The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8)

by Emma V. Leech

  “Yes, you are,” she retorted, deciding too late that this had been the most appalling mistake.

  She turned to leave and then squealed in alarm, the sound smothered by his large hand as he tugged her into his room and slammed the door.

  Georgie went very still, vibratingly aware of the massive, hard body behind her, the muscular arm banded about her waist, and his hand still clamped over her mouth. He was breathing as erratically as she, his heartbeat hammering against her back, though what he had to be alarmed about she couldn’t fathom. She was the one who’d just been accosted. Kidnapped! She made a muffled sound behind his hand, and he released her.

  Georgie spun around to glare at him.

  “What did you do that for?” she demanded, annoyed to discover her voice had turned high-pitched and squeaky.

  “The comte’s blasted valet was walking straight towards us! A fine juicy bit of gossip that would have been in the servants’ hall, or did you come here with the express intention of ruining yourself?”

  “Oh! Don’t you start that again,” she retorted furiously. “If you are so utterly deranged as to think I would wish to be married to a surly curmudgeon like you… Argh! Why do I bother?”

  “Yes, why?” he demanded, equally angry. “Why the bloody hell do you bother tormenting me when you’ve the likes of Louis César to cast your lures at?”

  Georgie glowered at him and folded her arms. “Oh, I see. We’re back to lures again, are we? Like I’m trying to trap some poor fellow into marrying me, because that would obviously be a fate worse than death!”

  “It might well be,” he thundered, and in some better behaved part of her brain she wondered why on earth she wasn’t terrified of him. He was big and annoyed and bellowing, and yet she did not for one second feel as if she was in any danger. How odd. Or perhaps she was merely unhinged.

  “You’re just a dog in a manger,” she said, a little startled by the look in his eyes at her accusation, but she ploughed on. Too late to turn back now. “You don’t like me or want me, but you don’t want anyone else to like me or want me, either!”

  “That’s a damned lie!”

  “It isn’t!”

  “Is too!”

  “God in heaven, you’ll drive me insane, you ridiculous creature.”

  “I am not ridiculous!”

  “You’re bloody absurd if you can’t see how much I bloody want you, you little nitwit!”

  Before she could understand the meaning of his words, he’d pushed her up against the wall, his hands pressing her wrists above her head. Georgie gasped, staring up at him in shock. Her heart thudded unevenly. In a distant—very distant—part of her brain, she registered that, as a well-behaved young lady, she ought to be anxious about this. He was far bigger and stronger, and she was alone in his room, but all she felt was desperate excitement uncoiling and an insistent if unnerving throb between her thighs. His grip on her wrists was firm but gentle, his thumb caressing the place where her pulse beat an erratic tattoo until she shivered. She knew he would release her if she struggled or told him to let her go. Why wasn’t she struggling? Why wasn’t she demanding he let her go? Georgie tried to consider the question, but her rational mind—what remained of it—had turned to pudding. Must result from too much trifle.

  Rochford was staring down at her, his grey eyes intent, his massive chest rising and falling too fast.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” he groaned, the words low and breathless.

  “I know,” she admitted, wondering what he intended. She could only describe his expression as hungry. Perhaps he should have eaten the blasted trifle, she thought wildly. Anticipation was fizzing beneath her skin like champagne flowed in her veins, and her nerves were all on end. Was he going to kiss her?

  Kiss me.

  Don’t kiss me.

  Kiss me!

  A panicked voice in her head kept repeating the same two phrases over again, but one was certainly louder than the other. Yet, he made no move, just stared down at her with that ravenous look in his eyes.

  “You should go,” he said, gritting the words out as if it hurt to speak them.

  Georgie nodded automatically before thinking better of it. “No.”

  “You nodded. You mean yes,” he said irritably.

  “No. I mean no.”

  “But you nodded.”

  “I know. I was confused.”

  He rolled his eyes to the heavens. “You are deranged.”

  “Yes, that too. It’s your fault, you know. You make me act like a madwoman.”

  “You make me act like a blasted lunatic.”

  “We should stay away from each other,” they said in unison.

  Georgie laughed.

  He sighed and released his hold on her, but did not move away. “You should go,” he said again, softer this time.

  “Should I?” she asked, staring at him.

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before he gave a resolute nod. “My valet will be back soon. You mustn’t be seen here.”

  “Ah yes. Ruination followed by marriage. A fate worse than death,” she said, unable to tear her gaze from him.

  “Exactly. A fate worse than death indeed.” There was humour in his eyes, and something else. Was that regret? She hoped so.

  “For you or for me?” she asked, trying to recapture some of her earlier good humour.

  “Perhaps both of us, but certainly for you, love,” he said, before stepping away and walking to the door. He opened it, checked the corridor was empty, and gestured for her to leave.

  “Good night, Rochford.”

  “Good night, my lady.”

  Chapter 9

  Dear Prue,

  Lucian and I are so looking forward to your Christmas ball. It holds fond memories for us, as I think you know.

  Philip and Thomas will be there, of course, and have been given strict instructions to dance with the wallflowers. Feel free to enforce my directives if you see them shirking their duties.

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Her Grace, Prunella Adolphus, The Duchess of Bedwin from her friend, The Most Hon’ble Matilda Barrington, The Marchioness of Montagu.

  Night of the 12th of December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

  Once again, Evie found herself hurrying through the darkened corridors of Beverwyck en route to an illicit rendezvous with the Comte de Villen, this time in her nightrail and wrap. She snorted with amusement. Well, that made it sound dreadfully scandalous, when it wasn’t really at all. It would be far too difficult to try on the dress quickly if she had to take one off first, though, so this seemed the best solution. She hoped Louis wouldn’t be dreadfully scandalised. He could be very sensitive about such things, which, considering his behaviour, was rather amusing. But he was a man, and she was a woman, so they lived by utterly different rules. It was idiotic, but she couldn’t fight society, so there it was.

  She got to the library without incident and crept inside to discover Louis already waiting for her. He frowned as he saw her state of undress, and though he was standing in the shadows, she was quite certain his expression darkened.

  “I thought it would be quicker this way,” she said defensively.

  “Quicker for what, to ruin yourself utterly?” he asked mildly.

  “Well, being alone with you would ruin me, so whether or not I’m dressed hardly seems relevant.”

  “Does it not? Alors, how remarkably sophisticated you have become. I feel positively gauche by comparison.”

  The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable, and she flushed as his gaze skimmed over her. No doubt she appeared dreadfully immature and silly in her white cotton wrap and nightgown, with her hair all undone. Very far from sophisticated. However, she did not take his words to heart; he was only cross because he worried for her. Louis was never cruel. He would certainly be used to worldly ladies in silks and satin, the sorts of pretty bits of nothing she’d seen among her mother’s things, but Mama was a beauty too, even now. It was hardly suitable for a you
ng woman like Evie. And besides, why was she even thinking about this? What she wore was of no consequence to Louis. This whole ridiculous endeavour was only because she’d made a fuss over the blasted dress, and he wanted to make her feel better. She shouldn’t have complained so bitterly. It was only a stupid dress.

  Evie wrapped her arms about herself. “You said the gown was ready.”

  Louis sighed and nodded, gesturing to a large box. Another, smaller, sat beside it and he opened the lid of this one. “You’ll need to put these on first.”

  He handed her a shift. It was of the finest muslin, so thin it was almost sheer, and embroidered about the neck and hem with rosebuds.

  “How exquisite,” Evie said in wonder, taking the article from him. It felt like gossamer, it was so fine.

  “And this,” he added curtly. He held a corset out to her.

  Evie took one look at it and gasped in shock. “I-I can’t wear that!” she exclaimed.

  “Why not? It is made precisely to the sizes you gave me, and you will find it fits far better than that monstrosity Madame Blanchet made for you, which flattened everything you have.”

  “B-But it’s pink and lacey, and it… it has bows. Pink bows and… and I can’t accept this from you!”

  He made a brusque sound of annoyance. “Tiens, who will know?”

  “My maid?” she suggested.

  “Tell her your sister sent it to you. She is a married lady now.”

  Evie considered this and looked again at the corset. It was beautiful, and far prettier than any underwear she’d had before. All her wardrobe was of the finest quality, but it was quite inappropriate for a young, unmarried woman to buy such wickedly pretty things before she married. But as a gift from her sister….

  Temptation won.

  “Very well,” she said, blushing hard. She took it from him, very relieved to discover it did up in the front or the evening could have become awkward indeed.

  Evie scurried behind a section of bookshelves, out of sight, and stripped off her night things. It was a most peculiar sensation, being naked in the library at night and knowing Louis was only a few feet away, but she tried to ignore the way her skin prickled with gooseflesh. She slipped the shift quickly over her head and then put on the corset. It took a little while to get it quite right, but Evie saw at once what a difference it made. This corset shaped her generous bust and lifted it, as well as highlighting the curve of her waist and hips. There was no mirror here, but she could certainly see the effect. She looked like an hourglass, but the bust was surely rather immodest.

  “Louis?”

  “Oui?”

  “It’s… Isn’t it a little… well, actually, isn’t it a lot…?”

  “Non,” he replied curtly, and then a hand reached past the bookshelf, holding out her dress.

  Evie sighed and took it, studying the remade gown. It was far simpler than before, with no frills or flounces. The cut was almost severe, the lowered shoulders angling diagonally down towards her décolletage, and the line echoed on both sides by tiny, pintucked seams that arrowed down to her stomach. It was beautiful work. As fast as she could, Evie tugged it over her head and wriggled until it was in place. Reaching back, she tried to fasten it, but after a deal of muttering and cursing, she gave up. Drat it. Hesitating she bit her lip. There was no other choice.

  “Louis? It’s on, but I can’t do it up.”

  “Come here, then.”

  Evie emerged, pink-cheeked, as Louis moved behind her. He carefully brushed aside the thick curtain of her hair, draping it over her shoulder, and went to work on the fastenings. She supposed it ought not surprise her he was as accomplished at getting women into clothes as he was at getting them out of them.

  “You’re awfully good at this, quicker than my maid,” she said conversationally, for there was a strange prickling atmosphere between them this evening which seemed odd to her, and she wished to disperse it. Usually, they were so at ease with each other, but then this was a bit of a peculiar thing to do, even for Evie. No doubt Louis was embarrassed for her.

  He got to the top, just above her corset, and his knuckles grazed her bare skin, making her gasp in shock. How strange it was. Only her mother, her sisters or her maid had ever touched her skin before and the sensation was oddly electrifying. The warmth of his breath fluttered over the back of her neck, and she shivered. Louis’ hands had stilled, but now he carried on and finished the intricate little fasteners. Louis stepped back.

  “Turn around.”

  Evie turned, feeling foolish to be dressed in a ballgown with her hair down and her feet bare.

  “Is it better?” she asked, unable to tell from his intent expression. “Well?”

  Louis cleared his throat. “Oui. Better,” he said curtly. He moved closer, eyeing each seam critically before tugging at the bodice where it curved to her waist. “A bit more here, I think. You’ve not been starving yourself again?” he demanded.

  “No, Louis,” she replied, sighing. “Did you not see me devour that trifle at dinner?”

  He was silent for a moment, his blue eyes lifting to hers and then away. “I did.”

  “Then you should be happy, so there’s no need to scold me again.”

  He muttered something under his breath in French, which she didn’t catch.

  “Oh, don’t go speaking French at me,” she complained. “You know I cannot bear it when I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “Well, you ought to learn the language better.”

  “I am trying,” she objected. “But the lessons are so dull when anyone but you teaches me, and you never come and see me anymore….”

  Evie trailed off, realising too late that there had been a distinctly whiny quality to her voice, which she immediately regretted. He was a grown man with a life of his own. No doubt her friendship was not as important to him as it was to her, but she had missed him terribly.

  “I am sorry, chérie,” he said, his voice quiet. “But I cannot come too often. People would talk. As it is, we ought not take such risks, but I could not have you go to the ball feeling anything less than beautiful, for that would be a crime.”

  “I hate people. Why can’t they mind their own business?” she muttered.

  Louis pulled a small tin box from his waistcoat pocket and gave a wry smile. “Why indeed? Now hold still, I do not wish to stab you with the pins.”

  Evie watched in surprise as he crouched before her, his long, elegant fingers pinning the waist in tighter. “Louis, can you sew?” she asked in astonishment.

  He glanced up, a wicked glint in his eyes. “I can do many things, ma puce,” he said, a note to his voice that made her shiver.

  “Yes, you’re full of secrets, aren’t you?” she murmured, frowning at him.

  “Peut-être, et toi ma chérie, tu en connais déjà trop.”

  Evie considered his words, translating.

  Perhaps, and you know too many of them already, my darling.

  “You mean I don’t know nearly enough,” she retorted. “You don’t tell me anything anymore.”

  “I ought never to have told you a damned thing in the first place,” he said darkly. “I am not a good friend to you, Evie.”

  Evie reached out and took his hand. “Don’t say that. You are the best friend, Louis. My best friend. Please… don’t stop being my friend. I could not bear it.”

  Louis didn’t look at her, but squeezed her fingers before he withdrew his hand. “Non. I won’t stop, though I ought.” He returned to his work and then straightened, standing back to look at her. “Lovely.”

  Evie smiled, knowing he was being kind, but confident that it must look a good deal better than the horror she had given him. “Thank you so much. I don’t know how you did it, but I won’t feel such a fright now stood beside all the beauties.”

  “Merde, stop speaking of yourself so, Evie!” he said, his voice hard and his eyes flashing with irritation. “You are forever doing that. It is they who should compare th
emselves to you, and don’t you forget it.”

  Evie looked at him in surprise, taken aback by the vehemence of his anger. “Yes, Louis,” she said meekly, uncertain once again of his mood and deciding it was best simply to agree with him. “Would you undo me, please?” she asked, turning her back on him.

  She waited, but he didn’t move. Evie glanced over her shoulder at him. “Well, I can’t do it by myself, so unless you want me to sleep in it—”

  “Dieu ait pitié,” he grumbled, but began deftly undoing the dress.

  Evie held her breath until the bodice sagged and then scurried behind the bookshelves again. She had just unlaced the corset and put it aside when he spoke.

  “You can manage now, I think. I had better go.”

  “Oh, no, wait!” Forgetting herself entirely, she went to stop him and then realised she wore only her shift as Louis swore violently and turned his back on her. “Putain! Evie, for the love of God!”

  Evie gave a little shriek and disappeared again. “Sorry, I forgot!” she said, mortified as she stripped off the shift and dressed again in her nightclothes.

  “I think you forget a great deal, Evie,” he said, and he sounded really cross now. “You forget just who and what I am. I’m not another damned debutante, you do realise that? I’m a man, and an unmarried one. I think sometimes you want us to be caught so you’ll be ruined!”

  “I do not!” she retorted, for really, that was dreadfully unfair. “I would never do that to you, Louis. You know I wouldn’t. I know you don’t wish to be married, and it would spoil everything and make us both wretched.”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice tight. “It would. So have a care.”

  “Yes, Louis.” She peeked around the bookshelves at him. He still had his back to her, his shoulders set. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you,” she added contritely, though as an inexperienced virgin she could not help but find his outrage somewhat entertaining in the circumstances.

  Louis snorted and let out a breath. “Oui, I know. Now give me the wretched gown. I’ll have it sent to you once it is finished, but you must take the shift and corset now.”