunt Prue suggested mildly.

  A tea tray had arrived in Georgie’s absence and the duchess was pouring out steaming cups.

  Georgie stared at her. “Shy?”

  For a moment she considered the duke, all six foot seven of him. He was hardly slow in telling her how she ought to behave. He wasn’t shy about that, now, was he? Nor was he shy in calling her friends a pack of fools, or accusing her of wanting to marry him for his title.