The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8)

by Emma V. Leech

  “He’s not shy,” she muttered crossly.

  Aunt Prue handed her a cup, made just how Georgie liked it. “Then, perhaps he doesn’t know how to play games.”

  Georgie gave a reluctant shrug. “He doesn’t. He said he never played games as a child.”

  “The poor man. How dreadfully sad,” her aunt said, watching Georgie intently. “I wonder what kind of life he’s had, to be so alone, and not know how to play games?”

  “A bloody awful one, from the bits I’ve pieced together over the years,” Jules said, his expression thoughtful. “That’s why I invited him. He’s got this huge draughty castle down in the wilds of Cumbria, but he never speaks of family, and I know he hasn’t any friends. Well, except me.”

  “Why are you friends, Jules?” Georgie asked, wondering how two such unlikely men could get along.

  Jules shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, well. He’s a good fellow underneath all that growling and bluster. You just have to persevere. He’s not an easy man, I’ll grant you. He’s irascible and prickly, and bloody-minded and—good Lord, why am I friends with him?”

  His mother laughed and reached over to ruffle his hair as if he was a small boy. “Because you have a kind heart,” she said affectionately.

  Jules grumbled and made a show of smoothing down his hair, but Georgie suspected he didn’t really mind. She took her tea back to her chair and sat down, frowning into the golden liquid. With a sigh of frustration, she took a sip, and then another. By the time she’d finished, she didn’t feel quite so out of sorts, just a bit… unsettled. Feeling eyes upon her, Georgie looked up to see her aunt was still watching her. Prue smiled.

  “Perhaps the duke needs another chance,” she suggested.

  Georgie snorted at that. “I’m certain he’s already had at least three, and I only met him yesterday.”

  Prue chuckled and set down her teacup. “Well, I think Rochford might need a lot of chances, perhaps to make up for all the ones he’s missed until now.”

  Georgie groaned inwardly. Well, now she felt guilty, and the wretched man had been utterly vile. Surely she could be furious with him? Yes, she decided. She could certainly be furious with him, but… but perhaps Prue was right. Perhaps he deserved a few more chances. Just in case.

  “Nobody wants me there, for the love of God. Why must you keep harping on about this damned party?” Rochford groaned.

  His patience was wearing thin, but Blackwood seemed determined to break it entirely.

  “In the first place, you ought to show your face in society now and then, because it might stop people from believing you are some mad beast who eats small children for breakfast.”

  Rochford snorted. “Well, that’s a steaming pile of horse shite. What the devil do I care what they think? What’s the second place? Get it over with, so we can abandon this farce, will you?”

  Blackwood gave a long-suffering sigh, but carried on. “In the second place, I think perhaps there is someone who wants you there.”

  “If you say you, I’m going to toss your sorry carcass out the nearest window,” Rochford warned, getting up and stalking to the whisky decanter.

  They’d retired to the comfortable suite of rooms the duke and duchess had assigned him for his stay, and Blackwood had sprawled in a chair by the fire, looking every inch the pampered, indolent aristocrat.

  “God, you’re violent,” Blackwood complained, tutting at him. “And of course I want you there, but—”

  He made a staying motion as Rochford turned back to him with a challenging glint in his eye.

  “—but that’s not what I meant. I think Lady Georgina wants you there, too.”

  Rochford was so startled he nearly dropped the decanter and wasted a good deal of very fine whisky. “Have you lost your mind? The woman hates me.”

  “And why would that be?” Blackwood asked, his tone conversational.

  Rochford avoided his all-too-knowing gaze and made a production of pouring the drinks. He handed one to his friend, still avoiding making eye contact, and sat down. He took a large swallow and stared down into his glass.

  “Well?” Blackwood persisted. “Spit it out.”

  Rochford made a harrumphing sound and rubbed the back of his neck. “She… I… I might have been somewhat… ill-tempered.”

  “You?” Blackwood said, feigning astonishment. “Ill-tempered? I don’t believe it.”

  “Sod off.”

  “Such charming company I keep. In what way were you ill-tempered, Rochford?”

  Realising he would not get a moment’s peace if he didn’t tell all, Rochford capitulated. “I suggested she was trying to… lure me.”

  “Lure you?” Jules said, sitting up straighter. “What the devil did you mean by that?”

  “Into marrying her, dammit. I suggested the chit was after my title,” Rochford said, feeling ridiculous now, which only irritated him all the more.

  Jules stared at him, so clearly astonished that Rochford felt a prize twit. As if a woman like Lady Georgina would ever consider him, even if it was only for his money and his title. She’d have no trouble making a fine match, and without having to spend the rest of her days enduring his ugly mug.

  “You think Lady Georgina was trying to flirt with you, hoping to become a duchess?”

  “I never said it made any sense, did I?” Rochford retorted. “But that’s why she hates me.”

  “I should think she does! Well, that certainly explains why she came back into the parlour with her feathers all on end. The questions is, though, what made you think that was what she was after?”

  Rochford scowled down into his whisky, wishing it wouldn’t keep putting him in mind of Lady Georgina’s beautiful tawny eyes. “She was kind to me,” he grumbled.

  “She was kind to you,” Blackwood repeated, sotto voce.

  “Yes.” Rochford glared at him, wondering why the idiot didn’t understand plain English all of a sudden.

  “She was kind to you, and so you accused her of trying to lure you into marriage?”

  Rochford rubbed a hand over his face. “Yes! I said so, didn’t I?”

  “Rochford, I’m kind to you, but I assure you—”

  “One more word,” Rochford said, pointing a finger at him.

  Blackwood subsided with a smirk. “Very well, but really, Rochford, what were you thinking? Georgie is a dear creature with a kind heart. Why shouldn’t she be kind to you, too? What makes you so special that she wouldn’t include you? She’s kind to everyone, even me.”

  Rochford frowned. He hadn’t considered that. Perhaps the foolish girl was simply deluded. One of those poor, simple beings who thought all God’s creatures were precious, even the slithery, crawling ones. Well, that made some sense, perhaps. He’d heard of young women getting fanatically religious and wanting to be nuns, and going about doing good works at all hours of the day and night. Perhaps it was something of that sort.

  “She’s perfectly sane, Rochford,” Jules said dryly, proving something that Rochford had suspected for some time. The devil knew him too well.

  Rochford swallowed his drink and got up to pour another.

  “So, you’ll come tonight?”

  “I never said I would,” Rochford retorted.

  “No, but you need the opportunity to apologise to Lady Georgina for being a—”

  “An obnoxious arse,” Rochford supplied for him. “Her words, not mine.”

  Blackwood snorted and headed for the door. “Well, she’s got your measure, that’s for sure. Be ready to leave at seven thirty.”

  Rochford gave a groan of frustration, but didn’t argue.

  Chapter 6

  Dearest Evie,

  I hope you are well. It seems an age since we saw you last. Do come and visit soon. Even Hart is cheerful when you are around. So, you must be welcome.

  Have you lots of celebrations and parties to attend this Christmas? Poor Mama must juggle between accepting the right amount to be polite and not make Papa and
Hart utterly miserable. They bear it with good grace and rarely complain, but they really don’t have the patience for polite society. Heaven help them when I come out, for I shall want to go to every ball I can. Not to catch a husband, for I’m in no hurry for that, but I do love to dance. They’ll hate every minute, the poor dears.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Kathleen de Beauvoir (daughter of Mr and Mrs Inigo and Minerva de Beauvoir) to Miss Evie Knight (daughter of Mr Gabriel and Lady Helena Knight).

  Evening of the 8th of December 1840, Mrs Barclay’s Rout Party, Grosvenor Square, London.

  “How have you been?” Nic asked his brother. “I feel you’ve been avoiding me these past weeks.”

  Louis César’s beautiful face was impassive, revealing nothing. The damned mask he wore was firmly in place tonight. Nic wondered when the last time was he’d seen it slip. Once upon a time, he and Louis had been inseparable, hiding nothing from each other. In fact, Louis had hated not having him around. He never had borne being alone well, but recently Nic barely saw him.

  “Very well, as you see,” Louis replied, though he didn’t turn to look at Nic, just watched the room.

  “I’m glad you decided to come.”

  Louis did turn then, quirking one elegant eyebrow just a little. “It was a decision, was it?” he asked mildly.

  Nic shrugged. “We wanted you here. The duchess wanted you here, Aggie and your Miss Evie wanted you here.”

  “She’s not my Miss Evie,” Louis snapped, glaring at him.

  Nic raised his hands in a surrendering movement. “D’accord, if you say so.”

  “Who says otherwise?” he demanded.

  Nic’s eyebrows went up, a little surprised by his brother’s defensiveness. “No one, you just always seem thick as thieves, that’s all. You still write to her, don’t you?”

  Louis shrugged, which Nic took to be a yes. He had long been puzzled by Louis’ close relationship with Evie Knight. She seemed an unlikely confidante for Louis, because Louis always had access to the most beautiful women for company. No, that was not quite correct. He could understand Louis being her friend. His brother was inherently kind and always had a soft spot for a waif or stray… hence Aggie. Not that Evie was a waif or stray, but she did not fit the mould of the usual debutante either, and Louis would always recognise another outsider. It was what they both were. Oh, Louis might look as though he belonged here among the ton for he was handsome and titled and rich, but underneath was a different matter. Underneath, he was still a boy dressed in rags, who got tossed scraps to eat and slept on the kitchen floor. Louis might not realise Nic knew that was still true, but it was. Even so, he had not expected Louis to make Evie of all people his closest friend, yet Nic was certain he had, which was both puzzling, and a worry.

  It could ruin Evie and, if that happened, it would destroy Louis.

  Speak of the devil. Here was the young lady herself.

  “Monsieur Le Comte,” she said, beaming at Louis. “Will you come and play cards, please?”

  Nic watched with interest as the stern lines of Louis’ face softened in her presence and the mask fell, amusement glinting in his eyes.

  “Surely, I taught you a lesson the last time we played, Miss Knight? I am not good-natured enough to let you win.”

  “I should hope not!” she said indignantly, and with such vehemence that Louis smiled. “I shall beat you fair and square or not at all.”

  “Well, if you must learn the hard way.” Louis held out his arm, told Nic he would see him later, and escorted Miss Knight to the card room.

  Nic watched them go, lost in thought.

  “Why, Lady Georgina, I believe you have made a conquest.”

  Georgina looked at Jules in consternation. “What are you talking about? What conquest?”

  Jules gestured to the other side of the crowded room where people were milling about, drinking and chatting. There would be dancing later, but for now there was a concert going on in the ballroom, some famous opera singer by all accounts. Georgina did not feel like sitting still, though, and she had avoided the card room for the same reason. She felt fractious and out of sorts, though she wasn’t sure why, and Jules making cryptic comments was not helping her temper. Georgie craned her neck, able to see over the heads of much of the crowd, unlike most of the female guests, not that the new arrival was hard to miss.

  Her mouth fell open, and she turned to stare at Jules.

  “You cannot be serious?”

  “Why not? He never attends parties or balls, or any of the ton events. Yet you want him to come and voila, here he is.” Jules put his hands out as if to say, you explain it.

  “Who says I wanted him to come?” Georgie demanded, flushing scarlet.

  Jules smirked at her. “He told me you said he should come.”

  “Only so he wouldn’t be all by himself, because the company might be good for him. I didn’t ask him to come. Not for me. Not because I want him here. I didn’t ask him because I wanted to see him. That would be ridiculous. You know I can’t stand him!” Georgie subsided, aware she may have run on rather longer than was necessary.

  Jules merely quirked an eyebrow at her. Georgie simmered and promised herself the pleasure of stamping on his foot if the words methinks the lady doth protest too much dared pass his smug lips.

  Despite herself, Georgie could not help but glance back to where the duke was making his way across the room. People parted in front of him, conversations falling silent, gasps and whispers moving around the room like a breeze rustling long grass. Georgie gritted her teeth. The duke might be an obnoxious arse, but they had no right to treat him so. Yes, he was certainly striking, but… but he was also rather splendid. There was not another man in the room who could match him for height and breadth, and Georgie couldn’t help but find him magnificent. She also had a something of an idea of how he felt. She’d seen the way some of the young men looked at her, smirking and laughing. They made lewd jokes about her size and made her feel ridiculous, too big, too ungainly in a world where fragility and fainting seemed prized in a woman. It made her angry too. It made her hate those people because they hurt her and made her feel wrong and unfeminine.

  “Oh, give him a chance, Georgie,” Jules whispered in her ear. “Like Mama said. He just doesn’t know how to play nicely yet. No one ever taught him.”

  “Well, why do I have to be the one to do it?” she asked, folding her arms. “I’m likely to get scratched to pieces for my trouble.”

  “Oh, no. Only a little bruised,” Jules said, chuckling. “Come on, Georgie, you’re made of stern stuff. You’d need to be to survive those hulking brutes you call brothers.”

  Georgie smirked. “You’re just still smarting that Muir knocked you out cold.”

  “I wasn’t ready!” Jules retorted, nettled.

  “Dear me, that was, what, ten years ago, and it still rankles, doesn’t it, Julie?” she said, aware she was waving a red rag at him. It’s what had begun the fight in the first place.

  “Don’t call me that,” Jules warned, narrowing his eyes at her.

  “Then stop trying your hand at matchmaking. It won’t work,” she retorted, and stalked off.

  Georgie took a turn about the room, and then saw the duke still hadn’t found Jules and was standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, glowering at anyone who got near. Oh, drat it all. She’d better speak to him, but if he was rude to her, she was leaving him to flounder on his own.

  Deciding she wasn’t above a little mischief, Georgie crept up behind him and tapped him on his left shoulder, before darting right. He looked around, frowning as he found an empty space.

  “Good evening, your grace.”

  He jumped and turned back, scowling at her.

  “Oh, you’re here,” he said, not sounding pleased to discover it.

  “Well, you knew I would be,” she said, keeping her smile in place.

  He made a harrumphing sound.

  “You, on the other hand, were very certain
you would not attend.”

  “I didn’t want to,” he grumbled.

  “And yet, here you are,” she replied sweetly.

  Another harrumphing sound.

  “You don’t like me,” Georgie observed with amusement.

  “No more than you like me,” he countered.

  Georgie batted her eyelashes at him. “Does anyone like you?”

  He frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “Why would I want them to? I’m a duke.”

  “You’re a man.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m a title and an estate, I am history and the future, and thousands depend on me.”

  She stared at him in outrage. “How pompous you sound.”

  “I’m a duke,” he repeated slowly, as if she were a half-wit.

  “Pfft. You’re still just a man, and an ill-tempered, rude one at that.”

  He bristled, his eyes glittering. She had the sudden notion he was enjoying himself. Stranger still, so was she.

  “And you are a graceless, mannerless, baggage.”

  “Probably,” Georgie replied cheerfully. “But at least I’m happy about it.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

  “That you’re not. You’re unhappy and cross but you don’t know what to do about it, and so you take it out on the rest of us because you envy us.”

  “Envy… you?” She might as well have accused him of being an imposter, he was so outraged.

  Georgie grinned at him and shrugged. “I tell you what. As an act of charity, for it is Christmas after all, I shall teach you to play a game.”

  He folded his massive arms, rendering her speechless for several seconds. “I don’t want to play a game.”

  Georgie forced herself back to the conversation. “That’s because you don’t know how. Now, I shall begin. I say, ‘I went to the shops and bought a book,’ then you must repeat the sentence but with another object. I will tell you if the object is correct or not, but they must have something in common.”