She wondered what they were doing now and imagined them getting under Mrs MacLeod’s feet and stealing Bannocks in the deliciously steamy fug of the kitchens at Wildsyde.
Georgie rode hard, enjoying the chill bite of the wintry morning air upon her skin and her hair whipping about her face. The grounds at Beverwyck were so extensive it was easy to forget you were in London. The noise and the bustle seemed far away from her here and calmed her uneven spirits. The horse, a fine beast named Apollo, was eager for more and so Georgie let him have his head, exhilarated by the speed and power. This had to be the closest thing there was to flying.
Out of the corner of her eye, Georgie noticed a dark shape looming behind her and turned her head. Impossibly, Rochford was gaining on her, his huge black Percheron charger eating up the ground. Her heart did an odd little flutter in her chest, which she tried hard to ignore.
“Oh, no,” she said aloud. “We can’t have that. Come on, my lad.”
Rochford watched in consternation as Lady Georgina put on another burst of speed. He had only wanted to speak to her, hoping to slow her down, for surely she’d break her neck galloping upon that enormous horse. It was full of juice still and far too powerful for her to handle.
Helplessly, he called after her, trying to get her to slow, but she either did not hear or ignored him. Not that he could blame her for trying to give him the slip. He’d acted like a damned lunatic since the moment he met her. She had turned everything upside down, and he hated her for it. Yet he could not stay away. Dancing with her had been a mistake. She had felt so right in his arms that the rest of the world had fallen away. He’d forgotten the judging eyes of the ton were upon them, had forgotten everything for that brief space of time. He’d even forgotten he was hideous, for she had looked at him, truly looked at him, not with horror or pity or forbearance, but as if he were a man, just a man.
You’re still just a man, and an ill-tempered, rude one at that.
Whenever he remembered her words, it made him smile. She’d said he was pompous. She’d called him an obnoxious arse. Why such insults should please him so, he couldn’t fathom, but there it was. He was a lunatic.
Rochford hung back, afraid it would only spur her on to greater folly if he tried to catch her. So, he was too far away to shout at her, to tell her to have a care when he saw her galloping towards a thick, high hedge.
“Georgina!” Her name left his lips anyway, fear a cold sensation gripping his heart as he watched the horse gather itself for the jump.
Please, please, please, don’t break your pretty neck.
He watched, helpless with terror, as she sailed perfectly over the hedge. Rochford followed her, wild with fury, which only grew as he landed safely and discovered her waiting for him, a smug grin on her impossibly beautiful face. Damn her.
“You irresponsible bloody halfwit!” he thundered. His heart was still skittering in his chest and wasn’t certain if he’d be able to catch a proper breath for the rest of the day. “What the devil were you thinking? You could have broken your stupid neck.”
She stiffened, glowering at him. “Thank you for your concern, your grace, but I was in no danger.”
“You can’t go around throwing an unfamiliar horse at unknown obstacles. He’s far too powerful for you. Christ, you were lucky he followed through. If he’d refused, we’d be picking your broken bones up off the floor as we speak.”
Her expression grew colder. “You forget, your grace, that this is my godmother’s property. I have been riding here since I was a little girl, and Apollo and I are well acquainted. I am an excellent horsewoman, and need no advice from you. I most certainly do not need a scolding. You saw me take that jump, and you know very well I did it to perfection. I am a proficient sportswoman and can outride and out-shoot most men, so I’ll thank you to keep your blasted opinions to yourself.”
Rochford heard her words and knew in some rational part of his brain that she was likely spot on, and he owed her an apology. Another apology. The jump had been impressive, and executed perfectly, just as she said. But his heart was still careening about; terror had infected his blood and he was very far from rational.
He leaped down from his horse and grabbed hold of her mount’s bridle.
“Get down,” he said through gritted teeth.
“No! And take your hands off my horse.”
“Get down, damn you, or I’ll get you down.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, her fingers tightening on her crop. “Try it.”
He snorted. “Ah, going to stripe the other side to match, are you? That would be fitting.”
All at once, the anger he’d seen flashing in her tawny eyes diminished. “Of course not. I would never hit you. I admit might have fantasised about it, though,” she added with a sigh. “And I can see I scared you witless, so I suppose it ought not surprise me at your becoming an overbearing arse. It is your usual response to most situations after all.”
Rochford blinked up at her, too startled by her rapid change in temperament to respond.
“I suppose you weren’t to know I can handle a horse like Apollo, and it would be a tricky jump for most people, but I am not most people, Rochford. I have three large and annoying brothers whom I could never resist beating at everything. I had to be better than them, don’t you see? Or at least as good. To lose would have been too awful to endure.”
“By God, you are a stubborn piece of work,” he said, staring at her in wonder. He wasn’t certain if that had been admiration or irritation in his voice. Perhaps both. She was an infuriating woman but… But. Damnation, that but was going to land him in a world of trouble if he wasn’t careful.
“I am, and don’t look so appalled. My godfather would have scolded me too, I don’t doubt. He doesn’t like me riding alone.”
Rochford frowned, stroking the horse’s silky nose, and trying to catch his breath.
“Do you feel less like murdering me now?” she asked conversationally.
“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “My heart is still crashing about like disaster is imminent.”
Her lips quirked into a wry smile of understanding. “Well, it does seem imminent any time we are in each other’s vicinity, so… so perhaps we should stay away from each other. It might be safer. Best for both of us.”
Alarmed by the vehement disagreement that burst to life in his chest at her suggestion, Rochford answered quickly, before he could change his mind, and so perhaps with more force than he had intended.
“Yes,” he said. “An excellent idea. Good morning to you, my lady.”
Chapter 8
Dear Mama, Papa—and I suppose, Lyall, Muir, and Hamilton,
I am having a marvellous time at Beverwyck. It is so lovely to see Evie and Rosamund again and we have talked and laughed so much it’s a wonder we’ve not lost our voices. Eliza’s husband Monsieur Demarteau is here, and he is very charming, though he looks like a wicked rogue. Eliza is obviously besotted with him. Lottie and Cass are as funny and entertaining as ever and it is lovely to see them again. All the Adolphus clan sends their love. The children are growing like weeds and are adorable. Oh, and the mysterious Comte de Villen, I cannot leave him out, can I? Everything they say about him is true. He looks like a fallen angel, and I become a babbling idiot whenever he turns his gaze in my direction. Thankfully, it isn’t often, or I should look a dreadful ninny. He seems charming, but remote, the only people who truly make him smile being his young ward, Agatha, and Evie. Evie seems completely immune to his charms, and I cannot help but wonder if that is why he seeks her company so often.
―Excerpt of a letter to the Right Hon’ble Ruth and Gordon Anderson, The Earl and Countess of Morven, from their daughter, Lady Georgina Anderson.
12th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
Georgie’s plan to avoid the duke was scuppered almost at once as she discovered she’d been placed next to him at dinner again that evening. Though being ignored by him had been infuriating, she supposed she
understood his impulse. They brought out the worst in each other and so it was best they stayed far apart. Except fate did not seem to agree with this sensible decision.
They got through almost the entire meal without speaking to each other, until the dessert course. The footmen presented everyone with a crystal dish containing the most glorious individual trifle. Georgina devoured hers far too quickly, ahead of everyone else, and with far too much enjoyment for good manners, before noticing Rochford hadn’t touched his. Of course, he’d said he didn’t like sweet things.
She told herself not to mention it, but she had a dreadful fondness for trifle and the dratted thing was calling to her. Every time she convinced herself she would not mention it, for he’d only think her ill-mannered and greedy, temptation drew her gaze back to the pretty arrangement of raspberries and sponge and cream and….
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” she blurted out, instantly regretting the impulse as Rochford turned to look at her.
“I don’t like sweets,” he reminded her.
“What kind of person doesn’t like sweets?” she demanded crossly, though why the fact should irritate her so, she did not know. “It seems an inherently untrustworthy trait in a person not to find pleasure in dessert.”
“Well, you already know I am unreasonable, pompous, overbearing—”
“An arse, yes, I remember,” she said, surprised by the glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as if he’d been waiting for her to interrupt him and was pleased about it. “So now I must add untrustworthy to the list, too, must I?”
He frowned at her, though she wasn’t certain she believed it. She wasn’t certain he was cross at all, or irritated. How odd. “I am many things, but never untrustworthy,” he said, holding her gaze.
Georgie turned away from him, unsettled, but the dratted trifle was still there, uneaten, tempting her. She dared a glance back at the duke to find him watching her. He quirked one eyebrow as her gaze settled on the pudding. Drat it, he knew she wanted it. Well, he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of hearing her ask for it.
She sat like a proper, well-mannered young woman and admired the table, which was beautifully decorated. Candlelight glinted upon crystal and silverware and table decorations of holly studded with berries, and Christmas roses.
“It’s killing you, isn’t it?”
Georgie looked back at the duke, keeping her expression bland. “I have no idea what you mean.”
“You want my trifle.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Liar.”
“Well, I ought to have known you’d resort to insulting me,” she said with a sniff, turning her head resolutely away from him.
“Why not? You insult me all the time.”
“You deserve it,” she retorted, goaded into turning back to look at him.
He grinned at her, and it was a remarkably boyish expression that ought to have sat ill upon his harsh features, but it made a strange sensation flutter in her chest. Lud. This was why she ought not talk to him.
He leaned down, so close that if she turned her head, she was certain to feel his beard tickle her cheek. “What’s it worth?”
Georgie gave him a suspicious glance. “What do you want?”
He shrugged. “Nothing, but you’re the one who covets my trifle. It’s got to be worth something.”
“Oh, honestly. Why did you even take the dratted thing if—” She broke off, realising suddenly that he’d taken it on purpose. “You horrid creature! You did it to provoke me.”
“How on earth could I have known taking a trifle I have no intention of eating would provoke you?” he asked, which from any other man might have been a reasonable question.
“You lied. You know I adore dessert. Oh, you’re not the least bit trustworthy,” she accused him.
He shrugged. “But I still have the trifle. Perhaps I’ll give it to Jules, he has a sweet tooth.” He reached for it and Georgie’s hand shot out before the thought connected with her brain, snatching the little crystal dish from him. Deftly, she picked up her spoon and scooped up a large helping, stuffing it in her mouth.
“Mm-mm,” she said, glaring defiantly at him. She licked her lips. “Delicious.”
His gaze darkened, his eyes falling to her lips. “You are a bad girl, Lady Georgina.”
“A graceless, mannerless baggage,” she agreed equitably, taking another spoonful with undisguised glee.
“And happy about it.”
“Aye,” she retorted, trying not to snort as he shook his head in despair.
Rather to her annoyance, Georgina’s attention was taken from the duke, as a discussion about the Bedwin’s annual Christmas ball the night after next had everyone else chattering excitedly.
“Do you remember last year’s, Georgie? It was marvellous, wasn’t it?” Rosamund asked her, eyes alight with anticipation.
Georgie replied with a smile, but grimaced inwardly. She remembered it well. Mostly she remembered hardly dancing at all with anyone who wasn’t a friend or a blood relation. Gentlemen simply did not wish to dance with an Amazon. Jules had been kind and taken pity, and her family had been here that year. Her father, and even her brothers, had danced with her. It had been too humiliating for words, because her brothers had been unusually kind to her, which only proved how obvious it was that she was being left with the wallflowers.
For a moment she considered persuading Rochford to go, for no doubt he wouldn’t unless someone blackmailed him into it. Their dance had been wonderful. She sighed as a peculiarly warm and wistful sensation unfurled in her belly… which was why that was a dreadful idea. It was fine bantering with a man like Rochford, but she must not give him ideas. He might accuse her of trying to seduce him again, or worse still, he might actually take a fancy to her and propose. Good heavens! Being married to a devil like that would be a nightmare. They’d murder each other before the year was out. Something horribly like regret whispered through her mind and she pushed it away. Rochford obviously strongly disliked the idea of her as a duchess, he’d made that clear, and she had absolutely no desire to be one. So that was that. Georgie looked up and the comte’s beautiful face caught her eye. Wistfully, she considered dancing with him at the ball. The comte was tall enough not to make her feel she was so wretchedly big and clumsy compared to the other young ladies. Not so heavily built as Rochford, so she wouldn’t have the extraordinary sensation of feeling dainty in his arms, but at least she’d not see people laughing at her for looking foolish. She wondered if she could get Evie to persuade him to ask her. He caught her gaze then and smiled at her and Georgie turned away with a blush, embarrassed at being caught staring again.
“Lady Georgina.”
Georgie forced herself to look back at him, suppressing a shiver of pleasure at the way her name sounded with the soft ‘g’s his French accent gave it.
“Yes,” she replied, relieved to have managed a response this time.
“I hope you will reserve a dance for me.”
“Oh.” Georgie’s colour rose dramatically, so hot she was certain Rochford must be able to feel it scald him. Oh, he would mock her for this. “I-I should be pleased to do so. Merci, monsieur.”
The comte nodded politely and returned his attention to Lottie, who was sitting beside him.
Georgie sighed and set down her spoon, pushing the empty trifle glass away from her. Turning back to the duke, she considered trying to gain his attention again, but he was conversing with Evie, and it was so rare to see him talking to anyone else but her or Jules, Georgie thought she’d best let him be. It was good to see him relaxing and becoming a fraction more amiable, but she regretted missing the opportunity to provoke him again. Perhaps when they retired to the parlour after dinner.
Yet, as soon as the party rose from the table, Rochford excused himself.
Georgie tried to catch his attention as he left the room, wondering why he was leaving so early in the evening.
“Has my diabolical company scared you off at last?
” she asked him as he passed her on his way towards the stairs.
He barely paused, his manner brisk and terse. “No, my lady, but I find I am not in the mood for further inanity. Besides, I am certain you have more agreeable company than mine to enjoy. Goodnight.”
Georgie stared at him, taken aback by both his words and the coldness of his tone. He’d not even looked at her.
Inanity? The wretched man. He had been as big a part of that silly conversation as she had. It was him who’d taken a trifle he’d no intention of eating. How dare he mock her so? Her temper sparked to life, and she felt utterly furious that he had denied her the opportunity to give him a proper set down, stalking off like that, the horrid creature. Oh! Now she remembered why she hated him. She sat simmering for the best part of half an hour before she realised she was in too dreadful a temper to be good company and excused herself.
Georgie stalked up the stairs, muttering under her breath and turned towards her room, which was in the family wing of the immense house. As she went, she saw Rochford’s valet, a delicate, almost pretty young man who gave her a polite nod as he passed her. That was Rochford’s suite, she realised, turning to see the valet hurrying towards the servants’ staircase. And he was alone.
Too provoked for good sense to prevail, Georgie hammered on his door.
He wrenched it open a moment later, the action swiftly accompanied by an irritated exclamation as the duke’s gaze fell upon her.
“What the devil do you want?” he demanded.
For a moment, Georgie was diverted at the sight of him in his shirtsleeves, with his cravat abandoned. She could see wiry black hair curling upon his chest where the shirt fell open. Goodness. Wrenching her gaze up to his face, she reminded herself she was furious with him, ignored the heat blooming in places it had no business being, and launched into an attack.
“Why were you so horrid to me?”
“I’m an obnoxious arse, remember?” he retorted.
Either the scar at his mouth was twisting his lip into a furious sneer, or perhaps he really wanted to look so angry and fearsome, though what she’d done to make him so furious she did not know.
The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Page 8