The Mistletoe Dare (Daring Daughters Book 8)

by Emma V. Leech

  “My father was a madman. Is that what you wished to hear?” he demanded. “It’s not like there isn’t gossip enough if you care to find it.”

  She turned to stare at him, wide-eyed. “Rochford, I-I do not wish to pry secrets from you for my own entertainment, I—”

  He waved this away irritably, but his left hand remained in her lap still. She stroked his thumb with her own, hoping he might carry on.

  “I know you’re not prying for its own sake,” he said grudgingly. “You’ve a kind heart. Anyone can see that. You see a problem and wish to fix it, or to mend something broken, which is why you must have a care. Someone will take advantage of you if you don’t, and there are some things you can’t fix with a recipe for tea or kind words.”

  “That’s not fair,” she objected, stung. “You make me sound like a simpleton.”

  She withdrew her hand, but Rochford’s grip tightened. He laced their fingers together, and Georgie’s breath caught.

  “It was my father did this,” he said, his right hand tracing the ragged scar on his cheek. “He attacked me with a whip. Knocked me out cold after the second blow, which was a blessing. He had syphilis and by the end he was a fright to look at, with his nose all gone, and quite insane. I was afraid of him, but he was my father and I loved him anyway, or tried to. The staff did their best to keep me from him, but I always found a way to be near him. That was a mistake, for he was paranoid, and he’d have violent episodes, thinking everyone was trying to murder him. Even his six-year-old son.”

  Georgie watched in appalled silence as he shrugged his big shoulders.

  “Oh, Rochford,” she said, feeling a tear slip down her cheek.

  He glanced at her and scowled. “Save your tears, Georgina. Some monsters can’t be saved. Don’t you see? You can care all you like, and it won’t make a scrap of difference. You’ll only get hurt trying.”

  She stared at him in horror. “You cannot think—Rochford, he was mad and… Oh, you idiot man. You’re not a monster. You’re just a man with scars.”

  He released her hand abruptly and got to his feet. “We’d best go back before we’re missed.”

  Georgie couldn’t bear it. His tone was emotionless, perfectly cool, and she was in pieces, wanting to weep for him and everything he’d been through. In Georgie’s family, there was an abundance of hugging and affection. Just as the boys rough and tumbled like puppies, they were easy with themselves and each other, quick to give a hug if they’d caused offence or noticed she was sad. The way Rochford held himself so stiffly, so apart from everyone else, she wondered when the last time was anyone had touched him with affection. Suddenly, she could not bear it for another moment. She ran to him and flung her arms about his waist, laying her head on his chest and holding on tight.

  “What—” He jolted in shock, his arms outstretched as if he didn’t know what to do with her. Perhaps he’d try to unhook her like he had the kittens. “What are you doing?” he demanded in outrage.

  “Hugging you,” she said, snivelling a little. “I’m sorry. Please don’t tell me to stop.”

  “Why, for the love of God?” He sounded sincerely bewildered, which only made her hug him tighter.

  “Because I’ve met no one in all my life who needs a hug more than you do.”

  He groaned, but his tone softened. “Stop acting like a damned mad woman, you daft creature.”

  “I already told you I can’t. You bring out the worst in me.”

  “Hell and damnation, Georgina. Don’t get yourself all upset about something that happened years ago. This is—”

  “Nice, Rochford. This is nice. Isn’t it?” She glanced up at him uncertainly. Comforting him was one thing, but if he really didn’t want her affection….

  “Yes,” he admitted cautiously, relieving her mind. “But—”

  “Just shut up, will you?” She interrupted him, satisfied there was no real objection beyond the usual muttering about her reputation and the fact they were like oil and water and ought to be kept apart.

  He subsided with a huff.

  She glared up at him. “Are you going to stand there like an idiot or are you going to hug me back?”

  “You never said I had to play an active part in this nonsense,” he said, looking revolted.

  “Well, I’m saying it now. Please,” she added, finding she wished for the feel of his arms about her more than anything.

  Looking like she’d asked him to kiss a three-day-old fish, Rochford reluctantly put his hands on her back, his arms not touching her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Rochford. That’s not a hug. Do it properly.”

  His lips twitched, amusement glinting in his dark eyes. “Maybe I don’t want to hug such a bossy little madam?”

  “Or maybe you want to a great deal and don’t wish to admit it,” she retorted.

  “Fine.”

  Georgie let out a little oof as he pulled her against his chest, holding her close. She sighed, content, and quieted, hoping that perhaps this soothed him as much as it did her. Uncertain, she glanced up again, wondering if he was merely humouring her still, to find him watching her. There was certainly warmth there now, and the desire to kiss her shone starkly from his face. She held her breath, her gaze falling to his lips, and he turned away at once. His scar, she realised. He thought she was staring at the scar, when she was only desperate for the feel of his lips against her own. She reached up, her fingers caressing the damaged skin gently, turning his face back to her. She touched the place where his beard became patchy as the scar cut through the hair and stroked, surprised by how soft it was. Then she touched her finger to his lips, gently tracing the outline of his mouth, over the scar, over a surprisingly delicate cupid’s bow and a full lower lip.

  His breath caught.

  “Don’t back out this time,” she whispered, and lifted on her toes, sliding her hand into his hair and tugging him down.

  Mistake! Mistake! Retreat! screamed an agitated voice in her head, but it was already far too late. The moment his lips touched hers, she was burning as if she was fuel, and he was the spark that lit her.

  Although most of the local lads around Wildsyde dared not touch her for fear of her father’s or brothers’ wrath, Georgie had managed a few stolen kisses over the years. Only innocent pecks, but she’d thought she’d experienced enough to have a basic idea of how to go about it. Yet nothing had ever felt like this. Rochford was gentle, touching his lips to hers with so many soft presses of his mouth she was uncertain if it was still one kiss or a hundred. His large hand cupped her face, his thumb caressing her cheek as he tilted her head back. The warmth of his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth made her gasp at the intimacy of it, and he swept inside, tasting her. A groan of pleasure rumbled through his chest, so raw that a strange longing sensation jolted through Georgie. She wanted to hear him make that sound again; she wanted to be closer to him.

  Thought became deed, and she clung to him, arching her hips against his, equally shocked and delighted by the feel of his arousal. He wanted her, and the knowledge rocked her to her core, the pleasure of it dizzying as she realised she wanted him too, far more than she’d realised. Oh, Lord. This was why he’d warned her to stay away, but she didn’t care in this moment. She only wanted….

  The sound of a throat clearing had Rochford dropping his hold on her as if she’d turned into a venomous snake.

  Georgie gave a squeal, startled and unbalanced by the sudden removal of the large body that had been holding her up. Without him, her knees, which had been feeling strangely unsteady, gave up.

  Strong arms clasped her before she landed on her backside on the icy ground, but they weren’t Rochford’s. Georgie turned to see that Jules had caught her. He was staring at Rochford, his expression not exactly threatening, but not entirely friendly either. Jules tore his gaze from his friend to look at her.

  “You well, Georgie?” he asked softly.

  Georgie nodded, rather mortified but relieved at least that it wa
s only Jules, who could be relied upon to keep his mouth shut. She flushed and glanced at Rochford, intending to give him a rueful smile, but the expression died on her lips as she saw the furious glint in his eyes.

  “So, this was why you were so eager for me to come for Christmas. Cooked this little scheme up between you, I suppose?” he said to Jules, and though she heard the rage in his voice, she saw too the colour on the crests of his cheeks. Georgie stared at him for a moment, not comprehending his words. Then they sank in.

  “You… You think we planned this? Together? Oh, my God,” she exclaimed, surprised by how much the accusation hurt her. By the look in Jules’ eyes, he wasn’t best pleased either. The bloody imbecile. Oh, how she hated him!

  “Rochford!” Jules snapped, his face white with anger, but Rochford didn’t heed the warning.

  “Well, it’s convenient, isn’t it? That he just happens along at the correct moment?” he said to her, and the sneer at his lips was most certainly deliberate now.

  Georgie’s temper lit. “And how exactly did he know we’d be here? You were the one that led me on a merry dance about the gardens. I only followed you—you obnoxious arse—because I wanted to make amends, and I wish to God I hadn’t now!”

  “Really? Because Jules looks like he’s ready to demand satisfaction,” he remarked, folding his arms.

  Those arms had held her against him just minutes ago. What a fool she was for believing he’d understood she’d been trying to comfort him, to soothe something raw and broken and—and perhaps he’d been right. Some things could not be fixed. Not by her, at least.

  “Jules, there’s no need to get all upset about my honour,” she said to him stiffly, her cheeks blazing with mortification. “I kissed Rochford. He took no liberties, I assure you.”

  “No, they were handed me on a plate,” he said darkly.

  Jules took an angry step forward, his expression murderous, but Georgie put out a hand, staying the motion.

  She turned back to the duke, praying she could disguise how much his words hurt her and hold back the tears burning behind her eyes. “Just so we’re clear, Rochford, I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth, and it’s nothing to do with your scars, but because you’re a coward. You’d rather believe the worst of everyone than put yourself at risk of getting hurt. Well, you were right. We ought to stay away from each other. You can rest assured that I will do so from now on.”

  Georgie stalked away with her head held high, and managed to get out of sight before the tears began. She paused for a moment, leaning back against a tree as she fought for calm. Fool. You stupid, stupid fool, Georgie. She wept and berated herself until she was calm again.

  Then she found her handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and hurried back to the house.

  Chapter 11

  Dearest Georgina,

  I expect you have already written, but the post is so dreadfully slow I suppose I must be patient a while yet to receive it.

  I do hope your journey to Beverwyck was uneventful. We miss you terribly, darling, especially your father, who sends his fondest wishes, but with luck you are enjoying all the diversions London can offer you and having a marvellous time. We long to hear everything you have been up to, so write often or your Papa will be on the next carriage south with your brothers. They miss you too, which is evident by the increase of bickering between them.

  We have dressed the castle up in its finery for Christmas, and this morning had a thick snowfall. The children have been out making snowmen and having snowball fights, which naturally all the men at Wildsyde felt obliged to join in. A fierce battle was waged here, and I must confess to having done my part to defend our castle.

  Papa bids me tell you now that I am a dreadful turncoat and hit him in the back of the head on purpose despite being on his side. (The temptation was too great to deny.)

  ―Excerpt of a letter to Lady Georgina Anderson from her mother, The Right Hon’ble Ruth Anderson, The Countess of Morven.

  13th December 1840, Beverwyck, London.

  Rochford watched Jules warily. He might be a deal taller and wider than the young man, but he wasn’t about to underestimate him. He’d seen the devil fight, and he looked as if he wanted Rochford’s head on a platter.

  “You bloody bastard,” Jules said, his voice low and unmistakably angry. “It’s bad enough you insult me, but to hurt Georgie like that! How could you, Rochford? Can’t you see the girl likes you, though God alone knows why! Come to that, I’m not sure why I like you, either.”

  Rochford snorted. “Perhaps you don’t. Hardly a bloody surprise, that. I got you out of a difficult situation, that was all. It doesn’t make us friends.”

  He turned away, intending to leave. He’d leave Jules standing here, the only man who’d ever troubled to be a friend to him. He’d leave Beverwyck, leave Lady bloody Georgina Anderson, and go back to Cumbria, to that monstrosity of a castle that so befitted his wretched title.

  Something inside him was bleeding, though. He could feel it. A wound so profound there would be no burying it this time, but he didn’t know what else to do. He made people angry. He made people hate him. It was easier that way. Easier than seeing disgust or distaste or worst of all, pity.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” Jules grabbed hold of his arm and stopped him. “You’re not turning your back on me.”

  “Want satisfaction, do you?” Rochford said coldly. “Fine. Give me a place and a time.”

  “Don’t be an unspeakable arse, Rochford. I will not put a bullet in you, though I’ll admit the idea is growing on me.” Jules glared at him.

  “What, then?” Rochford demanded wildly, just wanting this over with. He needed to get away from here, from all of them and their happy, bloody families, before he did or said something truly reprehensible. Oh, wait—too late.

  Jules took a deep breath and Rochford got the distinct impression he was praying for patience. Well, he could hardly blame him. When Jules turned back to look at him, the fury in his eyes had dimmed a little.

  “You’re right about one thing. I hoped you might make a match with Georgina.”

  Rochford’s jaw tightened at the admission.

  “Do you know why?” Jules asked him conversationally.

  “Because your friend has a fancy to be a duchess, I don’t doubt,” he said irritably, unable to think of any other reason.

  Jules rubbed a hand over his face and muttered something that sounded less than complimentary. “No, Rochford. That is not the reason.”

  “Why, then?” he demanded.

  Rochford stiffened, unsettled by the sympathy in Jules’ expression. “Because, you great ox, you’re my friend, and underneath crabby exterior is a good fellow with a kind heart. I knew you’d need a formidable female to stand you and, having known Georgie since infancy, I thought perhaps she might be the one. By some miracle, it seems she likes you too, or at least, I assume she was kissing you for a reason? She doesn’t go about doing such things as a matter of course, you know. As for her wanting to be a duchess, well, I’m sorry, old man, but she doesn’t give a brass farthing for such titles, so you may as well stop dangling it in front of her because you’ll have the devil’s own job getting her to take it. If ever you’re lucky enough to persuade her to marry you, which you’ve just made about a thousand times more difficult, it will be in spite of the bloody dukedom, not because of it.”

  Jules folded his arms regarding Rochford with an enquiring expression. He seemed to require some sort of response, in which case he’d have a long wait, as Rochford didn’t have a damned clue what he was supposed to say to that.

  “I thought you liked the girl?” he said in bewilderment and after an interminable wait. It was all he could come up with.

  “I do,” Jules replied. “She’s a good friend, almost a sister really.”

  “What in God’s name are you doing throwing her at me, then? I’d think you might have a care for her happiness.”

  “I do,” Jules
said again, frowning. “Didn’t I already say all this?”

  Rochford stared at him, utterly baffled. “If you care for her, for her happiness, why would you put her in my care?”

  Jules rubbed a hand over his face and took a deep breath. “If—and right now this is a very large if—but if Georgie was your wife, would you beat her?”

  “God, no!” Rochford exclaimed, taking a step backwards.

  The idea of laying a hand on any woman in anger revolted him, but Georgie…. He’d rather die.

  Jules nodded. “And if someone insulted or hurt her?”

  “I’d bloody kill him,” he said at once.

  “And if she were ill?”

  “She’d have the best doctors, the best care, of course. What the hell are you driving at?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out why being married to you would be such a dreadful fate,” Jules replied gently.

  Rochford snorted. “I think she might look higher than a man who’d not beat her and would fetch a doctor if she were ill.”

  “So do I. Is that all you can offer her, then?”

  Jules watched him, his expression too intent, and Rochford wished once again that he’d never come here. He’d been content enough with the way things had been, until this family had gone and stirred things up, had shown him what a family was supposed to look like. Except he’d not been content, had he? Which was why he’d come, rather than return to Mulcaster, to his only kin: a woman who could not look upon him without revulsion.

  Rochford tried to consider the question with detachment. What could he offer a woman like Georgie? Well, she’d be his duchess. It was the only thing he had going for him, but Jules seemed to think that would be reason enough for her to turn him down.

  “Don’t say the title,” Jules warned him, confirming his thoughts.

  He shrugged. “Damned if I know then,” he said, exasperated. “A bad-tempered husband who hates society and is liable to terrify any children we’d have.”

  Jules muttered under his breath. “Has it never occurred to you that your temper might be a deal sweeter if you woke up to discover a woman like Georgie beside you?”