Evie nodded and gathered up her things, hugging the box to her chest. She gave him an awkward smile, unsure if he was still angry with her. “Thank you for everything, and I am sorry for being such a trial to you.”
He smiled then, and she thought he looked tired, though his expression was warm, the first proper smile she’d had from him all evening, she realised. “You are not a trial, ma puce, but a joy, and I am unworthy of your friendship. Forgive me for being so cross and unkind.”
“You’re never unkind, Louis,” she said honestly.
“Ah, but I am,” he said, and though she did not understand his words, some sixth sense told her she had better not question him. Instead, she bade him goodnight, and hurried back to her room.
Chapter 10
Jules,
I’ll be in town for a couple of days after your mother’s ball. We should go out. It’s been an age. I seem to remember you still owe me for our last little adventure.
―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Hon’ble Jules Adolphus, Marquess of Blackstone (Eldest son of Prunella and Robert Adolphus, Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) from his friend, The Right Hon’ble Philip Barrington, Earl of Ashburton (Son of Lucian and Matilda Barrington, The Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu).
13th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.
Georgie woke early once again. She had not slept well. Forcing herself out of bed, she washed, splashing her face several times with cold water to rid herself of the gritty eyed feeling from lack of sleep. Despite her tiredness, she felt restless and irritable.
“You’re in a bad skin this morning, aye?” Meg observed as she brushed out Georgie’s hair. “Yer lookin’ a bit peely-wally.”
“Aye,” Georgie muttered absently. She simply could not stop thinking about last night. What was wrong with her? Of all men to get herself all in a dither over, it had to be Rochford. Honestly, why could she not get herself in a lather over a nice, even-tempered fellow?
Because you’d find a nice, even-tempered fellow as dull as ditch water and you’d far rather have a challenge on your hands, echoed back a little voice in her head.
“Best get yourself out for a walk in the fresh air, hen. Put some colour in your cheeks and wear yourself out. Ye might sleep better tonight. That or find the big fella and get him to tumble ye about a bit.”
“Meg!” Georgie exclaimed, wide-eyed.
Meg smirked. “Well, it’s plain as a pikestaff that’s what ye’re getting yourself all het up about. Yer blood’s runnin’ hot, ye numpty. Get the devil to kiss ye and ye’ll feel a deal better for it.”
Georgie glared at her outrageous maid. “Not helping, Meg!”
Meg chuckled unrepentantly. She stabbed Georgie with a couple more hairpins and went about her work, humming merrily to herself and leaving Georgie in more of a stew than ever. The wretched woman. Now, there was no hope of ridding herself of the heated waking dreams that had disturbed her last night. Dreams where Rochford had not let her go but held her fast against the wall whilst he kissed her thoroughly, his big body pressed firmly against hers and his hard—
“Stop it!” she scolded herself.
Well, at least that had put some colour in her cheeks, she thought, catching sight of herself in the mirror. Thoroughly frustrated, she took Meg’s advice—not the bit about letting Rochford have his way with her—and took herself off for a walk.
An hour later, the colour in her cheeks was most definitely from exertion and the cold. A few tentative flakes of snow had even made an appearance, leaving a fine scattering of white like a giant hand dusting a cake with sugar. In a far better temper than when she’d left the house, Georgie returned via the stables to visit Apollo.
The stables at Beverwyck were just as impressive as the house. Two storeys high, with four ranges set around a spacious courtyard, she’d seen mansion houses which were less imposing. There was a large entrance bay with clock and bell tower in the form of a domed lantern, and the horses entered each of the luxurious stable blocks via grand arched walkways.
After a pleasant half hour spent with Apollo and chatting to the grooms, many of whom she’d known since she was a little girl, Georgie meandered back through the stables, towards the house, pausing when she heard a familiar deep voice. Ducking back behind one of the stable arches, she peered around to see that Rochford had sat down upon a low wall to remove one of his boots and shake out a small stone. He was now trying to put it back on and hampered by three mewling kittens, who seemed to think he was a very fine playground.
“Get off me, you ridiculous creature,” he grumbled, picking a kitten off his shoulder and placing it gently on the ground. He turned his attention to another that was chewing the buttons on his waistcoat as the first climbed up his leg again. “Ow, you little blighter. You’ve sharp claws.”
Georgie bit back a giggle. As fast as he unhooked one, another climbed back up his leg. An intrepid ginger kitten made a heroic leap from the floor to his foot and sank its tiny needle claws into his big toe.
“Ouch! Stop that, no… Argh!”
He released it from his foot and put it down, thrusting his foot into his boot quickly before he was attacked again. Then he reached for the kitten which had made a triumphant climb up to his shoulder where it clung on precariously. This time, instead of putting it on the floor, he put it in his lap, where it immediately made itself comfortable and settled down.
“No, don’t go to sleep, you can’t stay there,” he warned it, unhooking another kitten from his thigh and putting it with the first. There was a little mewl of displeasure at the third kitten lost its grip on his calf and fell back to the ground where it sat, crying piteously. Rochford glared at it before she heard his usual harrumphing sound, at which point he picked it up by the scruff of its neck and deposited it with its siblings. “Only for a minute, you hear?” he instructed them as they purred and kneaded at their comfy new bed.
A little like last night’s trifle, the opportunity was simply too delicious to resist.
Georgie crept out from behind the arch and gave a sigh. “Well, if that isn’t the most adorable thing I have ever seen in my life. The curmudgeonly duke who’s kind to kittens.”
“I’m not,” he objected at once. “I’m only—”
Georgie’s eyebrows went up as he cast about for another explanation for having a lapful of kittens.
“Only?”
“I want a fur lining for my hat,” he said, scowling at her.
Georgie snorted and went to sit beside him. “Oh, give over, Rochford. Admit it, they’re adorable and you’re not half so scary as you’d like everyone to believe.”
“They’re a blasted nuisance, and not the only one around here, I might add. Take them away.”
He gestured for her to remove the kittens, but Georgie shook her head.
“Oh, no. I’m enjoying the sight far too much. I love cats, and there’s something about a big man holding kittens that makes my insides go all squirmy.”
“Must be that second helping of trifle coming back to haunt you,” he said darkly.
Georgie snorted.
“You’re supposed to be staying away from me,” he remarked, absently stroking a soft, fluffy head.
Georgie watched his large hands caressing the tiny furball with such care and gave a despondent sigh. “I know.”
“Have you no willpower, woman?”
“No. Not a scrap of it,” she admitted. “Will you come to the ball tomorrow night?”
He returned an uncompromising look, and she grimaced.
“Oh, don’t make out like you’ll be pining away for the lack of me,” he muttered, gently prising tiny claws from his thigh and the material of his trousers. The kitten yawned and stretched, revealing soft, pink paws. “You’ll be danced off your feet, no doubt.”
“Oh, yes. Jules and my godfather, and my friends, and their fathers.” She pulled a face.
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
Georgie rolled her eyes at him. She st
ood up and swept an impatient hand up and down to indicate her person. “Look at me, Rochford.”
“I am,” he said, obviously missing the point.
“I’m taller than most men, which makes them uncomfortable, and dancing awkward. No one who isn’t a friend or a relation will ask me. Not unless you come, anyway,” she added crossly, sitting down again with a flounce of skirts and petticoats.
“What’s wrong with them?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” she said, throwing up her hands. “They just want some delicate little flower to protect, and that’s not me, not by a long chalk. I’m robust, not fragile. I’ve never swooned in my life. If I did, I’d likely knock down any man standing close enough if he even tried to catch me.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.”
“It isn’t nonsense! Oh, come to the ball, Rochford, at least for long enough to dance with me.”
Her cheeks burned. That had been perilously close to begging. Not that it mattered.
Rochford shook his head. “If I danced with you again, tongues would truly wag, and that won’t do you a bit of good.”
Irritation burned in her. The pig-headed lummox. “Oh, so what? I’ll never find a match here. One of my brother’s friends back home has always had a fondness for me. I suppose I’ll end up with him, eventually.”
Her lack of enthusiasm for this idea was not hard to discern.
“Well, there you are, then.” Rochford folded his arms.
“There I am then,” she agreed with a sigh. It was clearly hopeless. He wouldn’t come. “It just would have been nice to dance again. It’s not like I’m expecting a proposal. I’m not,” she added hastily.
“Stop trying to work upon my tender sensibilities,” he warned her. “I have none.”
“This from a man with a lap full of kittens,” she said, quirking an eyebrow at him.
“Hat lining,” he growled.
“Oh, yes. I forgot.”
They sat in silence for a while, the kittens’ contented purring the only sound between them. A groom appeared, leading a pretty bay mare. Georgie waved at him.
“Good morning, John. How is Martha?”
“Ready to drop, I reckon, my lady,” the man said cheerily. “She’s certain it will be a boy this time. Though she’s said it the last three times an’ all. Not that I care, long as it’s healthy.”
“I shall keep fingers and toes crossed for that,” she promised. “Keep me posted.”
“I will do, and thank you kindly for that recipe for tea you sent. Worked a treat, she said.”
“Oh, don’t thank me, thank my mother’s housekeeper, Mrs MacLeod. It was her recipe.”
The fellow waved goodbye and walked away. Georgie turned her head, unsurprised to see Rochford with a face like thunder.
“Go on, then,” she said, aware that her frustration with him was simmering beneath her skin.
Why couldn’t the wretched man just dance with her once? Because you’re supposed to stay away from each other, returned the voice of reason. She told it to shut up. Rochford was going to have something to say about being too familiar with the staff and she was spoiling for a fight.
“None of my business,” he said, the words spoken through gritted teeth.
“No, it isn’t. Nothing I do is your business. You don’t give a damn, and that’s fine. Well, I shall go to the ball and find someone else to dance with. I suppose there’s the Comte de Villen to look forward to. Perhaps he’ll deign to dance with me more than once.”
“Stay away from him,” Rochford said, his voice hard.
“None of your business,” she replied in a singsong tone. She got to her feet and smoothed down her skirts.
He glowered at her, folding his arms. “It isn’t, but if you’ve a lick of sense, which I’m well aware you haven’t, you’ll stay away from him.”
“Why should I? He’s charming, unlike some people,” she retorted, aware only of the desire to prick at his temper because it was better than being ignored, damn him.
“He is, and as cool as the North Sea. You’ll never know what he’s thinking, for he gives nothing away, and you’ll never reach his heart. He’s not the type. He’s no husband for you.”
His grey eyes were impassive. She wanted to strike him.
Fists clenched, Georgie glared at him. “You can’t judge people that way, Rochford. You don’t know him at all.”
His voice was low and even, emotionless, and yet she sensed the tumult of feeling boiling beneath the surface as he spoke. “I can and I will. I know human nature well enough to judge it. I’ve seen enough to know what’s likely, and I recognise damage when I see it.”
“Damage?”
“Yes, damage. I’ve watched him, the way he holds himself apart. Not all scars are visible, Lady Georgina. That man’s got a past, I tell you. A dark one. The kind that will haunt him and make him a wretched partner in life. Believe me, I know the type. He’ll make you miserable. If he has a grain of decency, he’ll never marry at all.”
“Why must you always expect the worse?” she demanded, shocked by his words, by what it revealed about him as much as the comte. “So what if you’re right? Perhaps he has a dreadful past to overcome. Perhaps he needs someone to love him, to heal him. Maybe if you gave people a chance for once in your life, you’d be pleasantly surprised.”
“I’ve given chances enough and had every one of them thrown back in my face,” he retorted, and there was something raw and unguarded in the words that gave her pause. The kittens stirred, unsettled by the noise and Rochford picked them up, carrying carefully them inside to where their mother had been snoozing with one eye open, watching proceedings. Rochford put them down beside her and stalked back outside.
“Rochford,” Georgie said, hurrying after him.
“Go away.”
“Rochford, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, you never mean to,” he muttered, not slowing a whit.
“Oh, please stop,” she begged, picking up her skirts to run after him. “Rochford, don’t be cross.”
“I’ll be cross if I choose to be, you irritating baggage, and you may follow me about all day if you wish, but it won’t change my temperament. I’m a devil right enough and you’d do well to stay away like we agreed.”
Georgie knew she ought to stay away, and not because of his words. She had a growing suspicion he wasn’t half so awful as he made out, and she knew that gaining that knowledge of him would be dangerous. But surely, if someone attempted to please him occasionally, he’d not be so cross? Of course, she was not a likely candidate for that position, as she’d put him in the devil’s own temper in the first place.
Instead of returning to the house, he diverted to the gardens, obviously hoping to lose her if he walked long and fast enough. Georgie was used to walking miles over rough terrain, though, and in all weathers. After a good half hour of military style marching, he relented. They’d come to a large lake that cut through the landscape in a narrow sickle shape, giving the impression of a river as it disappeared into thick woodland. Large rocks jutted out of the hillside and Rochford sat upon one, staring out at the water.
Georgie glanced at him, noting the uncompromising line of his jaw. He was still furious. She swallowed, wishing she knew what to say, but how could she know? He’d said he recognised damage when he saw it. Well, the reason for that was obvious, and perhaps the answer was the same as the one she’d given for the comte.
She bit her lip, trying to gather her nerve, uncertain whether she would make him angrier still, but it was all she could think of, and it had to be worth the risk. Tentatively, she reached out and took his hand, pulling it into her lap and holding it within her own.
He stiffened for a moment, and she could almost hear the words brewing on his tongue, angry words that would flay her and leave her smarting. They never came. He let out an uneven breath but didn’t move, just stared out at the view. She left him to his thoughts for a while, just holding his hand, hopi
ng perhaps it gave him some comfort, for surely that was what this man so desperately needed, even if he didn’t want it.
“This is one of my favourite places on the estate,” she said eventually. “It’s so peaceful.”
He returned a wry look that made her smile.
“Well, if you don’t come with someone whose tongue runs like a fiddle. I tried for as long as I could. Give me some credit,” she said.
He huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “I do. Believe me. You’re a brave girl.”
“No, just stubborn,” she replied with a sigh.
“That too.”
She turned to look at him. Despite the scars, he had a noble profile, a strong Roman nose. He looked like a man out of time. Beauty and refinement, manners, and the perfect outward appearance counted now, far too much. In centuries past, Rochford would have been revered for his size, for his strength in battle, and his uncompromising character. Or else, she could easily imagine him as a warrior king of the ancient Britons, and she had a sudden vision of his powerful body clad in animal skins and painted with blue woad, as described by Caesar in De bello gallico. Heat swept over her, and she blurted out a question to cover her confusion. “What’s Cumbria like? That’s where Mulcaster Castle is, I think?”
He nodded. “It’s wild. Remote and harsh and beautiful. You’d recognise it, perhaps.”
“Like Scotland?”
“Somewhat. It was Scottish once upon a time, remember.”
She nodded, and then dared to voice the question she really wanted to ask. “Who—”
“Don’t,” he said, cutting her off. Some instinct must have told him this enquiry was more personal, but Georgie had not been exaggerating her stubborn streak. She waited a moment and tried a different tack.
“Is your mother alive still? I know you said your father died when you were seven.”
He narrowed his eyes at her, but answered reluctantly. “She is.”
Georgie chewed at her lip, trying to sit quietly in the hope he might speak to her. He gave a heavy sigh and muttered an oath.
The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8) Page 10